My eyes have not seen much. All they have seen is this city, a relatively new one with just a few centuries of memory. I have not read the history of this city. I don’t know which dynasty shared power during the more recent colonial times. And I don’t even know who built that Tudor style palace.
Cities are like that, they veil everything with their dust. They do open up their sumptuous bodies for meticulous academicians. But their spirits remains indecipherably scripted - sometimes in the longing look of an over aged maiden in the fruit market, sometimes in the smell of overripe guava piled up for sale beside her and sometimes in the indecent pomp of the old mansion overlooking the market.
This city, like every other one, renders us incapable of loving other cities.
This city does not want us to hate it by knowing its infamous past. Just like a whore entering a marriage.
This city empties the primitive desire in our eyes to see the tempting cleavages of other cities too. Just like a virgin entering a marriage, scared every moment of losing her husband to treacherous whores.
Yes. We are. We are in a sense bewitched by this ugly city.
