And then, the wait is over and a roar goes up.
“There he is.”
“I can’t see.”
“Stop pushing.”
“Pass that bottle”.
The crowd undulates, crushing closer to the front.
“He’s so old”.
“She looks lovely”.
“Is that his wife?”
“Whose that guy?”
There’s feedback on the mics and static in the air. Thunder rolls closer …
and so do the tanks.
There’s pushing and jostling and some people running as the new-formed militia disgorges from buses.
“What’s happening?”
“It’s a coup.”
“Oh my God, we are done for.”
They gaze in dismay as those on the podium are marched away under military guard; then gathering horror as they are surrounded by thugs with machine guns, spewing hatred and bile. The puppets of oligarchs pulling their strings.
There is silence, apart from rare sobs; muffled curses.
Then the thunder builds and the rain comes torrential and the lightening forks through the darkening sky.
At the height of the storm the thugs open fire and there in the thousands the crowd is mowed down, while up on the podium, conducting proceedings, the defeated dictator is back in control.
Clo Carey – October 2020
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Teetering on the Edge 