Our fight continues, with the eyes almost always in the ground. What remains of the streets and of the traps of the holes that it seems an immense rain of meteorites to have happened. The feet have to be very careful. Some drowned, they appeared cadaverous in the terrifying holes.
A great agitation appeared. For there a dozen of horses of metallic Troy, ridden by warriors strongly armed. They dismount, they besiege the ruin houses. Jingola implore the king's name… in vain! They escape from the burrows, of the martial collapse. Corrupted her demolition had effect, the excuse that they are necessary hotels for tourists' lodging. Habituated to the fright liberator, there is who mocks.
- It is to house the mice of hotel of them. We walked, other thing doesn't see herself.
- With so much species of world rats here pointed, he gives to build zoology of the mammal’s museum.
The defeat of the democracy proceeds frigid, without elections. As the horse, trots, it jumps. The horseman instituted medieval catapult.
The reigning became emancipated with the oil-producing. For us to survive, Jingola emancipated their wives. They assumed, dose him with stoicism the Herculean irresponsibility of the god protector of the fireplaces. Heroically they invented any thing for us to sell. To let go, get to eat something during the day, at night not. Sacrificed, obedient to the hunger, they overcame cottages, they bought glaciers to moneylenders, fans to silence, to move away the load of mosquitoes. They won great friendship with the hunger, for us to acquire the martyrdom of they attend TV Jingola's programming, and the illusion of the felt passion of the soap operas. Equipment to dance, to drum. They depended on the bad will, of the arrogance, of the greed of the reigning, of the taste of seeing everything in the dark. They lost episodes characteristic of a short story or novellas, due to the voltaic intermittences, and they strayed from.
The Orphans of the wars of the regime pressed surveillance. Moved by the voracious appetite of the belongings of somebody else, they stole artfully the onus of the sinks Jingola. They were vain the protests. Soul-harmed them to become insensitive.
- Everything confiscated. You buy, we stole. Don't be inconvenienced with the weeping.
A young one is unblocked.
- Everything purloined. We bought, you get up. Paves in the earth of anybody.
The habituated Orphans, been born, grown, developed in the wars of the blackness Stalinist didn't disperse surreptitious. They left as if they left their ruins. The crowd rouses him, he gathers by tens, hundreds. Two untidy girls are wiggled.
- Were the police of Fouché, of Stalin?
- His foolish, leaning what are the where? It was the politics of the Politburo.
- And is there some difference?
One intoxicated and newcomer for the gifts of the robbery neo-colonialist make a toast:
- We don't want cottages! We don't want houses of foils! We don't want thatched huts! Live Homes Patriots' barracks! Live the one of the New Life! Live the Angry ones!
Unpopular protests are sent. A wave thundering voices echoes for the dyed again labyrinthine. The fools make dizzy.
- Don't we want barracks? Don't we want caves? Do live the millionaire air of the Island of the Cable? Do live the bad life? Then they do want the something!?
Image: Angola in pictures