Halfway on the other side of the world, where the sun shone the whole year round, the splendour of the land was highlighted by the booming of drums. High noon, but spectators excitedly trickled out into the streets with expectations. In the streets, floats glittered with colourful decorations and balloons wobbled in the air floating over-enthusiastic children. Although it was uncomfortably hot in the open, the spectators stayed on to feel the throbbing of the festival.
When the sun slithered down behind the school grandstand the shade gave people some relief. Those who had crowded under the trees, elbowing for the little space, now swarmed out into the open spaces. On top of trees little boys in shorts, clung to their branches to get the best view. Balloons in different colours blossomed in the air. Holding them in one hand, tiny tots licked cotton candies, with melting ice creams in the other. On the side streets, women selling souvenirs, t-shirts and hats in makeshift stands continued fanning themselves, while the sun faded away into the horizon.
The thundering of drums heightened the excitement. Booming from afar, the largest group of well-trained dancers donning colourful tribal costumes, in G-strings, their skins daubed with red and black paint, came trudging forward. This was what most people came here for, to see them, and their expectations finally rewarded them with a joyful experience.
Drums in varying loudness came rolling nearer and nearer, drowning voices. The drumming shifted to foxtrot when the one tribe appeared at the corner soaring, circling their hips, feet and body in synchronized movements. The rhythm of the drums was picked up by the stamping of their wooden spears in unison against their shields and then stumped them on the ground at equal rhythm. They combined to produce an increasing sense of anticipation among the people, each release giving rise to a new surge of tension which increased in waves and waves of sound and jubilation.
The spectators at the sides roared in approval clapping and cheering. Some were also dancing to the beat.
"Here is the best!" exclaimed one woman who was wearing a sun visor, red top, and blue jeans.
"Here's my favourite," shouted a girl, in a cropped top whose belly was displayed for everybody to see.
"Move away! Clear the way!" one middle-aged policeman hollered to the crowd. He was blowing his whistle in vain to push people outward. In desperation his eyes bulged, the vein on his neck swelled, and he could well have a heart attack. Being ignored was the last thing he had wanted, but his effort was simply disregarded- as futile as eluding his own shadow.
Young men and women in colourful costumes, students most of them graced the annual celebration of the city by being the dancers. They stamped their feet in unison, dancing gaily to the rhythm of the jazz tune, and swishing through the air. Two steps forward one step backwards, they dipped, kicked and jumped to the rhythm of the drums.
Other contingents of the lesser kind were following in festive mood, jumping and swaying with smiling faces. Some of them greeted tourists who were also hopping and skipping to the danceable beat.
Fans roared from both sides of the street teeming with all kinds of curious onlookers, pushing their way to get a good look. Riding piggyback on the secure shoulders of their parents, wide-eyed tots were oblivious of the others. Among the crowd, youngsters holding bottles of San Miguel were drinking in joyful celebration and common folks expecting to watch their favourite dancers to pass by were in high spirits.
One of the spectators was a famous newspaperman, often times called Art by his peers which he liked because it meant painting, sculpture, sketching, drawing or his love of writing. He mingled with the people and looked ordinary, but he wasn't. He was exceptional. He was about fifty, simple in style with khaki trousers and a white polo shirt. He was a prolific writer and a bold detractor of the administration, contributing regularly articles in local and national papers to lambast corrupt and oppressive leaders. He peered through the crowd, unmindful of what was coming before him.
"Aren't they wonderful?" he commented.
"Yes, they are. There is no other group as good as they are," said a pregnant woman with a girl beside her.
Being the press relations officer of his organization, he was called the PRO. Today he had the liberty of watching the festivity, away from the cares of work and family. He had nothing to worry about or to be suspicious of, even on previous occasions. He was an intellectual, an ordinary citizen and his political views were hidden under the pen name Prometheus. Undercover, he was too confident that the monster could hardly identify him. Unless . . .
Cameras clicked, and some flashed. When a huge tribe passed in front of the thickest wave of spectators, a muffled shot was fired in unison with the beating of the drums. It mingled with the cadence; the sound drowned from anyone to have heard it. Almost a second later, Art slumped on the pavement, his hands curled up to cover his head. People nearby thought he was drunk. Everybody ignored him at first until blood spread around him on the asphalt and those who were nearby moved away.
The policeman, in a state of disbelief, blew his whistle non-stop to contain the surging multitude. When the realization set in, the crowd scampered away in different directions, one by one to safety. The drumming stopped and so was the dancing. Some dropped to the ground. Women shrieked. The crying of children who were lost in the middle of the scurrying crowd echoed everywhere.
Then complete silence. Stillness permeated as time stopped momentarily.
An old 150cc. motorcycle gunned its way forward, swayed to the left then to the right, screeched and two men sped away to follow the beating of other drums. It snaked its way among the crowds, and then disappeared toward the end of a side street, leaving witnesses stunned into silence.
The aftermath was eerie: slippers missing, shoes lost, paper cups mangled, fans and broken umbrellas scattered around the scene. Some stalls were overturned. Art's body lay on the pavement face down.
The ambulance, its sirens blaring, was the first to come to the scene. Next the Constabulary Police, about five of them. They made a cursory investigation and then cleared the area. The body was whisked away in a dark burnish coloured van, leaving the ambulance empty. Spectators slowly trekked back with trepidation, filling the once emptied area and the merrymaking continued as if what they had witnessed was a common incident.
Again, it showed that life was cheap, even meaningless. Because of something that had nothing to do with justice at all, it was snatched away uselessly. The monster had done it again, demonstrating that to silence adversaries, it was necessary to eliminate them from the roots and stop them from growing further.
The following morning people who read the news could only speculate. Most of the public had stopped believing in the press for some time. Unless it reinforced something they had known before or accept them to be true, some never cared to read anymore.