Clouds of high

"Choo, choo", the long awaited spry blue diesel train brushed menacingly against the weeping tracks as it came to a halt. Tightly clutched to the blood inked Chanel 2.55 garnet bag anchored on the crook of her arm, Sloan hurried through the aghast horde of people, as she headed towards the faint hued entryway. Disquieted, she gazed through the square casement with her quivering fingers partly shielding her panicked look, watching as the ticketers placed side by side on the cemented floors the fatally scarred bodies of two middle aged men - her assailants. In motion quick as light Sloan let down her smooth and lengthy aurous hair as she stared through space in reminiscence. "The PM has ordered your demise and sadly I must deliver", the voice of the assailant with short, scanty red hair slightly echoed in the Telephone booth. His tiny left hand fingers ran across the crease formed above Sloan's breasts with his right poking her lower rib with a Colt commander handled beneath her worn grey coat. On spur of moment, a frightened Sloan smacked with her left hand the gun holding limb of the assailant. A fierce struggle ensued. A unknowingly shot bullet ran through her coat forming a knob shaped circle. Alas, the 5ft7 red hair lost all grip on the pistol which fell to the cracked concrete floors of the lofty, red Call box. It soon became a fete of knife scars on the shut to be refurbished platform 2. Panic-stricken, Sloan hurriedly fled the Booth which was now of red exterior and interior. 

  Disconcerted by chatter from all corners of crowd, Sloan inquired of platform 3's schedule from a railways staff. Off the spectacles of the wrinkly aged man, she observed a giant of sorts glare intensely at her. The bearded 4ft8 Arabian averted his gaze as he caught wind of his revelation. In an escape attempt, Sloan raced through the mammoth crowd followed closely behind by the stunningly quick Torpedo. Her numerous twists and turns brought her to the Station's lavatory. Still and silent, she stayed locked behind one of the many, short, yellow doors of the restroom. Slowly, the diverted Arabian moved one door to the next placing his plenty ringed ears against each. Abruptly, he made a stop before door number 12 which shielded Sloan who crouched over the loo. Apace, she slit with her silver knife the vein about his Achilles heel, kicking the now unlatched door against the cowering killer. Sloan's conspicuous figure towered above the terror stricken assassin. "Please, spare me", the yell of the strangely blue haired killer who seemed incapable of a whisper pervaded the platform. Hurriedly, she sent her acuate blade through the many muscles of his tattooed neck. A large crowd had gathered before the main entrance to the lavatory prompting Sloan to make exit through the large rectangular windows. 

"Hooooot", the delayed train finally left the chaotic station. Seven minutes into the journey, Sloan who was alone in the white curtained, blue chaired square semi cabin was joined by an imposing dark figure. "I'm so sorry, I thought this was the cabin I reserved", his cloud white teeth sparkled as he spoke. Beguiled, she invited the full haired charming gentleman to a sip. "Why would one beauteous as you suffer a journey long as this"?, the young man who introduced himself as Roger asked, staring right into her eye as if to unravel the truth. "Of what measure is a man whose feet yet to taste the plenty sweet of the diverse soils", she said in a whisper. Roger's reply was a mild chuckle which according to Sloan would arouse even the glistening stars. "Since you seem to take delight in literary speech shall I then compare you to a summer's day, thou art more lovely and temperate", Sloan then erupted in a heart warming laugh. One could sniff by the nostrils the ardour thriving midair. The gripping confab persisted till halfway through the journey, when the train journeyed through the vast dusty fields of Borough. Roger, in a stern look dug his perfectly trimmed fingers into his oil black waist bag retrieving from it an 6 by 6 size photograph of Sloan, as well as a shiny soot black Beretta M1951, items which he placed at the centre of the small wooden circular table positioned between the facing settees. "I do believe my motive is to you clear as a crystal, may I have the dark files"? Roger bellowed in his bass voice to a surprised Sloan. The dark files is a well hidden, top secret ledger kept by every prime ministers since Baldwin at the order of the Crown, detailing every off the record agreement they ever struck, a book that had in it a sea of information that could cause never ending wars. "Have you by your eyes seen the clouds of high travel beneath the heavens, free. Have you espied the eagle sojourn about the air, bound to no master", Sloan began. "I did not act a mistress to the prime minister for personal gain, I serve a greater cause, one of the ÓMÍNÌRÁ". The ÓMÍNÌRÁ was a secret society formed in 1942 by W. E. G Sekyi and O. J. Awolowo, an association with the simple goal of liberating all Negro colonies. "Today, before you is a choice, to stand with the right to freedom of all peoples and love or to continue as slave in servitude of these white masters", a statement of Sloan's that set Roger thinking. "My accomplices crawl all over this train, if we intend to survive and with this book, we must deboard here and now", Roger said in a cautious whisper that would not sway a rose petal. Slowly, Roger moved the cotton curtains of the cabin, switching his gaze meticulously from left to right as though in search of a missing pin. As he had ascertained the coast was clear, Roger grabbed Sloan who in turn grabbed the Chanel 2.55 gifted her by the Prime Minister. Unseen, the duo arrived the faded, rusted top of the train wherefrom Roger suggested they jump off. 

It had been seven months since the couple met and now they arrived the comely shores of Accra. Roger and Sloan who was now bumpy around the belly headed first to the Accra customary court where they became espoused. The couple once done with their nuptials were escorted to the ÓMÍNÌRÁ headquarters where they handed over the dark files to O. J Awolowo and W. E. G. Sekyi. The dark files were put to use by the now strengthened organization, an approach that delivered sixteen African countries to independence from the British between 1957 and 1968. ÓMÍNÌRÁ - Freedom at last.