Makati by Denver Ejem Torres
Resign Now! Step down Evil! Moderate Your Greed! These imperatives are the loud cries of their banners. The people are in fervor; their conviction is strong that the President of the Republic be ousted.
They have arrived in Makati. All the groups coming from several points converge in lights-clad streets of the city. There are about 5, 000 of them. As they settle in the heart of the city, the same weary voices, the same concern, same conviction, same cries are uttered. The protesters are thirsty for truth and tired of trusting. Their fatigued faces tell that.
The din of their cries is not to be restrained by the thick glass walls of the Makati edifices — the commercial buildings and high-rise condominiums. The cries of the poor are everywhere, they are in the streets, floating in the air, and in the televisions, penetrating all, everything, and everyone except the calloused souls of the powers-that-be who cheer and feast on a hearty meal at the Palace-made-by-the-Poor. The protesters’ cries are to them just the sound of the irritating toads in the Pasig River banks during rainy days.
Mike presses lightly the red button of the remote control. The red pilot light blinks twice, then the screen from black flashes a million of mosquito-looking pixels flying to and fro, trapped in a tube, then the images are now clear. Mike scans the television with annoyance. The channels look all the same—Makati and the protesters, banners and bellows. He is tired of gadding from one channel to another and see all a monotony. He turns off the TV. He is pissed off by the sameness of events in the past 10 years since he transferred to his unit. He wears his headset, Then, Neyo. “I’m so over being blue Cryin’ over you And I’m so sick of love songs …” He bobs his head as the song progresses then smirks and the annoyance is gone like a bubble, now hearing only two: peace and the playlist of his favorite songs.
