Okiek Language

In a small village, hidden in the folds of a forgotten valley and wrapped like a nest in the branches of a sleeping oak tree, a writer sat in a room that time seemed to have forgotten. Surrounded by a sea of autumn leaves that danced through the open window like lost memories, he let his fingers glide over the keys of an imaginary typewriter, the words dancing like raindrops on a still lake as he softly murmured phrases in the Okiek language.

He was a man who had already passed the zenith of his life and lived by the belief that it was up to people of his age to carry the responsibility, as the rest of the world was either too young, too old or too busy to shape it. A meerkat, his most loyal companion, sipped a glass of mineral water and waited eagerly for the next story.

His words formed on the paper that seemed to float above the imaginary typewriter:

“Patriotism is the virtue of the vicious.” ¹

The writer felt like an old radio, frantically switching between stations to catch as many fragments of conversations in various languages as possible before the analog frequencies finally had to give way to digital.

His story should tell of a hero who set out to save the world from eternal winter with the colorfulness of flowers. Just as a painter overcomes an empty canvas with his work. A future darkened by the blindness of those who only see the flags of their own country. But somehow he got nowhere.

The harder he tried, the more confused the thoughts he wanted to put down on paper became. Suddenly, like a strong gust of wind painting new patterns in the valley with the colorful leaves, the hero took shape, woven from the threads of the writer’s thoughts. Wearing a coat that shimmered in the play of colors of the autumn leaves, he stood there alive, a testimony to the power of words.

“You called me?” His voice echoed like the wind blowing through the trees.

The writer, as if torn from reality by a lightning bolt, stared at this vivid dream. “I… I was just letting the ink of my thoughts flow,” he replied hesitantly.

The meerkat, who had been enjoying his mineral water until then, jumped around excitedly. “You’ve done it! You’ve broken through the barrier between fantasy and reality!”

“Not quite,” smiled the hero. “I’ve been looking for a long time for someone who thinks on the same wavelength to enter this world with his help.”

The writer, still stunned, watched as the hero stepped outside, turned briefly with a wink, and then dissolved into a breeze that stirred the autumn leaves into a dance of color and hope. Every leaf that turned was like a breath against the frost that threatened to suffocate the world.

The meerkat, now calmly sipping his glass again, asked: “What are you going to write next?”