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own character, attempts to derail: a painful and ironic blasphemy, ultimately self-destroying.

For the very phenotype within me, whose helix pairs encode the blind desire of everlasting existence does not reflect the Form of Nature, the Universe, that which becomes and becomes not. There is no cycle, I have assured myself of that - there may be another Universe after this, another space curve flexing through absent aether, but this one will eventually be dead and gone. Dead. Dead.

I am an ironic blasphemy, I and other members of my race. I have seen four centuries thus far and could easily see another four times that length. But I do wonder, every time I lay my eyes, outward or inner, upon Tabo, on what will eventually become of me. I might eventually starve, or die of thirst or some violent assault on the occasion I will have no recourse to help. There. My attempt on Nature's ordains would be over.

So merely by virtue of circumstance, I pay no heed to long-fingered Nature's influence. I can pretend my immortality.

And watch the City continue to reach up to the Sun, skimming the grey clouds in the very deepening red of the sky.

And dream of my Tabo, who attends to my accounts and stubbornly plants decomposable lilies in my garden and wrinkles his nose whenever he happens across the perverse, the nonsensical or the offensive. I dream of watching his skin toughen and sink in bags, and his eyes water with age.

But then I dream of the bags shrinking and being absorbed by his face. The lines stretching out so that they disappear. Of a smile reappearing as at the unexpected punchline of a joke, when he has finished reverting to the Tabo of Youth. The Tabo of pure, pale coloured nails and coarse auburn hair; green-brown iris' and lovely dark brown skin.

I would make him immortal so we could blaspheme together. So I could always watch his fingers at work, seeing the rush of thoughts flickering behind his eyes. I would place my finger where his brows meet in a slight frown and I would kiss the furrow fondly.

Then he would understand this City as I do and watch it continued to grow until the workers die and it grows of it's own accord. To share such an understanding would be bliss indeed, because then I would always have him.

Learn more about this author, Ifeoma Maduka.
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