There are no pictures, no record of what just happened, outside the front door, right here, in the road. No image of the thin boy with the little goatee beard who retrieved his "sharpen on both sides till it gleam thinthin" cutlass, from the bush below the pole by next door's house, as cool as you like, after the POlice van pick up one suspect and move on, after the pick up pass and a woman's voice plead "Officer, let us pass we have four who get chop inside here" and the POlice move and let them drive down to the hospital. (A place where they can't cure your cancer but they well know how to handle chopping and unexpected amputations.) No video of them 20 or so ninja who appear from nowhere, after the POlice pass, from behind and out of Miss UG's gap, giggling and running, strangers, not from inside of here.There is no soundtrack of the Village voices raised in anger, frustration, hurt and disbelief at what they just witnessed when the POlice come. Willis Big Red won the football match 4-1. Beaulieau lose and, pre armed, don't like that and run riot, after dark. The Crossroads where it start, bottle pelt and thing. .They move on, cutlass, blade shining, they run into shop and chop up old lady playing' all fours' with she friend and them, small school child, who mother send her, on an errand, to the same shop for something, get a chop on she hand that she need for exam. They rage continue chop and run in by Andy the barber, chop the man who make balusters, until they bounce up with the police outside our door, where M16 rule and they run and hide in the dark and the shadow, only dogs that betray them and the POlice, SSU, RRU, CID Central, hold who they find, together with all from up here who now have axe to grind. We run from room to veranda for a better view, lights off, door locked but still, the need to see, adrenaline filled urge to witness and yet not. Is a movie, we in it and it just start.
