Oppong Clifford Benjamin Comes Fourth in BPPC July 2017

Oppong Clifford Benjamin's poem 'Erosion' won the fourth place in the Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest 2017. You win some, you lose some. Congratulations Aire Joshua Omotayo for winning the first prize.

EROSION by Oppong Clifford Benjamin

A mother once said to her daughters:

fill a man’s heart with rich loamy soil

and plant in it a sprig of acacia

that it may blossom

but most importantly note that

the storm will pass by your farm

and manure will join the rest of earth

to be washed away.

Away everything may fly

your acacia may go too

your sweet acacia may go to another woman

and strangely your acacia may be doing well

in its new earth.

Dear daughters, verily! Verily!! I say

acacias are not to be eaten

loamy soils are found in every pair of trousers

cry a short while for your lost acacia

refill, re-plant and expect the storm again

that’s how to live loving.

http://wrr.ng/news/brigitte-poirson-poetry-contest-2017-uis-aire-omotayo-wins-june-bppc-trophy/

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The Virgin Mother and Other Short Stories

“You have today joined the many women who die every month and resurrect a week after. You have learned the intricate windings of the waist of a mortar. You can now eat a banana and bring forth a cluster of plantain, and from today, a man is but only a baby to you. Men must pay you the whole universe to see your nakedness and finally, my granddaughter, be strong for the world cometh with its cruel fist to knock you out from this phase of your life. Please, I dare you to not give up. Be strong Aku! Be strong my granddaughter! Be strong descendant of a limping lion”

Portions of the short story 'Red Means Go' in the the collection of short stories titled 'The Virgin Mother and Other Short Stories by Oppong Clifford Benjamin'

To place your order for print copies, contact +233243129401, clifford.oppong@hotmail.com.

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Heaven is behind the tree.

With my mind made on making her realize she was a part of my body, I fought the wind across the park to reach her. Her voice had been sober on the other end of the line this afternoon when I told her to meet me at Heaven.

"Heaven!"

"Yes! where God lives with the Angels"

She laughed. Her solemn voice crinkled in my ears. Smiles filled my heart and I grinned. I wake up each day thinking of ways to make my Baaba laugh.

"and how do you intend to face God with the dirt on your hands?"

Her words were drums in my heart, my heart beat so fast that I nearly passed away. We both knew what I did for a living. We both knew what she did in the past.

"hello.....are you there?"

soberly, I spoke

"yes"

"I'm sorry!"

"It's fine. the park. 6pm."

"job?"

"I would have told you to bring the Bible"

I ended the call and deposited my body carelessly in my bed. My ribs slammed against the wooden edge of the bed and I shouted 'ouch! My Baaba!' and smiled. Then facing the ceiling, I remembered her words again and my heart pumped very cold blood through my veins. I could feel my body go cold. Certainly, I knew I wasn't dying. Very well that I can't go to hell. I must repent. I confess to her. I must tell her about my love for her. And that we both could go to Heaven tomorrow if we wanted.

I observed humans ran helter-skelter in search of shelter. My phone rang. It was her. She probably wanted to tell me the wind had come to the park with signs to herald rainfall. I watched her worry on the lover's bench.

Then I touched her shoulders from behind her. She collapsed on the bench. I didn't expect any less. She lived in perpetual fear.

"What the fuck was that?"

I smiled. My left palm carefully placed in the right, I knelt before her and begged.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Apologizing and

"since when did you become Jesus?"

I smiled.

"Would you marry me?"

I brought the diamond from my pocket into the opens of my palms.

She laughed. I expected her to. She laughed out loud. She held her stomach, exactly where I shot her some years ago.

"Since when did you know love?"

"Since I carried you to the hospital. I felt a sharp pain in my rib"

"No! I can't marry you. I've stopped this job and I want a meaningful job"

TO BE CONTINUED SOMEDAY when the muse comes.

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Romantic Nonsense.

People are scared of your silence.
I saw how fears brought tears to my lover's eyes 
when he asked me: why won't you complain?
His voice was the faces
of kids supporting the losing team
in a stadium.
His heart raced through rains
that fell like half-bitten apples from a vine tree,
his thick lips waggled in silver waters
when he said: your silence kills.

I swear I could tell he was a dead leaf
head down-legs up-head up-hands apart
somersaulting in the air to locate hell.
But I wore my secrets on my teeth
my next actions were in the open of my skin
and my words were obvious: I'm fine.
Throwing no clues his way
Enjoying him die and wake again in dreads.
There is a pain in waiting and it hurts most
when you're waiting for the end to start.

It was soon after I learned how to marry forests
that a bird whispered the powerful tools to me.
Shapeless, invisible, they were;
touch knowledge, the beautiful blue little bird said
place silence in a box
and see faith for yourself.

My lover became a piece of wood in a river
heavy yet floating on the doubts in his hair.
I watched him eat his soul up and lick his fingers
he tried to know my next set of words
as my lips danced his hopes to grave: I'm fine.

I need to visit the washroom, he said
I laughed softly and kissed his lips
I hugged his imperfect body like a god
he melted into liquid and evaporated away.
My lover is now the perfume I wear
to burn all other men to ashes
he is the memory of ruined castles
in my flesh.
At least, he could have prompted me to be human too. 
By Oppong Clifford Benjamin

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Ghana Writes interviews Romeo Oriogun, 2017 winner of the Brunel International African Poetry Prize.

By Ekuwa Saighoe

Oluwasegun Romeo Oriogun is a recognized contemporary Nigerian poet who has found his world in poetry. He recently won the Brunel African Poetry Prize for his chapbook, Burnt Men. Oriogun describes his background as a tough one as he grew up in Benin City, a place in Nigeria which makes men out of boys. Touching on how he got interested in poetry, Romeo lost his parents one after the other at an early age. This situation left him with no choice than to search for his purpose in life and work hard to achieve it by hook or by crook. Through these changing scenes in his life, he found solace, hope, and home in poetry and he grabbed it with both hands. Although pursuing poetry comes with its own hills and valleys, he tries to make the best out of it, perfect his craft and live life to the fullest.

The significance of the Brunel African Poetry Competition to contemporary African poetry facilitates the cementing of the place of modern poetry by young African poets. According to Oluwasegun Romeo Oriogun, he had developed a keen interest in the Brunel International African Poetry Prize for a while and was drawn to it when he read Warsan Shire’s poems. Shire’s poems inspired Romeo to address delicate issues confronting the society, through poetry. Romeo participated in the competition because the competition offered him a voice and he used this opportunity to work on poems that interrogated discrimination against lesbians and homosexuals. Commenting on the reason why he decided to speak on issues concerning LGBT, Romeo articulated that during the previous year, a gay man was lynched to death and there have been countless cases of the humiliation of homosexuals and lesbians. In view of this, he found it essential to confront this situation through his poems. Unfortunately, after winning the prize, Romeo has received attacks, hate messages and threats due to the portrayal of LGBT themes in his poems.

Regarding his next project, Romeo is working on his first full collection of poetry and the collection will cover themes concerning memories, migration, and homosexuality. He advises budding writers to cultivate the habit of doing a lot of reading. He also added that up and coming writers should experiment on varying topics and issues and never be afraid to express their voice.

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Oppong Clifford Benjamin Authors New Book Titled The Virgin Mother

The Virgin Mother is a 2017 collection of eleven short stories authored by Oppong Clifford Benjamin who also happens to be a poet originally from Ghana. Clifford in an interview with TheAfricanDream.net said most of the stories in his new book are fictional.

“The book takes its title from one of the stories within” – The Virgin Mother – as the author explains, “this is mainly because all the eleven stories glorify the grand design of life by God.”

Clifford continued to explain, “for instance, The Virgin Mother story celebrated the feminine side of God and talked about the mysterious ways the female God manifested Herself to a group of high school dancers. In the story Red Means Go, the character Akushika demonstrated the hidden powers God bestowed in every woman upon reaching the age when she bled once monthly. And so are the other stories; they all are glorifying God in one loud way or the otherwise.”

Oppong Clifford Benjamin says there’s room for all in The Virgin Mother

The book is an anthology of stories written by the author over a period of two years, many of which came out of real life inspiration that he said evolved from experiences with people he had met in life and others from books he had read. The Virgin Mother story, for instance, was inspired by Paulo Coelho’s The Witch of Portobello.

“I personally advise readers of this book to be at least aged 16 and beyond based on the diction of some of the stories therein, else it’s pretty much open to students of mysticism, lovers of literature and people in search of amusement. Everyone wanting more from the commonest things of life is absolutely welcomed to read it” – Oppong Clifford Benjamin.

Forte Publications based in Monrovia, the capital city of Liberia, are the publishers of the book. The author met the founder of the publishing house, Mr. Forte Othniel through a poetry anthology called Portor Portor. Both parties have since maintained a close relationship and so it was a matter of the right thing happening at the right time that brought the book to life.

To buy the soft copy of The Virgin Mother follow this link or simply type the title and or author’s name into the Amazon.com search box online.

About the Author

Oppong Clifford Benjamin is a Civil Engineer by profession now pursuing postgraduate studies. This short story collection is the first attempt at prose by the author who indulges more in poetry. His poems were featured in Kwee Magazine, The Portor Portor by Forte Othniel (an international anthology which featured twelve emerging and established poets like Professor Anthea Mark-Romeo and Jack Kolkmeyer, both renowned poets) and the UK poetry library.

“I have read my poems to audiences in Ghana, Nigeria, South Africa and Russia and am a regular contributor to the Words Rhyme and Rhythm (WRR), platform“, Clifford revealed to TheAfricanDream.net. WRR is the largest poetry sharing platform in Africa, owned by Kukogho Iruesiri Sampson, a multi-award winning Poet from Nigeria.

In 2013, the WRR named the author as Ghana Poet of the year. Clifford runs the www.ghanawrites.com blog, his works have also littered the Internet courtesy of his Facebook account and other social media outlets.

Source: Oral Ofori

https://www.theafricandream.net/oppong-clifford-benjamin-virgin-mother/

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HUGS

Oppong Clifford Benjamin.

This afternoon I felt for the first time what love does to two bodies screwed into each other for unknown reasons. The science in the process leads to discoveries of tears that eyes have never cried before; very cold yet liberating.

In the scorch of the sun, an old man rested his life on a bench at a park. He probably had made so many mistakes in life that they even showered in the many tattoos that crawled on his wrinkled skin, on the many piercings in his disappointed body, the many rings that arrested all his ten fingers and his very brown and heavy Rasta hair. His pair of worn out jeans were in tatters, his faded black shirt had in the front a painting of a point within a circle - the circumpunct (the universal symbol of God). And at the back was printed the number 33. His eyes were still alive, confident. In fact, his eyes lingered on the last hope of life, as if they reminded him he is still living, he is not dead yet. Once there's life, there's.........
His eyes located God in the bright sky above his head. He searched the sky for mercy, paid attention to the voice of God.
If only he knew he was actually a God, he would rather have searched his shirt, his mind.

God created man in his image, and lazy Christians who read the Bible like they read novel misunderstood that portion of scriptures. Yet when someone unveiled the truth to them, they called him blasphemous devil.
God actually created the minds of men in the image of His mind. That man would climb the 33 vertebrae of his spine to reach the peak of himself (the mind), Jacob's ladder to the heaven (the mind), the Freemasons after they had gained summit of the winding staircase (the spine) of the temple of moral self, arrived at the door of their minds to receive their wages; it is also not mere coincidence that there are 33 degrees in Freemasonry, at 33 degrees Celsius temperature the alchemist turned all metals to gold and so on the number plays roles in many mystical schools. The old man's shirt contained the master number 33 written opposite the symbol of God. This day was designed. This moment in the park was all part of a grand scheme.



Touch me from Heaven, the old man seemed to be saying with his head thrown upwards lifelessly. Life has been cruel. Youthful exuberance had brought him very unfortunate old age. But his tired sneakers seemed to tell him no regrets boss. Yes, you lived. And oh! You're alive. You are just homeless but still you sleep. Hungry yet you feed. Life happens to you. All these I thought of a stranger because of sight.

I had my worries. I wanted somewhere to cry them off. I don't have a job now. I've lost my stay in a foreign country. I contemplated whether to take asylum or to go back home painfully. The idea of returning always frightened my reputation. They will laugh at me. And yet if I stayed I would end up like this old man, I thought as my eyes scanned the remains of a wasted life beside me. I had tears sitting in my body. My eyes were wide opened but I saw nothing in particular.
The coins left in my pocket were all I remembered about money, they were my last breath. I wanted to buy water but I was afraid of letting go those coins. I was scared my breath will cease. So I sat there very thirsty, waiting for a miracle.

I found a designed smile on the man's face. He wanted to  communicate his happiness with me but I was too broken to collect the pieces of my face together for a smile. I managed a glance at his self and my eyes fell dead on the circumpunct. I stared now. The Sun God Ra, I thought. Eventually, I pushed my face backwards to form a smile and it met the number 33. It wasn't a genuine smile but that was all I could create for the moment.

I realized the man was far better than I was. He was a citizen of the country. Yet I could see in the man's constant stares he wished to be like me. To be young again. To be in fine cloths. To have smooth skin. To have a home. And there I sat almost homeless, almost dying of thirst, almost hungry.

Like God had foreordained it, our eyes met in a very dense atmosphere, the air ceased to be air. 'You don't need money, this is what you need....' the old man whispered to me. I didn't want to believe he was talking to me. 'Can I hug you, pls? ' politely, he asked with a reassuring smile. I didn't know how people respond to love that comes in hugs. Strangely I nodded in the affirmation. I needed somebody anyway. He needed somebody anyway. Humans need humans in them. A body needs a body in it to be complete. A circle needs a dot in it to represent God. Nothing can be empty. Empty vessels make the most........ Everyone needs everyone to be full. We are all one. All is one.

After what seemed like death, what seemed like a sophisticated minute, we found ourselves gazing straight into each other's eyes. I thought about whether I want to hug a dirty old stranger. He probably thought if I will open into God.
Then tears happened in my eyes all of sudden. Tears slapped his wrinkled cheeks and eroded the joy on his face. Like a mother and her baby, we hugged so hard. We wanted to squeeze each other into our bodies. Hug is life. Hug is a religion. Hug is earning an expensive freedom in your prison cell. Hug is the only place grown men become babies again. Hug .........


For about ten minutes long, we hugged. We cried tears. He sobbed all his regrets on my back. I wept bitterly of the few mistakes I have made on his back. We broke the hug. We looked at each other and again, we found ourselves tight into each other's embrace. As if we were thanking ourselves of the surgery we have done on each other. Tears rolled again and again and again  until tears lost their form to something sacred. We wondered if tears said thank you. Tears are not symptoms of weakness, they are the art of unlocking souls. Tears are prayers.

'We are free' I whispered into his ears. 'Are we?' He allowed God to bless our sacred religion. 'Don't we need some more hugs to complete each other?' And then I held him so tight. He retaliated the gesture. 'Come on, sink deeper' the old man said very softly. My body reacted to the chemical reactions. My spirit was light. For once, I was a weightless being in the Holy arms of God. For once, I couldn't feel my body, all that was left of me was a liberated soul. And the old Rastafarian stood in me and I in him. We shared one eye that saw everything our pairs of eyes had never seen all our lifetimes.



The sky took off its elastic cover and poured the manifestation of God on us. Ordinary people ran helter-skelter in search of shelter from the rain. Trees fell on the park. Screams surrounded us. We stayed on the bench as a unit body. We found order out of the chaos. Ordo ab Chaos.

 'God is here.' He looked at his wrist watch 'it is 33 minutes past 3. I'm late' a calm smile stood on his liberated face.
'Are you going somewhere?' 'Work.Waste management engineer. You can tell from my working uniform. You?' I sat up. 'A civil engineer, Sir. Did two semesters of waste management. I need a job, please' Our eyes locked. 'Would you hug me again?' he asked like a child 'any day all day, Sir'. We hugged tightly again and life returned to me. He whispered into my left ear 'you're hired'.

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THE MAKING OF ORGIASTIC CYPRIAN.

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian is an episodic fiction by Oppong Clifford Benjamin which focuses on educating its readers on the sacredness of sex and how the pleasurable act can be a divine form of prayer between a creature and his creator. The story focuses on a mysterious sect of young ladies between the ages of seventeen and thirty called The Ancient Aphrodisiac Cult (The AAC). The cult is strictly invented out of the creativity of the writer, however, some settings in the story maybe real.
We hope you enjoy this episode as well as the others to come.

Episode IX

Drums and music charged the atmosphere of the forecourt of the temple. Five completely naked women arranged themselves in a queue on the left side of the stairway at the courtyard leading into the main hall and an additional five on the right. They had well shaved their vaginas and smeared oil of Ishtar into their skins to appear lush. They had palm fronds coiled about their heads and feet.  
The ten men who were invited from ten selected tribes played each of ten drums at the balcony while the arranged qadeshes danced to the beats of the drums with their oiled hips mostly.
The qadeshes threw both hands in the air above their heads and swung their waist freely to the left and then quickly to the right, moved their heads in helical manner as if invoking a supernatural power with their dance. They were amok. 
The ladies periodically broke the arrangement to run every which way to seduce the two giant statues of penis mounted just before the south entrance of the temple. They believed the first to get to any of the penises would receive blessings from the Great Mother for seducing her husband.


When the trio – Miss Juan, Miss Asabea and Louiselle – appeared at the foot of the stairway of the forecourt, the drumming and dancing heightened to the heavens, the ladies screamed in joy and the men beat the drums faster. The atmosphere was full of some indescribable energies; one could sense the presence of some spirit beings. The qadeshes threw flowers at Louiselle while the trio ascended the steps. 

Upon arriving at the forecourt where the statues welcomed them, Miss Juan dipped her right middle finger into the stone vagina which was full of oil. She robbed the oil in between her palms and gently smeared it into Louiselle’s skin starting from the nipples of the breast to Louiselle’s feet. She paid particular attention to certain areas of the body: the nipples, vagina, hair, butts, neck and the central area of recession at the back- the spine which is made up of 33 vertebrae membranes. Jesus died at age 33, the Christians say. Alchemy teaches that man can turn anything at all to gold at a temperature of 33 degrees Celsius. The highest degree in Freemasonry is the 33^rd. Therefore it is not by mere coincidence the Most Perfect chiliad of the Ancient Aphrodisiac Cult carefully plaster a member’s spine with oil paining attention to each of the 33 vertebras of the spine.   

The drumming and dancing came to an abrupt halt when Miss Asabea started to recite a portion of the pamphlet for installation which informed all that the ceremony was about to begin. She had learned all the words in the booklet by heart as the Most Wise Lady and she spoke with such confidence as her mental faculty warranted.
The ten men descended the balcony through the winding stairway which led to the main hall and took their positions in temple.
Miss Asabea hoodwinked Louiselle. “Do you see anything?” She asked Louiselle who responded “Nah”. She held the Louiselle’s two hands and instructed her to rely on her sure support and follow her lead. The duo perambulated to a convenient spot in the east where Miss Juan had taken her seat in the throne as the installing Most Perfect Chiliad and halted.
“Louiselle is this evening a candidate to be installed as Most Perfect Chiliad” Miss Juan sipped from the cup of water on her pedestal and continued in a rant “as you are all aware the ceremony of installation is performed in a particular room, strange to all but the Most Wise and Most Perfect, we would take a temporary break of the hall to conduct the ceremony and upon our return you will gladly welcome your new Most Perfect Chiliad”
Miss Juan led the way. She paused at the foot of the winding stairway to wait for Miss Asabea and blindfolded Louiselle to form an assemblage for a procession in ascending the steps. A procession hymn was sung by the qadeshes while they climbed the stairway.

THE SETTING OF THE STRANGE ROOM
It was a vast room set aside for the purposes of sex, indeed. It was special in its sex inspiring designs everywhere. The room was sacred: there were ten paintings of sex deities of old in different sex positions on the walls which according to the traditions of the AAC, a candidate for the mastership ought to go through all ten in order to be crowned the Most Perfect Chiliad.
A double mattress on a wooden bed in the centre placed; it was well laid with white sheets, three pillows in white cases were positioned at the head side of the bed. Red rose flower petals were dispersed on the sheets. The room was alive with red lightening. The walls added its own aphrodisiac effect to the room with its nude paintings. And Thomas Tallis’ possessive classical music ‘Spem in Alium’ was in the cold air of the room. The song which in English translation meant hope in any other was carefully selected for the ceremony of installation with the hope that it berserks participants in the act of sex and also arouses the spirit gods of sex.
Six red candles were lit and arranged vertically on the floor close to the bed starting from the head side to the foot. 

Miss Asabea conducted the blindfolded Louiselle to the middle of the room where Miss Juan already stood with a pot of oil in her left hand and in the right a short brush. The rectitude of their bodies forming a square shape and their feet positioned in like manner.
Miss Asabea then memorized a small portion of the pamphlet for installation “Sisters, let us disengage that which veils our glory and the blessings of the mother be invoked on the proceedings of the evening” Miss Juan was first to unwrap the yellow piece of cloth around her waist, leaving her well shaven vagina in the open. The two nipples of her breasts were perfectly pointed as if they cried for a suck. Then Miss Asabea followed by taking off the black cloth of every Most Wise Lady of the AAC which also enveloped her waist, making her total naked. Louiselle was already ushered in naked.

“Oh! Great Mother, we beseech thy continuous support on this our installation ceremony. Endue she who is but little girl with your strength that she might sex her way to the divine glory bestowed on the chair of Most Perfect Chiliad.” Miss Juan having said the prayer stepped forward to reach for the hand of Loiuselle and motioned her onto the bed.
The ceremony begins.
“Call the first man” Miss Asabea gave a court bow to Miss Juan and she made for the exit of the strange room. She stood at the mouth of stairway and beckoned the first in a parade of oiled skinned men to climb the stairway. The man took in a deep breath down his five and half feet tall well built body before taking a step forward. He knew his duties there; he knew he was to sex the incoming Most Perfect Chiliad in the first of many sex positions. He walked majestically across the length of the main hall and up the stairway to approach Miss Asabea who held a hoodwinker. She blindfolded the man, held his hands and guided his steps to the mysterious room.
“Contemplation is best done at the sight of nothing. Dear man, ruminate on the duties a man owes the nudity of his woman” Miss Asabea whispered into the ears of the man as they both took very careful steps down the long passageway.

When they arrived in the room, Miss Asabea gently instructed the man to take off his pants.
“The first sacred sex position….” Miss Juan paused to beckon Miss Asabea to move to the left side of the bed the better to employ her assistance when it is needed “is an acrobatic posture in which Louiselle’s head will be downwards placed whilst her legs will be supported upwards by us and the man will enter her glory from the intersection of her opened legs” Miss Juan recited it so flawlessly as if she spoke her own words, but each of the positions had been described in the pamphlet. 
Miss Asabea realizing the man’s penis was still a sleeping giant; she went on both knees and licked the penis to its full height erection. Her tongue lapped up the saliva off the erection. She held the erected penis and guided it into the entrance of Louiselle’s vagina. The man slowly entered and upon insertion, Louiselle screamed out of pain and the man paused, fearing his manhood was a punishment for the little Loiuselle.
Sweet pains. Joyful tears.

Miss Juan held the man by the waist and gestured him forward to continue with the penetrations. Louiselle’s sweating tights shook terribly. It can hardly be said she enjoyed the exercise but as women are hardly understood, the man continued anyway, taking it slow and gentle. After all, he was a slave. Sweet slavery.
After some thirty minutes of rigorous sex, the man couldn’t hold it all in and ejaculated into Louiselle’s vagina. Something he was forewarned against.  
The ceremony of installation thus far, must be repeated next year and the man must be forced to exit earth by the darkness of the arigona cell. 

The arigona cell was somewhere in the basement of the temple of Ishtar. In the days before the AAC claimed it from the Catholics, the arigona cell served as a room to priests who went contrary to their sacred obligations. They were condemned there to contemplate on their actions for hours, sometimes a day in the totally dark room void of any form of ventilation. The Catholics were even more reasonable in their punishment than the AAC because they kept a guard at the entrance of the room to wait for the distress alarm of the imprisoned priest and consequently open the door for him.
However, the AAC used it as a cell for man to plead forgiveness of sins and reconcile with his divine creature before giving up on earth. 

Miss Juan knew the case have to be different for the man.
Laws are made by men and for men to obey or break.
A smile stood in her head yet Miss Juan looked at disappointed Louiselle on the bed with a painful face and she quickly veered in the direction of the man who at the time was preparing his exit from the room. Where do you think you are going? The man stopped dead at the threshold of the exit, his face full of meanings yet unable to communicate any. He had done exactly what Miss Juan had earlier instructed him on the QT. Why the fuck is she shouting? Miss Juan majestically approached the man as if she was going to slam him dead. She stood right in front of him such that the man was the only one in the room who was privy to her facial expressions, and she gave off a sharp smile. Just as the man was about to reply with a similar gesture, she screamed again at him you will die slowly with the darkness fool. 

On the small passage to the basement of the temple, Miss Asabea and Louiselle hurried behind Miss Juan and their doomed man. They could hardly process the words Miss Juan spoke in undertones to the man, so the duo increased their steps to catch up with their Most Perfect.
You’ve planted in the soil of the spirits, you labourer. You were only assigned to clear the land for the planters cameth at night to reclaim their land, and you took advantage of the fertile wet soil to plant your maize hurriedly.  FACE THEIR WRATH, FOOL.

Miss Asabea led the man into the air-tight stone cell. The darkness in the room stinks. Since the AAC reprobated men there to die, three men are reported to have suffered the ordeal that awaited the man. But Miss Asabea was very much surprised to find no sign of worry on the man’s being; his face still as confident as she led her into the strange room, his spirit still in place and nothing about him seemed frightened.
Death tastes sour only on the tongue of the coward. Miss Asabea nearly said the words but kept to her mind.

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