The Prophet Of Amanga Read online

The Prophet Of Amanga

  Part One of “God The Banana”

  Tim Ellis

  Copyright 2014 Tim Ellis

  Picture a diamond spinning against the dark,

  flinging back the brilliance of a sun.

  Move a little closer - you’ll be stunned

  how lakes and oceans flash, how ice-caps spark.

  Zoom in lower still and see the forests,

  so vibrant, so intense your eyes will ache.

  They sweep through archipelagos that arc

  across the turquoise waters of the tropics.

  Now select an island of that region.

  Focus in on green until the stark

  disfigurements become defined: the lesions

  roaded into wildscape with no pity;

  the oil palm tree plantations. Those pock-marks

  are cattle plains, those giant squid are cities.

  Then hover over one such. Be a bird

  - a scavenging kite. Greedily eye the slim

  parishioners of plastic sheeted slums

  that make the creature’s long limbed outline blurred.

  Note the ruins dotted round the place:

  churches, shocked by seismic shifts, have tired,

  have cracked and crumbed, and as they fell interred

  the notions of a colonising race.

  Swoop down on a square where scuttle squads

  of vertebrates that teem like ants when stirred.

  They mill round marble forms of many gods,

  and taking up one plaza-side’s the regal

  (though taste can vary, and some might say “absurd”)

  mass of an immense Baroque cathedral.

  Many thousand sticks of incense smoulder

  blueing the gloomy hall within this building:

  many thousand threads of vapour bending

  wispily into the roof vaults out of holders

  which smoke before a hundred pagan altars.

  A cankerous crust of ash and dust and mildew

  mottles myriad local gods which moulder

  upon stone plinths. Slivers of sunlight filter

  through the cerulean cloud and glint on marble

  angels and cherubs overlooking older

  divinities, from a rood screen depicting a garbled

  tableau of Paradise. A throng of worshippers share

  faith between Faiths, and bearded shamans rub shoulders

  amicably with the clergy of Moshadir.

  “As we enter look at the architrave...

  …the saints are eating bananas, the fruit of Amanga.”

  The tour guide’s clients look but they don’t linger,

  just shuffle through the portal to the nave

  where pigeons coo in the rafters. They squint through dinge

  and gagging fug of incense.  Harrumphs and coughs

  are lost in the vast cathedral, dim as a cave

  after the plaza. Some pious tourists cringe,

  discerning pagan idols; they wrinkle noses,

  look down at the floor and find it paved

  with marble tombstones stained by trampled roses,

  Coca-Cola, bananas, oranges and dates:

  the names of colonial overlords engraved

  on Christian memorials blotched by the secular state.

  The tour guide waves an umbrella and starts his talk,

  enthusing that this Holy City’s lucky

  so many faiths can co-exist:  these mucky

  idols daubed with dyes and powdered chalk

  are testament to indulgent native priests.

  “This church at times is like a market hall...

  …street-traders set up pitches here and hawk

  their wares as offerings to the mythic beasts...

  …even local rum is made libation.

  Here is Graal, with head and neck of a stork,

  and this...the phallic God of Procreation:

  Imti Mentoo with his manhood…how do you say?...cocked?”

  Some younger tourists snigger, others gawk.

  The eldest and most staid seem somewhat shocked...

  ...to find such things revered inside a church.

  A grey-haired lady asks how, in this town

  where earthquake shattered monasteries abound,

  this building’s ridden each new seismic lurch.

  “Maybe it’s that Imti Mentoo god

  that props it up!” a cheeky backpacker smirks.

  The guide raps on a pillar: marble, smirched

  by greasy fingers...but no...it’s odd:

  a hollow wooden sound ascends to the rafters.

  A dollop of plop descends from a pigeon perch.

  The tour guide,  dabbing his head,  narrates above laughter

  that a 17th century governor,  Gonzalez-Bremmer,

  concluded after several years’ research

  that timber columns best absorb earth tremors.

  To someone who is quietly watching them

  this would be funny in more ways than one,

  were he inclined to bear a sense of fun

  beside the weight that’s crushing him, but then

  there is no person in the world who’s stronger.

  He’s checked this group already for the man

  he’s looking for, inspecting all the men

  who come in here, prepared to wait much longer.

  The one he seeks has family history

  carved in the floor - those names would see a “den

  of thieves” in this church - they’d founded it to be

  their symbol of power; a holy imperial palace.

  The man is known to one and all as “Ben”

  - Benjamin Bremmer. His grandfather dropped the “Gonzalez”.

  He’d first caught sight of Ben some months ago

  exploring the plaza outside the great cathedral.

  Ben’s flaxen head in the dusky crowd looked regal.

  The pink but friendly face appeared to glow

  in the oven-hot afternoon but showed no sweat.

  The type of young man women love to see

  - or certainly two of his three companions thought so -

  pale-skinned girls, one blonde and one brunette.

  The watcher watched them: scrumptious giggly things

  excited by the street stalls,  browsing rows

  of hand-made bracelets, necklaces and rings

  quite unaware that they were being ogled;

  treating the Central Plaza like a show

  put on for their amusement by the locals.

  Which in many ways of course it was.

  In this Holy City of Moshadir,

  all a visiting tourist ever hears

  is “Give me!”  “Hire me!”  “I’m your guide!” because

  Amanga panders to the foreign dollar

  and anyone with slightly pallid flesh

  gets mobbed by men with sticks of candy floss; 

  photographers with monkeys on their collars;

  glue-eyed, snot-nosed boys with shoe-shine brushes;

  jugglers and acrobats who toss

  bright balls and one another; sellers of slushies;

  snake charmers; palm readers;  manic flamenco guitarists;

  old women selling embroideries embossed

  with quetzals, Jesus Christ, or Che Guevara.

  Ben and the girls took a seat by a Baroque fountain.

  The second man, a smirking, wire-haired bloke

  returned with slushies he’d got from an ice-box bike

  as gifts for his friends. The girls slurped, pouting

  ungraciously, budged up to Ben in the pleasant

  cooling spray exuding from fifty spurting

  fish-shaped marble faucets, copiously spouting

  light-splitting jets that glinted opalescent.

  The foursome supped in silence awhile, all dreaming

  separate thoughts with eyes turned upwards counting

  ragged birds that rode the thermals seeming

  almost to tickle their wings against the steaming

  volcanic summit of Moshagonga Mountain.

  The girl with the dark hair suddenly kicked off screaming:

  “Oh my God!” Her eyes near popped, “What’s that?!!”

  The blonde one shrieked as well. The wire-haired man

  looked startled first and then unfurled a grin

  perceiving what it was they bridled at.

  A comic voice: “Dear Amy, meet my friend.

  I promise his decorum is complete

  even if he looks a total prat.”

  “They call him Imti Mentoo,” added Ben.

  The blonde one - Amy - blurted, “It’s obscene!

  They’re kneeling to him...that thing’s too big and fat...

  ...there’s veins an’ all...ugh!...wha’ d’ya think Christine?”

  Christine was sniggering,  face just slightly red.

  “Alec I think your friend looks like a twat!”

  Alec hooted. “D’ya know what you just said?”

  Ben interrupted their laughter: “We mustn’t dishonour

  the native Amangan faith.” Alec snickered,

  “What’s it to you? Your dad’s a bloody vicar!”

  “A bishop actually, but he views all gods as one.”

  A hawker showed them some charms, fired in pink clay:

  thumb-size statuettes of the god with the prong.

  A wink
to Amy from Alec, “Do you wanna

  bit of luck?” and he haggled a price to pay.

  “This charm’s for you…you can put it beside your bath!”

  He tried to press the ceramic figure on her.

  “Git orf you! You’re disgustin’,” the blonde woman laughed.

  Alec reprised his comic voice, “I think

  the hour of a good stiff sundowner’s upon us!”

  Christine looked puzzled. “I mean, let’s get a drink.”

  The four were soon ensconced on a rooftop terrace

  commanding views across the Holy City.

  The waiter brought them cocktails: potent but pretty

  local liquor with sliced banana and cherries.

  “Amanga-Bangas!” Alec roared, “They’re grand!”

  The girls shared one and Ben just took the merest

  sips out of his. Alec got loud and merry

  while Christine outlined trips the girls had planned,

  blocking out as well as she was able

  the helmet of a pink ceramic penis

  rising above the edge of the restaurant table.

  Amy lost her temper with the man.

  “Oh put that thing away you’re such a menace!”

  and snatched the figurine by its thumb-sized glans.

  “How does he see where he’s going?” Amy pondered.

  “I guess he just looks sideways,” Alec smirked

  and even Ben was chuckling at the joke

  but then addressed the girls, “I’m quite astounded

  You’ve not seen Imti Mentoo. He’s everywhere.”

  “We still got jet-lag. Ain’t seen nothin’ of Amanga.”

  “Yea, an’ off to the beach tomorra…Lidonga.”

  Then Amy paled, “Oh God! I hope he’s not THERE!

  It’s meant to be clean ‘n’ modern...not like here.”

  “I’m sure,” said Ben, “the desert, the coasts, the jungles...”

  - Alec yawned and ordered a round of beers -

  “...there’s one in every home...on every shelf.”

  Christine questioned, blushing, “Ben...I wondered...

  whether you’ll be going to Lidonga yourself?”

  “We-ell...I dunno...I’ve come as a volunteer.

  There’s an orphanage in the capital my father founded

  in his missionary days. Our church helps fund it...”

  “You should stay awhile in Moshadir,”

  Alec leaned forward, “you’ll find it easier

  with us to show you round, and Benny can bore

  the pants off you.” He winked and slurped his beer.

  “This Benny Boy’s a walking Wikipedia.”

  “Well no...not really...my family’s had

  Amangan connections for centuries, so my gap year

  I’m following in the footsteps of my dad.”

  “An ooorphanage! That’s sooo coool!” intoned

  Amy, blanking Alec’s drunken leers.

  “I’ve always wanted to work in a children’s home.”

  “Is Ben your local guide?” Christine said scornfully.

  “I’ll take you to the orphanage to look

  although you might see things you won’t much like

  ...it’s different to home...” said Ben to Amy mournfully.

  “They always need more helpers…” he appealed.

  Alec muttered, “Shut it Ben, you’re boring me.”

  “Ben, you can take me anywhere!” came saucily

  from Amy’s lips. Ben reddened, Christine squealed

  and Alec belched, too drunk now to be witty.

  “Hey Alec, pipe down…you know these places can’t lawfully

  serve alcohol - it’s banned in the Holy City.”

  “Oh bugger religion!” said Alec and took the clay figure.

  The comic voice: “I say, do you mind awfully...”

  He dunked it in his glass of beer and sniggered.

  “Help me! Help me! Help me! Oooh! I’m drowning!”

  Alec wobbled the icon round the table.

  “I’m dying of drink! Somebody fetch a Bible!”

  A waiter drew up and eyed them, frowning.

  Alec balanced the image on the railing.

  The waiter glowered, appalled what the foreigner was doing,

  arranging a bottle to look like the god was downing

  a gut-full of beer. “Whoooaa....loook ooout...I’m falliiinngg...!”

  The street below was manned with women who sold

  corn tortillas. The setting sun was crowning

  the copper domes of a local mosque with gold.

  Providence teetered on a grain of sand.

  Ben intervened, “Alec, I mean it...stop clowning!”

  and snatched the little talisman from his hand.

  “Hey! Gimme that ya cunt!” Alec effed

  and blinded at his friend, but Ben resisted.

  The girls got up and said if they insisted

  on fighting they were leaving. And they left.

  “Oh nice one, twat! I should’ve seen

  a Jesus-Freak like you would cause a rift!

  I find you some pussy..!” He threw up his hands, bereft.

  “Amy was mine! Even you could’ve ‘ad Christine!”

  “Alec I love you, you know, you numbskull...but sometimes...”

  Ben shook his head and passed him some coins. “No theft,

  but I’m keeping Imti Mentoo. It’s all sunshine

  right now in this city…it would be a shame...

  …Shamans…Christians…Jews...the slightest cleft

  could send the sectarian ghettoes up in flames.”

  “You God-Botherers! What do you do but feed

  the flames yourselves, you and your sacred cows?”

  Alec seemed to be more sober now.

  “Look Ben mate, I know that we’d agreed

  a month together...but now I’ve changed my plans...

  truth is...y’know...we’re not the best-matched lads

  an’ like they say...what is it? Destiny leads?”

  Ben was absently fingering the figurine’s glans.

  He stuffed it in his pocket. There came a sound

  of a slapped high-five, then Ben’s voice, “...Good Speed!”

  and Alec again, fading, “I’ll see you some rounds

  next time we meet...wish it could’ve been longer

  but right now, the only thing I need…”

  - barely audible – “...bus ticket to Lidonga.”

  The watcher listened as Benjamin settled the drinks,

  apologised and bade the waiter farewell

  in fluent Amangan, descended a three-story stairwell

  and out to the street. Vision was black as ink

  but sound and smell suggested market stalls,

  and out of a doorway he caught a little glimpse

  of the man buying tortillas - heard the clink

  of payment to a crone in a dirty shawl

  and a man encamped in hills of dried fruit -

  and weighing this evidence up, he ventured to think

  he knew Ben’s objective, so jumped to the end of the route

  to wait in the plaza encircled by tail-lights of cabs,

  paraffin lamps of street stalls and amber winks

  of charcoal braziers sizzling lamb kebabs.

  Suddenly the plaza floodlights flared up, blazing

  ubiquitous brilliance. Ben appeared, striding

  full tilt towards the watcher, almost gliding,

  his leonine locks haloed with blue smoke hazing,

  tearing the bread like flesh, parting the people.

  He scattered the crumbs and emptied a bag of raisins

  on the plinth of the phallic colossus raising

  its great tumescence to the old colonial cathedral.

  He knelt and prayed for the friend who’d dared to mock it,

  prostrated amongst a crowd of devotees praising

  the priapic eminence. He fumbled in his pocket,

  placed the charm on the altar slab and then

  he looked the god in the face. A sideways-gazing

  eye of Imti Mentoo looked back at Ben.

  Which brings us back to Imti Mentoo waiting,

  waiting for Ben Bremmer to arrive.

  He looks out through unblinking stone-carved eyes

  from a side-chapel in the cathedral, hating

  the worshippers that come in here disdaining

  their God of Procreation. Oblations they’re making

  to Jesus and the other ones are grating

  on his nerves when all the while he’s straining

  with a load unthinkable to a person.

  He glares at a Jesus carrying the cross. It’s frustrating

  that humans consider such paltry weight a burden.

  He checks again for Ben - he has a hunch