Original Writing

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Original Writing  

The city had beauty comparable to that of no other; as the sun rose over the bay, it cast a golden glimmer over the waves, rising further shining its warm glow on the immense skyscrapers, whose windows reflected the light onto the skyscraper standing next to it, bouncing the light toward the ground below – as if a primitive method of lighting the city was used, comparable to that used within ancient Egyptian pyramids. The city’s skyline was a mixture of old and modern architecture, tall skyscrapers stood watch over the city beneath, old grand stone buildings, once pioneers in architecture, now standing in the shadows of the immense guardians above; the stone walls once rough, worn smooth from years of erosion, beaten by wind and rain, worn smooth by the city’s inhabitants as they stood against the walls, waiting, waiting for lovers, buses and friends.  The sun held the city in a warm embrace, yet somehow, some buildings remained cold, the hospital a plain, sterile, concrete building stood in the centre of the city, steadily releasing a stream of screaming ambulances into the maze of roads which criss-crossed their way between the buildings . The new pavement followed the roads in a mindless fashion, the people they carried did likewise: their journeys being halted at junctions by simple lights, red screamed “STOP!”, whilst the green encouraged them to cross, the flashing amber daring those who were brave enough to sprint past the cars, who’s drivers engaged the clutch, changed into first gear, accelerating, eager to complete their journey. A steady siren for the blind rang out and seemed to politely remind those strolling to the other side in a leisurely fashion that the cars on either side were highly anxious to continue their journeys.

At the turn of every corner, there was a new sight, a new sound, a new scent; from the West Indian food shop, painted a vivid red, with a bright yellow sign which read “Jerkin’ Is the Habit”, the green walls inside could be viewed from the large windows which lay on both sides of the open door. The smell of strong spices, which seasoned the meat, which had been thoughtfully laid out under the glass counter, and the sweet scent of the fresh fruit juice being made in the kitchen behind; where a knife-wielding, middle aged women, in blue overalls and a white apron, cut through the flesh of a chicken, a sharp crack could be heard as she chopped through the bone.  The smooth bass rifts of a reggae song, in which a man claimed he had “Shot the sheriff”, were emitted from an old stereo, placed upon the large worktop, on which was a variety of meats, spices and cutlery were placed. To the West African supermarket named “Accra Market”, the exterior laden with yam, plantain, salt fish and other exotic foods, set upon foldable tables, whose fragile legs strained under the pressure of the heavy items they supported.  A strange aroma wafted onto the surrounding pavement, a blend of heavily spiced foods, mixed with the smell of household cleaning products.  The surrounding air pulsed with the sound of Ghanaian highlife music, mixed with the busy ambience of the city; which coupled with the bright sun which filled the city and the shop’s large, fluorescent, white sign with an immense black star and a subtle undertone of red, yellow and green washed over the white background, brought a slice of Accra into the city, which was a world apart from the modern, developed city.

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The next turn brought a large imposing estate, a group of youths gathered in the five a-side football pitch, whilst cars manoeuvred the assault course which the road had become, the battered tarmac roads, littered with bikes and shopping trolleys, along with the more conventional road obstacles such as potholes and bollards; each car with its own sound, produced from the engine as it bounced on the rev limiter, along with the different music as each  driver listened to their radios and CD’s, from the heavy drum beat of a classic hip-hop song,  to the up-tempo percussion of a funky ...

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