Granma Nineteen and the Soviet's Secret

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“Blue shouts? Never heard of them.”

“They’re words shouted on the ocean floor — kids know about them. Birds, too.”

“And the fish?”

“Fish still don’t know how to shout right. Fish words must be some other colour.”

“Have you ever shouted on the ocean floor?”

“Lots of times. You want to try it?”

The explosion woke up even the birds asleep in the trees and the dozy fish in the sea. Colours came out that had never been seen before: yellow mixed with red pretending to be orange in a bluish green, flares that mimicked the strength of the stars reclining in the sky and a warlike rumbling of the kind made by MiG planes. In the end it was a beautiful explosion that lingered in the noises of the pretty colours that our eyes looked upon and never again forgot.

We, the children, stood looking at the illuminated marvels that filled the sky as though all the rainbows in the world had come running to drink a toast on the ceiling of our dark city of Luanda.

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