Tizawati : The Diary Of An Illegal Immigrant

The night was cold and lonely. Rabid thoughts of death ran through my mind as I escaped the clutches of deportation. My bare feet left tracks in the Moroccan sand as I headed for the graveyard. The patrol team was fresh on my heels.

I heard them calling out for me to stop, but I refused. Who in the right mind would turn back? I was nearing the graveyard. Not a second went by in my desperate attempt to evade and elude the forces behind me did I think to give up, dare to yield a glimpse of the men in pursuit with guns and a mission to arrest the fleeting, which I was.

They would torture me before anything else. Just the thought compelled me to pick up the pace. I figured to dash in another direction, move against the wind and perhaps dodge the flashlights of the suited antagonists that trailed me. But would this be enough? One would never know without the attempt. My heart raced in the effort. My sweat glides to the back of my bald head.

It is a popular belief in Africa that during the night, dead bodies would often risefrom their graves. They meet with evil spirits or witches and come back to life, become the undead until the morning sun upsurges. I’ve been frightened of this for all of my eighteen years of life. This night makes no difference. What does seem to change is that this will be my initial stroll through a place that I know has always been forbidden. To make it out alive would only be a mystery because I know no one who has. I don’t know of anyone who has even dared to attempt the feat.

I’m as close as I’ve ever been to graveyard at nightfall. The midnight hour is close to hand and I no longer hear the enemy behind me. Not only did the town where I come from fear the graveyard at night, but everyone that knows of this dares not to invade the privacy of the deceased. I suppose I will be the first. I fret to fear what I have all my life.

I know it sounds crazy but I hear owls hooting through the dark. Horrid tales of terror and mayhem played in my mind continuously. The moonlight casts an eerie shadow. Is it me? I turn to see my pursuers are no longer with me. I’m panting. Headstones in my peripheral, I turn to the left and dive.

What if I’m caught here? I’m fresh blood for the undead feasting. What will happen to me? Would they be having their meeting tonight? Many more questions danced on the corridors of my mind. Was I delirious? I still haven’t the slightest idea. Maybe if the thumping in my head would stop I’d have the ripostes to my enquiries.

This is ironic at the time when it’s happening. My soul searches for a burial place to rest for the night, out the way of harm. My eyes widen to the hopes of coming to the next day. Without sleep I’m being deprived of bereavement. I’m thankful to survive this long after the wee hours of night.

I lick at the dryness of my lips. I rub at the sweat beads on my forehead. I imagine myself in a better place. I assume the worst is yet to come. I anticipate the morning sunrise. I fever for the hot sand of another world. It’s a platonic adventure, a torturous exploit of my pigmented imagination. But this is as tangible as those who are in chase. Is life the end of a death for it brings life after demise? I’m fading away from this consciousness. My hands are numb and soaked. My pants turn to wheezing, and on my own tongue I choke.

I remembered. I almost fainted when I heard a strange noise. It was far away from my hiding place but I thought. I thought finally. They are beginning to rise like sleepwalkers, zombies, or even worse an army of automatons. Something is nearing me through the stale black of this garden of remembrance. But nothing happened. I did not reap the sowing of someone else’s misfortune. I was still alive for what it was worth. I was thankful for the patrol’s retreat. I was thankful for their respect. Or was it their fear of the fables starting point? The origin was that of a wicked nature. It was a cool fauna of embraced folklore that elevated to literature, manipulated into a culture that transferred into a phenomenon. And I was there. I was in its heart. I was the spook that invaded the peace of the dead, in fear for my life and running toward an assumed death to come.

Will I see the dazzling light of the morning sun again or will I die when the zombies awake?These are my thoughts as I squirm; dig myself deeper into the sand that I lay. In the face of death, even my European dream disappeared.

I recon the patrol team may have disappeared. But the fear of being repatriated would not allow me to leave the graveyard. Around this time I hear the screaming of a child. The foul smell and occasional wind of the Moroccan desert made everything worst. I wanted to answer the call of nature but couldn’t. I was afraid of being carried away in my sleep. Hours pass. Though it wasstill dark, I break. Imake a run for it. I run as fast as I can. I bolt like a striking flash of lightning until I’m settled back at the camp.

There was no going anywhere for me. I was engrossed in deep thought, reflecting on the previous night’s incidence. I was tired and fatigued by the events that betook me by storm. I knew I had walked on a lofty path of doom and all would never be the same again.

My soul was naked before myself and God.