Heatstroke south of sudan

 That hot afternoon fifty of my tribes men pounded drums.
The rhythm was inciting all of the small local villagers to the large clearing at the foot of the forest.
The sun shining through, dozens of home made juices and drinks.
What an occasion I danced and danced. My tribe dance with me.
I was a part of something I was not alone. yet something tickled my ear as if there would be some tragic event looming.

I bounded into the air full smile, knees bent and hands risen high. A long shark like bullet split through my endorphin ridden brain. Screaming through in less than a second, though having an hour long conversaton with my nerve endings as whizzed through.

It spoke of where it came from a life of order and glory filled with gunpowder and curated for the magazine home and the airport barrel. The bullet blurted out that it had gone through some ups and downs on it's trajectory into my head. That it's purpose was now fulfilled and that it would move on. Leaving my skull.

"Whizz snap" As if the mistake that murder is, made perfect sense.
The lifeless body once me, consecrated some lost desire of the cosmos.
On the fall my last energy leapt toward the glare of the afternoon sun,
the juice from cups splashing on impact of a local toast.

A split second to feel the last ounce of existence leaving. Laughing out of me as if life iself was a silly joke. Like a vacuum cleaner I try to soak them back in, and they wind more of me out.
Until I am definitively gone.
The beauty of having lived steaming out of blood.

By the time the party had turned to screams I had gone.
The cheerfulness and excitement of the afternoon dead as I here now lying.
The bullet had dug itself into the ground. An instant and appropriate grave for such a lively piece of lead. No head stone short of my corpse. The local wildlife would drag that away, in the case I wasn't lucky enough for a burial.