The Prophet Of Amanga

  it won’t be long. At least that irritating

  guided tour have gone to get their lunch.

  You might not think one day too long a stint

  of waiting when he’s lived five thousand years

  in material form, and aeons in limbo before

  Amanga’s Bronze Age tribes began to mint

  his likeness into stone and metalware;

  but some have stoicism and others don’t,

  and Imti Mentoo doesn’t, but copes by dint

  of using his ability to repair

  to any of millions of icons on the island,

  forever hoping he might see the glint

  of naked female flesh, or brutal violence,

  or best, the two at once; but all day long

  he’s just stayed put, endeavouring to squint

  through this fug to scrutinise the throng.

  His eye alights on an ancient man who drags

  his withered legs around on home-made crutches.

  Almost blind with cataracts, he touches

  the feet of all the icons. He’s wearing rags,

  his face a skull, but what he’s doing pleases

  Imti Mentoo: at each shrine he pulls a big

  yellow banana from a plastic bag

  that’s tied to his belt. He gives two fruits to Jesus,

  one each to the rest, but when he reaches

  Imti Mentoo’s alcove there’s a snag…

  …one banana left! His hungry features

  look from the portly god with manhood pert

  to the ripe and nourishing fruit. His countenance sags

  as he guiltily stuffs the sustenance in his shirt.

  Imti Mentoo’s incensed by the disrespect.

  In better days the shamans used to slaughter

  virgin girls for blood to paint his altars

  but now a banana is too much to expect...?

  The plaza statue affords a view for the god

  of the invalid hobbling down the cathedral steps.

  He teaches him the price of his neglect:

  the crutches suffer the slightest, lightest prod,

  enough to cause the motorless feet to slip

  and send him headlong, ungainly plummet unchecked,

  crunching ribs and cracking fragile hips.

  Imti Mentoo’s delighted to watch him lying,

  a pile of rags, his wasted body wrecked

  and ministered to by priests who know he’s dying.

  But even this is not enough for him.

  Too much time in church has made him tetchy,

  and now he’s caused some pain he’s feeling frisky.

  He scans the nave again then yields to whim,

  checking out the seafront at Lidonga

  far from Moshadir’s revolting slums.

  A tourist beach resort where lithe and slim

  foreign woman idle all day long

  luxuriating in the tropical sun.

  Here he slavers over naked limbs

  and fulsome buttocks bobbing as they run

  along the shoreline chasing bouncy balls

  or plunging in the ocean for a swim,

  his viewpoint a statue on the ocean wall…

  …behind what is his all-time favourite temple

  where foreigners cavort in skimpy costumes,

  drinking booze and wearing expensive perfumes.

  His name’s been aggrandised to “Imti-Mental”,

  there’s flashing lights and noise to bless his likeness

  and rites restored that Christians banned as sinful:

  maidens and young men enact the simple

  sacrament of fucking in the darkness.

  ...and shamans, too, paid homage when it opened:

  they circled it for months and sang from hymnals

  fasting, holding placards he thought betokened

  veneration for this shrine although

  their fervour was so full and elemental

  that troopers had to shoot before they’d go.

  He spots a popsy lazing face-down who

  is very close by him. She’s not quite topless,

  but straps untied. He reckons she’d have whoppers

  if she were prevailed upon to move.

  A mongrel cur is chewing on some bread

  outside the temple kitchen. Dogs, he knows,

  don’t build the mental walls that people do:

  it’s easy placing thoughts inside their heads.

  So this one thinks the girl’s bikini strap

  is some sort of meat. He sniffs at it and chews.

  The girl jumps up. Her firm and fruity paps

  like strawberries plopped on plump pink jelly trifles

  wobble out of hiding into view,

  rewarding Imti Mentoo with an eyeful.

  Somewhat refreshed he’s back in the cathedral

  adored by hoards of drab Amangan women

  - scarfed, long-skirted. Their chanting’s not like singing

  - more like a drone. He loathes the poor and feeble,

  their plastic sandals slooshing across the stones

  and not one pretty enough to merit an ogle.

  The other gods - the Monkey, Stork, and Eagle -

  they never speak to him. He feels alone.

  Maybe all they are is what he’s seeing:

  lifeless shapes? Perhaps that’s true of people?

  Maybe he’s the only sentient being?

  Thoughts like these inspired his choice of Ben

  when he’d felt his sense of worth beleaguered.

  His concentration wanders off again…

  …and finds a stall in Chankachanga market:

  tiered like a stadium, crowded up with crockery,

  native gods, and pots in bright glazed pottery.

  He wants to do a test and picks a target:

  the sacred monkey known as Rakiman.

  An ice-berg of linen poised on a head is passing

  through the crowds. He shuffles the monkey, parking

  it on the edge of the stall. The laundryman

  clips an elbow…falling moment…CRASH!!!

  Show your rage now, Ape! he mutters darkly

  knowing the pain when his own image gets smashed.

  But nothing happens. The apathy sets him wondering…

  …such irreverence would get him narky;

  the clumsy oaf would soon regret his blundering…

  …If someone smashed him, what he’d do is this:

  when the laundryman approached that puddle

  beneath the wall where rickshaw-pedallers piddle

  - that acrid, sulphurous lake of tepid piss -

  this ox in harness plodding past would bellow

  despite its driver’s blows and angry curse.

  The cart would deal the man a glancing kiss

  and all his clean white sheets would go to yellow.

  The man would be uninjured, so for luck

  - so people wouldn’t think the god remiss -

  he’d get his legs run over by a truck.

  Imti Mentoo’s daydream’s such good fun it

  takes a while to filter through his bliss:

  the realisation that he’s really done it.

  Help is given by a Bible toting

  evangelical foreign Jesus ranter

  who drives the man to a private medical centre.

  Imti Mentoo hates them: always floating

  round his temples, singing hymns and praying,

  bribing his believers, and he’s noticed

  the native gods are suffering. He’s a notion

  it’s worse than when the Colonials did it by slaying.

  All these foreign faiths, they all have prophets;

  proper people made of blood and protein

  - more than trinkets shaped from stone or plastic.

  He thinks he’s seen where he’s been going wrong:

  he needs some sort of Agent t
o promote him.

  That’s why Ben’s been named his Chosen One.

  It went wrong from the start - for three whole weeks

  after adopting Ben as his messiah

  he didn’t see a glimmer of the guy

  again, and Imti Mentoo felt quite piqued.

  He’d scoured Amanga City...didn’t see him.

  His rotten luck reversed the day he took

  a shufti through the eyes of an antique

  statue in the National Museum.

  A file of children tramped through the former palace.

  Some wore smirks but none of them dared speak:

  a man stood guard before the sacred phallus

  dissuading them from taking notice of it

  and Imti Mentoo recognized the sleek

  and flowing golden locks of Ben the Prophet.

  He drilled his troops like military men.

  “Hurry along Shaheem! Straight on Paul!”

  No sooner had the orphans reached this hall

  than Sergeant Benjamin marched them out again,

  chivvied towards the door of the Christian section

  before they could take the pagan exhibits in.

  Imti Mentoo was seething with bitterness when...

  ...the rearguard presented herself to his inspection:

  although dark-haired, she was plainly a foreign girl,

  driving her charges like sheep towards a pen:

  a nymph who made his very essence curl:

  demurely dressed but curvy, trim - a beauty!

  Her cheery greeting tortured him: “Hi Ben!

  Has Rosemary put you on Imti Mentoo duty?”

  Ben looked abashed and heaved a world-weary shrug,

  somewhat flushed. The god thought, Attaboy!

  noting that his man was looking coy.

  The top of her frock was stretched by generous dugs.

  The orphans trotted through to a room full of Bibles

  and Ben relaxed. The shrugging shoulders sagged.

  “Truth is Teri, I’m feeling like a mug…

  the Sister told me, ‘Don’t let them look at the idols!’

  but I don’t want to spoon-feed my own creed.

  Karl Marx said religion is a drug…

  …I wonder if it’s what children really need?”

  Teri flinched, “Aren’t you a bishop’s son?

  Are you saying our faith’s complete humbug?

  And don’t call Rosemary ‘Sister’…she’s not a nun!”

  “Yes...I know…” said Ben, “…it’s just she looks...”

  He broke off when a middle-aged woman appeared.

  “Ah, Benjamin, Theresa, I thought you’d be here.

  Come along now! Let’s not be hiding in nooks!

  The children need your help in the Christian Gallery:

  They’re all excited about that jewelled box

  but none of them want to read the words in the books.”

  She glared at the motley gods, like cats in an alleyway.

  “I worry their souls will be lost to these vile creatures.

  Ramu is doing his best, but he’s a cook.

  The Good Lord knows he tries but he’s no teacher.”

  Throughout this harangue the man had smiled at the ceiling.

  Teri glanced a warning as he took

  a gulp of air and gave voice to his feelings:

  “Rosemary...Teri and me were swapping ideas

  On today’s day-out…” The girl was staring daggers.

  “…and I was wondering about these artistic figures...”

  He waved at the gods. Teri stood rigid in fear.

  Rosemary glowered. Ben went ploughing on,

  “Shouldn’t this trip augment the children’s store

  of knowledge about Amanga? If we steer

  their minds too much we’re not allowing them

  a sense of their native culture, and that’s a shame.

  After all, these gods had been revered

  for centuries before the Colonials came.

  If they’re to do any better than work in kitchens

  we ought to show them everything in here

  not just trappings of our own religion.”

  “Benjamin I’m shocked,” the woman scolded.

  “Those savages used to drench their gods in blood

  before the Christians saved their souls. What would

  your father say to hear you speak so boldly?”

  “Oh…he wouldn’t mind. These days he’s preaching

  that every deity merits the awe it’s held in.

  He’s never reprimanded me for holding

  views that contradict the church’s teachings.”

  “Nonsense, young man! Your father sent me to serve here,

  expressly to see the children’s souls are moulded

  in the image of our Lord and Saviour.

  I know him well…I was one of his students

  before you were born.” And then she added coldly,

  “I send him reports. I’d learn a bit of prudence...”

  Later on, the two young volunteers

  were whispering together on a staircase

  leading down from a gallery where a fireplace

  granted Imti Mentoo means to hear.

  “I wish you wouldn’t aggravate Rosemary.

  She’s stringent but she’s faithful, and she’s sure

  you’re asking her these questions just to sneer

  at all that we believe in,” whispered Teri,

  “and what you said about kitchen work was awkward

  - Ramu’s an orphan too - he appeared

  abandoned in a blanket on the doorstep.

  She’s taught him how to cook and drive the bus

  and cared for him for more than twenty years.

  She loves him more than any one of us.”

  “Ramu’s an odd Amangan,” answered Ben.

  “You don’t see many pale ones with fair hair.”

  “I think the explanation is that there

  are poor girls who get sold to dirty men

  that come here from our country to abuse them.”

  “Poverty drives them to it,” agreed the man.

  “We need computers here, not fountain pens.

  If children have the tools they’ll learn to use them.

  Our challenge is to interest them in the world

  but Rosemary teaches them like battery hens…

  …not even the boys learn science, and the girls...

  ...well! They only get domestic education,

  trained for nothing but raising children when

  this island’s sinking with weight of population.”

  “The irony of it,” Ben went on to say,

  “is Rosemary quite fails to understand

  that all the stone bananas in this land

  - the children have seen lots of them today -

  they’re symbols of Imti Mentoo. Craftsmen would

  inscribe them on the cliffs of hidden coves,

  on mountain summits and stalagmites in caves

  to spite the Colonials…everywhere they could.

  Even the masons who built this imperial palace…

  …look at that fireplace over there, engraved

  with hundreds of fruit. Each is a pagan phallus.

  What would the old girl say if she realised!”

  Imti Mentoo guessed Ben gestured his way

  but couldn’t see, as bananas don’t have eyes.

  The next thing filled his prurient mind with glee.

  Teri, in a shy and girlish tone

  said, “Ben, you’re so informed! You seem to know

  much more about the Amangan State than me.

  I’ve been six months now in Amanga City

  and barely been outdoors before today

  …there’s lots of things I’d really love to see...

  ...they say the central mountains are so
pretty...”

  “Ter-ree! Benji-maan!” A native voice

  called their names. Ben asked if she was free

  the evening next. “Mistress she annoyed!”

  “Coming Ramu!” said Ben. “Don’t want more rows...”

  “Free?” piped Teri. “How could I not be!”

  She tittered guiltily, “Cripes! We’re in it now!”

  And Imti Mentoo would’ve had to nod

  if he’d had a neck that could be nodded:

  this conversation told him all he needed.

  He longed to give the young man’s ribs a prod

  together with a big suggestive wink.

  But he can’t do that: one reason he’s so bored

  and bitter’s that the deity’s a bod

  that lacks a proper body - he can think,

  he can plot, but social interaction’s

  denied to one whose brain’s a head-high rod.

  Nonetheless he felt some satisfaction,

  some vindication of the choice he’d made:

  this boy not only spoke up for his God,

  but likelihood decreed he’d soon get laid.

  He’d checked out many restaurants next night,

  - ones he thought were in Amanga City -

  until he’d spotted Ben and Teri sitting

  dining in a glow of candle light

  and Teri chirruping, “Ben you’re such a marvel.

  How did you find such a super place to eat?”

  Ben pulled out a phone, its touchscreen bright,

  “Oooh...Google...Tripadvisor...Wikitravel...”

  Both of them laughed. A man came out of the kitchen.

  “You see how all the waiters are wearing white?

  The place is run by monks of the Jinju religion.

  Their creed stipulates non-violence to man and beast.

  The food’s all vegetarian...I hope that’s alright?

  The restaurant name translates as ‘The Dove of Peace’.”

  She said, “I don’t like meat much anyway.

  I know it’s not essential for survival

  but I live by the Word as written in the Bible

  and if Jesus didn’t eat meat I’m sure it’d say.

  I know about the Jinjus…they care for sick creatures.

  I can’t be as good as them, but I really try...”

  Their meal arrived, stacked up on a tray

  - sizzling curries that brightened up her features.

  “I eat meat at the orphanage, whatever Ramu

  cooks for us...it’s wrong to throw it away…

  …but I’ve seen how the animals in Amanga get abused.

  Us visitors shouldn’t criticise though what’s lawful...

  ...that’s an imperialist attitude. But hey!

  I’m rambling on and you must think I’m awful!”

  “That’s OK,” said Ben, “we think the same.