Re: A Ship Of A Different Sort [4/?]
anonymous
October 27 2009, 03:09:45 UTC
For years she watched her people pushed to the side--and she would have gladly accepted the settlers, except they didn't even want to accept her!--and disregarded as something sub-human. Her people were impoverished, pushed from their lands, and angered. Kenya, in her darkest moments when the ropes were at their tightest, thought that perhaps they could not be blamed. After all, as a colony, she was sub-nation. And then she would smell the sea air coming from off her coast; she would remember Persia before he'd died, India when she still smiled like she meant it, and the joy of seeing her own ships in her own ports. And Kenya would be Kenya again, British East Africa be damned.
There was one day when she awoke, and this feeling was so strong, so certain that it filled her with a sweet ambrosia. Something had just clicked, and for some reason the ropes felt a little looser. Her feet led her to the highlands--and she didn't know why, because she'd never felt this way before--and what she encountered there made her heart swell. There was such anger, but there was a righteous feeling here; she felt whole. She felt like a nation.
England scoffed at her--and her people by proxy. But Kenya smiled and told him that she had taken an oath with her people to break his rule, and if she broke that oath may she be destroyed on the spot. She would disobey, she would fight, she would defend her children. And even if she did not defeat him, at least she could spit in his face just once. The strangest thing happened; a wary look crossed those damn green eyes, green eyes that had seen old magic and the power of oaths more than once. A part of England was afraid of Kenya, and perhaps had always been fearful of this 'dark continent'.
Kenya knew it would not happen over night, and there would be lives lost. She sat with the workers--tens of thousands of them--as they refused to budge, refused to support England any longer. She could feel the eyes of her brothers and sisters upon her, watching, waiting. She sat in the prisons with those who were arrested for their resistance, and when England came to haul her out--how embarrassing to have a colony misbehaving so!--she could not help but grin at the weary strains on his face. She warned him, the longer this dragged out, the more chance of violence peeked at the surface. England dug his nails into her dark skin without saying a word.
She went to the secret meetings, saw the grim looks on her peoples' faces and knew the hammer would fall soon. Houses were burned, people killed; Kenya bit her lip. Still England would not budge. She had given him plenty of chances. Plenty of opportunities to right his wrongs; he was out of time and he knew it. His troops swarmed her cities, his government declared a years-long state of emergency. Years-long! And still the stubborn bastard would not let go. She could feel the ropes loosen; it would be ecstasy to finally have the phantom things gone for good.
For years she watched her people pushed to the side--and she would have gladly accepted the settlers, except they didn't even want to accept her!--and disregarded as something sub-human. Her people were impoverished, pushed from their lands, and angered. Kenya, in her darkest moments when the ropes were at their tightest, thought that perhaps they could not be blamed. After all, as a colony, she was sub-nation. And then she would smell the sea air coming from off her coast; she would remember Persia before he'd died, India when she still smiled like she meant it, and the joy of seeing her own ships in her own ports. And Kenya would be Kenya again, British East Africa be damned.
There was one day when she awoke, and this feeling was so strong, so certain that it filled her with a sweet ambrosia. Something had just clicked, and for some reason the ropes felt a little looser. Her feet led her to the highlands--and she didn't know why, because she'd never felt this way before--and what she encountered there made her heart swell. There was such anger, but there was a righteous feeling here; she felt whole. She felt like a nation.
England scoffed at her--and her people by proxy. But Kenya smiled and told him that she had taken an oath with her people to break his rule, and if she broke that oath may she be destroyed on the spot. She would disobey, she would fight, she would defend her children. And even if she did not defeat him, at least she could spit in his face just once. The strangest thing happened; a wary look crossed those damn green eyes, green eyes that had seen old magic and the power of oaths more than once. A part of England was afraid of Kenya, and perhaps had always been fearful of this 'dark continent'.
Kenya knew it would not happen over night, and there would be lives lost. She sat with the workers--tens of thousands of them--as they refused to budge, refused to support England any longer. She could feel the eyes of her brothers and sisters upon her, watching, waiting. She sat in the prisons with those who were arrested for their resistance, and when England came to haul her out--how embarrassing to have a colony misbehaving so!--she could not help but grin at the weary strains on his face. She warned him, the longer this dragged out, the more chance of violence peeked at the surface. England dug his nails into her dark skin without saying a word.
She went to the secret meetings, saw the grim looks on her peoples' faces and knew the hammer would fall soon. Houses were burned, people killed; Kenya bit her lip. Still England would not budge. She had given him plenty of chances. Plenty of opportunities to right his wrongs; he was out of time and he knew it. His troops swarmed her cities, his government declared a years-long state of emergency. Years-long! And still the stubborn bastard would not let go. She could feel the ropes loosen; it would be ecstasy to finally have the phantom things gone for good.
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