The Colour of the Night

I had been sitting on the balcony of my fourth-floor apartment all afternoon awaiting the setting of the sun, which finally arrived not before I had dozed off several times due to the heat of the day.

My balcony overlooks The Square – anybody who lives in this country knows what I mean when I talk about The Square. Its infamy is unrivalled and my meagre apartment is situated on the edge of this field of concrete, four storeys up, balcony hanging like a private theatre loge.

Of course, I have never been to the theatre but one reads about these things.

I do not work because there is no work.

I might also add that my apartment comprises of only two rooms. My living area has a bed which folds up into the wall and a small kitchen area in the corner next to the balcony door. My bathroom is a cupboard. I hope this dispels any doubts you may have about my financial status in this world.

I became more alert after sunset. I drowned my hunger with a filthy cup of coffee from the filthy kitchen worktop. I returned outside and stood on my balcony leaning over the railings. I had an inkling tonight was going to be the night.

I saw evidence of the first smoke grenade at twenty minutes past six.

Within minutes, a hundred souls had gathered in The Square, two hundred, three. Billowing plumes of brightly coloured smoke burst into life from different corners. Five hundred, a thousand, swarming from side streets armed with projectiles and the voice of revolution.

It was time to join my brothers.

The Colour of the Night

I could taste the colour of the night as I emerged from my building.

Smoke of blue, green, yellow filled the air but the real hue of tonight would be blood red.