VUNDERKIND’S NOTE: You know the drill by now – words of the Vunderkind appear in red.
So, here I was, this innocent Saturday, you know, doing my own little thing – working, tweeting and sweating dutifully in the heat – when The Drunk Archer hit me up with this piece. I checked it out, and agreed with her: it should be on my blog.
Gentlemen and ladies, please read: a piece by one of the loveliest people I know, Taiwo the Drunk Archer. I give to you, The Twelfth. Enjoy.
Vultures and flies alike encircled the tree,
Feeding on the decayed body, hung taut by the rope.
Robes gathered in the distance, far from the putrid odour
And sent a man to the gathering of vultures.
“His guts were spilled before we arrived from Golgotha,” the vultures announced in defence.
“But look, those shiny bits on the floor are not food at all, for Victor took one and look at him now, quite dead like this poor robed fellow.”
The man spared not a glance on their fallen comrade, but picked the shiny bits from the floor.
“Coins,” he told the robed men, “thirty in all.”
“Thirty?” A robe questioned. “It must be one of the twelve.”
The land was cursed, the talking robes agreed, the traitor had made it so.
The rope bit deeper into his neck,
Questioning his decision… making him doubt
He kicked and tugged at the rope,
Struggling for life,
Struggling to take back time,
Struggling and wondering, “why me?”
Forgetting what he had done, sentencing an innocent man to death…
Forgetting the kiss,
Forgetting why he had to do this.
As he lapsed into darkness, from the corner of his eye,
A vulture landed close by.
It winked and it smiled and it said cordially,
“Good evening sir, I’m Victor. Hope you don’t mind, I’ll nibble on those shiny bits till you are good and dead… you look real tasty too… I’m sure you work out.”
He looked at him from a far corner of the table.
He was talking. As usual.
About things no one could understand or piece together.
And washing their feet like he were a common slave.
3 years on and nothing to show.
As the group’s treasurer, he could count on their money as his.
It was the least they owed him for wasting his years….
But as for fame?
He had seen the posters put up by synagogue police…
Warning people about their little gang.
The robed ones didn’t believe in their cause. All was lost.
The people still came… to be healed and stuff.
He couldn’t care less…
He hadn’t signed up for this struggle pot of burnt beans life.
“Do what you have to do,” the teacher now said to him.
And was he ever happy to do so…
With a kiss and a hug he sealed the teacher’s fate
The robed ones will teach the teacher good sense now.
The robed ones will show the teacher the errors in his teachings.
… make Him see reason.
The robed ones had no such plan, he soon realized.
“Too late,” they said, malice in their eyes “by tomorrow, your teacher is dead.”
And tossed at his feet, a bag of coins.
Not three years before, in the land of Kerioth, there lived
A young well-read Jew.
The laws of Moses and the ways of Israel
were embedded deep before he turned 13.
The Pharisees and Scribes and Sadducees, he respected
The law in human form, never wrong.
But still, like all Israelites, he awaited the promised Saviour…
The one to ride into Jerusalem on a noble steed
and seize Israel from the Romans,
Drive away and slay the uncircumcised dogs,
And restore Israel to wealth and strength,
Just like in the times of King David.
One eve, his father came from the synagogue.
“There is a man that spoke this day, I say,” Simon told him,
“They call him ‘the Christ’. He is wise beyond his years.”
The Saviour has come!
Oh! What it must be like to be a leader in his army!
He would be rich!
A mansion in Jerusalem and one in Bethlehem.
… some vineyards as well, of course.
Gold would line his pockets and women would swoon at his feet.
… and so when one day Jesus tweeted,
“@Judas, kindly follow.”
He knew his fortune had come.