Re: A Ship Of A Different Sort [3/?]
anonymous
October 27 2009, 03:02:46 UTC
Oh my god this got long and no one is probably ever going to read it. (FML} orz -----
The British Navy was often docked in her ports, their crisp white sails dancing in the breeze. As much as she came to loathe England, she could not loathe his beautiful ships. With their masts looming over her, Kenya built England his railroad to her sister Uganda in the west. She did not want to--her people did not want to--but somehow Kenya could not refuse. He held a power over her now, and she swore she could feel phantom ropes chaffing at her wrists and neck. She saw her old friend India again at the railroad, and the beautiful woman had only smiled sadly at her and said nothing. Kenya suspected she too felt the ropes about her own body.
Before the railroad, the only way she had been able to visit Uganda was by wagon, so Kenya could not help but be a little bit pleased at the thought that she could now see her sister with much less hassle. She'd mentioned such to England on one occasion when he was actually around, and he'd only glanced at her like she had six heads. Kenya could only assume England was not on pleasant terms with his own relatives. "Well, when and if you see your sister, remind her to start clearing room." Room for what? "For the farmers." Kenya frowned; their farmers already had plenty of room. England had pinched the bridge of his nose; "The English farmers, for God's sake, the English farmers." Kenya stared at him and wondered if they were running out of room in England's home, but something dark in the back of her brain told her: No. It's not that. It's not that at all.
A birthmark of sorts appeared on her shoulder after the railroad was completed, though in places it was more akin to scar. People--her people--had been killed over this. Assassinated. With drink on his breath, England grazed the scar with the backs of his knuckles the day she'd shown it to him. "But the railroad will connect you to your lovely coast; isn't the greater good worth a tiny scar?" It was by sheer will alone that Kenya kept the bile in the back of her throat.
England's farmers came in droves to her shores. They took her land without her permission, without her consent, and pushed her children off to the side like nothing more than garbage. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to return to days when her coast was her own and the ships familiar at her ports. When England gave her the blue flag with her lion and his Union Jack on it she would have chocked him with it given half the chance. As such he held too many of her people in the palm of his hand and before her eyes Kenya suddenly became a colony; she was British East Africa and she was shaken.
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The British Navy was often docked in her ports, their crisp white sails dancing in the breeze. As much as she came to loathe England, she could not loathe his beautiful ships. With their masts looming over her, Kenya built England his railroad to her sister Uganda in the west. She did not want to--her people did not want to--but somehow Kenya could not refuse. He held a power over her now, and she swore she could feel phantom ropes chaffing at her wrists and neck. She saw her old friend India again at the railroad, and the beautiful woman had only smiled sadly at her and said nothing. Kenya suspected she too felt the ropes about her own body.
Before the railroad, the only way she had been able to visit Uganda was by wagon, so Kenya could not help but be a little bit pleased at the thought that she could now see her sister with much less hassle. She'd mentioned such to England on one occasion when he was actually around, and he'd only glanced at her like she had six heads. Kenya could only assume England was not on pleasant terms with his own relatives. "Well, when and if you see your sister, remind her to start clearing room." Room for what? "For the farmers." Kenya frowned; their farmers already had plenty of room. England had pinched the bridge of his nose; "The English farmers, for God's sake, the English farmers." Kenya stared at him and wondered if they were running out of room in England's home, but something dark in the back of her brain told her: No. It's not that. It's not that at all.
A birthmark of sorts appeared on her shoulder after the railroad was completed, though in places it was more akin to scar. People--her people--had been killed over this. Assassinated. With drink on his breath, England grazed the scar with the backs of his knuckles the day she'd shown it to him. "But the railroad will connect you to your lovely coast; isn't the greater good worth a tiny scar?" It was by sheer will alone that Kenya kept the bile in the back of her throat.
England's farmers came in droves to her shores. They took her land without her permission, without her consent, and pushed her children off to the side like nothing more than garbage. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to return to days when her coast was her own and the ships familiar at her ports. When England gave her the blue flag with her lion and his Union Jack on it she would have chocked him with it given half the chance. As such he held too many of her people in the palm of his hand and before her eyes Kenya suddenly became a colony; she was British East Africa and she was shaken.
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