Opposites

In the Mankwe jungle, bang in the middle of land earth, the animal kingdom liveth. A kingdom of all animals and mammals. The Wolverines rummaged for food, Cuckatoos built nests, the Hyena pack embarked on conquests.

6 seasons in a day: monsoon, harmattan, winter, summer, spring and autumn. Some animals diurnal and some animals nocturnal.

A rare breed of wolf headed tings. Thick grey fur coat, black eyes, white pupils. Walked low at 6 feet. Stood high at 9 feet, an alpha female. Her highness’s presence at any part of the Mankwe plateau was met with a show and bow of respect.

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The Osh

A 6 degrees Celsius summer, the highest temperature in this, midnight sun day. It paled in comparison to countries south of the equator, 35 degrees Celsius, being the standard. The children run amok in the fields, climbing the 150 year old mango trees of myths and legends. 

Evyi, 15 years of age, one of the children was fascinated by the trees, their bark, roots and leaves. Each day she took camera shots, the shooting of fruits to ripen, seeing nature’s miracle.

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Caracas

In his twenties, a period society says is the shaping of a man. To crack is to be a weakling, a little boy crying for his mummy, hold the fort, be a man, no pressure then!

A joyous pastime was his passion for figurines, woodcarving these miniatures, uplifting his meditation. His creative escape, a bunker studio in Kwauwe Valley.

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The Wop

A lady walked, feet tapping down the street. A packed human traffic affair, the rambunctiousness of Bonsah Market terrorised her mind. She split into the alley which stunk of piss and excrement. Her only option of space in this chaos, to catch a breather.

She stopped in her pacy steps, pinched her nose, whipped out the 1st generation Kono smartphone. A vintage piece of tech in the year 2045, checked for any important messages and missed calls. There were none, bar the annoying notifications.

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Baba

Saman Town was, as in the name, a ghost town. No clash of dwarf winds or crawls of tumbleweeds on the pavement. A dead quiet, the memorial cemetery down North East Street would be envious off.

The sudden raucous of a baby crying in the distance, screams pitch high as Mountain Kilimanjaro. Cutting through the crisp air, the shards of ice, fall to the ground bare.

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