For the Worshippers of the Toe

I stand at the edge of the Great Rift Valley of Africa. Behind me the sun rises. The continent is splitting from the Red Sea to the Okavango Delta, that great inland oasis that does not flow into the ocean. The wind is restless, driven to the north by the Sahara, and the tropical rainforests to the south. I shout on top of my voice, "Does anyone worship the 'Toe?"

The words get sucked from my mouth as they emerge, tumbled away by the sighing wind. No echo returns. I am alone. Utterly alone. The last man standing in this place where the first hominids walked upright, leaving their footprints in the mud, captured forever by a dusting of volcanic ash. This is where humankind emerged from the rainforests disappearing as the savannah's of Africa were born.

My words are dashed down the canyon, smashed onto rocks with pieces whisked away like flotsam, carried around the oxbow into the cascading river that flows in the Great Rift Valley below.

I am alone. Nobody answers but the wind sighs and whispers as it sucks my words away.

But I remain undeterred, for I cannot be the last man standing. Where has civilization gone? Surely there is someone left on this planet that worships the 'toe.

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Maybe, just maybe, there will be an echo coming back to me. A sign of life in this dramatic landscape where a continent is ripping apart and the first apes stood on their hind legs to become human some seven million years ago.

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