Purple power

We queue in the sun with our polling cards listen for our names to be called, hold out our left hands and observe as the smallest fingernail is painted purple in indelible ink, a mark of distrust. Such few cars are on the roads, we hear Chipmunks squabble, the hiss of Jungle crows. Furtively we listen, phones pressed to our ears, Our eyes narrow, widen, there could be fireworks tonight. We watch the results play on television, toying with our emotions, we sleep in snatches as Crickets strike the minutes, we pray at odd hours as the waning moon drags by. The sun has risen when it dawns, breaks the new name on our lips, And as the Magpie robin sings, we hear of how a coup was stalled by those who dared, of how our gate to freedom was oiled open by those who planned the coalition, confounding our fears of the past ten years, heralding the miracle. We had expected the worst. Instigated race riots, curfew, the usual denials, our lives snuffed out, just like our votes. How we were glad of those, how we turned out in masses dressed in sarees and shalwars frocks, skirts and blouses, we heard the Koha and the Gecko cutoff in their crescendos, and how we moved purposely armed with purple fingernails, and with the clout of the President marked another name.

-Fahima Sahabdeen