Sometimes when in the mood to write, I do not think of myself working with chisels and stones despite my native heritage. Instead, I roll up my sleeves on my laptop. Then I flick my arms open as if a card trick is inspired by my fingers. Creativity is a blessing, you know? You can see far beyond the colors of the rainbow the idea of orange and the wilderness becomes wilder in the notions of greenery.
But the roads of paradise seem to be filled with beheaded roosters on a cannon ball run on the cross island road, and all along the blue coastal roads the same fate goes. I do not see Savaii most days but I gather that the beheaded rooster disease has reached it too.
Before I go on, I want to tell you dear reader of the meaning of the beheaded rooster.
A beheaded rooster is a mad driver on our pot hole filled roads, persistent on keeping the image of jungle paradise a five star rating when it comes to driving his vehicle. And we do not have to limit it to the car racers, though they have lit up the ideal of hiring more judges who are also editors of the “Smudge Magazine.” You know those esteemed readers who often confuse words with smudges. “ Thatttaaa one!” says I to myself.
But we have buses, police cars, Ministry owned cars, Chinese deliveries, lorries, motorcycles, scooters and the taxis to name some of the acclaimed in the beheaded rooster teams. All are keeping to the magic of the jungle paradise theme by racing around the islands mindlessly.
But if a team of beheaded roosters are racing along the blue coast, I can see the irony in the pot holes and the hills that separate them from heaven. To avoid the pot holes, they would side climb the hills and latch onto the trees. As my father says as a matter of ridicule, “…anything lost has tentacles on our islands.”
I guess the beheaded roosters aim to be swallowed up by the tentacles of trees. From there do they get thrown into the sea never to return? Or do they end up in Apia with roots of trees in their transmissions? You tell me, dear reader, because I am trying to understand them too.
But if I was the designer of roads who wanted beheaded roosters to rescue their wretched from the streets, I would remind of the landmark that is politely called by most as a “landslide” on the south coast. If you want the truth, take heed; it is hardly visited by many so it is also most probably secretly known as a public loo. So to welcome all beheaded roosters to contribute to the safety of public property and into emptying their divine bowels, I would politely introduce the rental of the “landslide” like a restroom is to be paid for and call it, “Go Dig!” And on the departure sides of the landslide corner, I would place a sign to say, “ Your driving only tells us about you!”
Bu the irony of our jungle paradise is a sniff for sore noses, no?
We have the detachment of loafers from the child on the street. We cannot see that her eyes are turning inside out so much that she is probably having a good look at herself more than we do at our own arrogance. It is not so that we long to regain peace in Samoa because that is already here. But to keep elegant and humble seems a little far-fetching when it comes to the beheaded roosters and their teams of mindless racers. Perhaps a prayer should be sent off from the lips of children to bless the beheaded roosters too and may they know what they know not, in softer tones than they can handle. God speed you on dear paradise citizen!