THE PENMASTERS (Maiden Edition)

Welcome to the first edition of the exciting  series - The Penmasters
A place where writers meet readers!!!
The pen masters is a platform created to help promote the work of writers that we have all over the country,  this talent which has been taking for granted has come to take its place as one that is just as valuable as any other.... And our first edition is a piece by our very own voice of the week Grace David!!! Tittled -Henna!
HENNA
The heat was like nothing I had experienced as the bus that had conveyed four of us to the rural area where we were to serve our fatherland drove into the crowded market place that rang with local music and laughter.
Nwanneka hissed,"see the jaguda place wey they fit post person."
I shared her thoughts but laughed along with Jesse and Mosugu, Nwanneka was one female who had no qualms with painting her thoughts in brilliant colours like my paintings from bygone days of laughter and family.
We were to alight at the makeshift park right in the centre of the market. The driver helped us charter four motorcycles and like magic our many luggages were piled on two motorcycles and I found myself squished behind Nwanneka who kept winking at me playfully. Our journey to the corpers' lodge shook all our bones and teeth until I felt I had lost use of my limbs. Just when we thought things couldn't get any worse a herd of sheep ran into the road causing no small commotion.  The shepherd ran out of the bush that kissed the sandy path pleading with the bikemen in the local dialect. Her tall frame was unsuccessfully shrouded in an embroidered veil, she wore earrings and a golden nose ring and her bangles caught the sun and jiggled as she gestured repeatedly with her hands. Hands covered in beautiful henna tattoos, that left me with no doubt that I would sleep with the intricate patterns in my head. Then she turned in our direction and eyes as dark and huge as a starless sky slammed into me. What was this feeling creeping into my heart and enchanting my soul. This young girl had stolen my heart without any struggle.
Just then a young girl walked to her and handed her a squawking child with mucor on his face, she took him and began to move away and the realisation that such a young girl was that child's mother hit me like a shard of ice. I mourned for what would have been, for who she was, for her dreams that had been stolen, her life that had been raped and for myself.
Join us next week for another wonderful edition!!!  Writers the intellecual mind masters!