Orange Wall

by Mwila Kapungulya

Every Tuesday evening when the door cracks open the wall smiles, so delighted it can almost touch the ceiling.

It counts every minute and second that goes by, dreading the time to come when it will have to say goodbye.

So on Tuesday night when the door closes shut, the wall cries. “The wall?” you ask. Yes, this is no ordinary wall.

When you look at it, it makes you stare as though under a hypnotic trance, then it glaringly looks back at you like it has a soul. No, this is no ordinary wall.

As if in need of a friend, it stays there day after day quietly fading away like a worn out cliché.

What do I see on the wall you ask? Well, I see writings but fingerprints most of all.

Fingerprints from Serbia, Ukraine, Russia, Vietnam, Somalia, Honduras, America, and Zambia. It has traveled the world without moving an inch.

So to who it may concern—correction, to whom it may concern: This is no ordinary wall. This is the Orange Wall.

Tags: place, writing