Chapter 1 The show of force

Halfway around the world, where the sun shone whole year-round, the splendor of the land was highlighted by the booming of drums. People were dancing in the streets. Cebu city celebrated the annual veneration of the Santo Niño, the young Jesus.

It was high noon, and spectators, young and old,  excitedly trickled in, filling the streets with expectations. Floats glittered with colorful decorations and confetti from buildings showered in different shades. Although the atmosphere was uncomfortably hot in the open, the curious ones stayed on to feel the throbbing of the festival. When the sun slithered down behind the school grandstand the shadow gave people some shade and relief. Those who had crowded under the trees, elbowing for the little space, later swarmed out into the open spaces when the sun went down.

Tourists from other countries also came, curious as to what the festival was about. Also, prominent personalities started to notice the importance of the celebration and they came, with faces painted in various colors and danced to the beat. The locals admire their sense of esprit de corps or friendship, thereby welcoming them with open arms. Hotels became fully booked and restaurants were bulging with customers. Business boomed. 

On top of the trees little boys in shorts, clung to their branches to get the best position, and balloons in different colors blossomed in the air. Holding them in one hand, tiny tots licked cotton candies, with melting ice creams in the other. At the side streets, women selling souvenirs, t-shirts, and hats in makeshift stands continued fanning themselves until the sun faded away into the horizon. The thundering of drums heightened the excitement. Booming from afar, the largest group of well-trained dancers donning colorful tribal costumes, in G-strings, their skins daubed with red and black paint, came trudging forward. This was what most people came here for, to see them, and their expectations finally rewarded them with a delightful experience. 

Drums in varying loudness came rolling nearer and nearer, drowning voices. The drumming shifted to foxtrot when the African tribe appeared at the corner soaring, circling their hips, feet, and body in synchronized movements. The rhythm of the drums was picked up by the stamping of their wooden spears in unison against their shields and then stamped them on the ground at equal rhythm. All of these combined to produce an increasing sense of anticipation among the people, each release giving rise to a new surge of tension which increased in waves and waves of sound and jubilation. The spectators at the sides roared in approval clapping and cheering. Some were also dancing to the beat.

“Here is the best!” exclaimed one woman who was wearing a sun visor, red top, and blue jeans.

“Here's my favorite,” shouted a girl, in a cropped top whose belly was displayed for everybody to see. "If you look deeply into their faces, you will see the handsome ones. Most of them come from my school. That is why they are my favorite." She cheered at them, widely.

“Move away! Clear the way!” one middle-aged policeman hollered to the crowd. He was blowing his whistle in vain to push people outward. In desperation his eyes bulged, the vein on his neck swelled, he could well have a heart attack disciplining the crowd. Being ignored was the last thing he wanted, but his effort was simply disregarded by most of them, as futile as eluding his own shadow. 

The dancers stamped heavily on the ground, dancing gaily to the rhythm of the jazz tune, and swishing through the air. Two steps forward one step backward, they dipped, kicked, and squatted to the rhythm of the drums, young men and women in colorful costumes, students most of them, to grace the annual celebration of the city. 

Other contingents of the lesser kind were all over the main streets following in festive mood, jumping and swaying with smiling faces, greeting tourists who were also hopping and skipping to the danceable beat.

“Pit Señor!” they chanted in unison.

“Pit Señor!” the chanting echoed ceaselessly.

Fans roared from both sides of the street teeming with all kinds of curious onlookers, pushing their way to get a good look. Riding piggyback on the secure shoulders of their parents, wide-eyed tots were oblivious of the others. Among the crowd youngsters holding bottles of San Miguel were drinking in joyful celebration and common folks expecting to watch their favorite dancers pass by, were in high spirits.

One of the spectators was Arthur Marquez, oftentimes called Art by his peers which he liked because it meant painting, sculpture, sketching, drawing, or his love of writing. He mingled with the people and looked just like the rest.  But he wasn't. He was exceptional. He was about fifty, simple, and always seen dressed ordinarily in khaki trousers and a white polo shirt. A prolific writer and a bold detractor of the government administration, he contributed regularly articles in local and national papers to lambast corrupt and oppressive leaders. He peered through the crowd, unmindful of what was coming before him.

“Aren't they wonderful?” he commented. Without any premonitions on his part, he was unmindful of what´s going to happen to him.

“Yes, they are. There is no other group as good as they are,” said a pregnant woman with a girl at her side 

Being the press relations officer of his organization, he was called the PRO. Today he had the liberty of watching the festivity, away from the cares of work and family. He had nothing to worry or to be suspicious of, even on previous occasions. He was an intellectual, an ordinary citizen, and his political views were hidden under the pen name Prometheus. Undercover, he was too confident that the monster could hardly identify him.

Unless . . .

Cameras clicked, some flashed. When the African tribe passed in front of the thickest wave of spectators, a muffled shot was fired in unison to the beating of the drums. The banging of the bullets mingled with the cadence,  drowned for anyone to have heard it. Almost a second later, Art slumped on the pavement, his hands curled up to cover his head. People nearby thought he was one of the drunkards who fell on the ground. 

Everybody ignored him at first until blood spread around him on the asphalt and those who were nearby moved away. 

The policeman, in a state of desperation and disbelief, blew his whistle non-stop to contain the surging multitude. When the realization set in, the crowd scampered away in different directions, one by one to safety. Momentarily, the drumming stopped and so was the dancing. Some dropped to the ground. Women shrieked. The crying of children who were lost in the middle of the scurrying crowd echoed everywhere. 

Then there was complete silence. Stillness permeated as time stopped momentarily.

An old 150cc. motorcycle gunned its way forward, swayed to the left then to the right, screeched and two men sped away to follow the beating of other drums. They were the assassins. The vehicle snaked its way among the crowds, and then disappeared toward the end of a side street, leaving witnesses stunned into silence. The aftermath was eerie: slippers missing, shoes lost, paper cups mangled, fans and broken umbrellas scattered around the scene. Some stalls were overturned. Arthur's body lay on the pavement face down. the ambulance, its sirens blaring, was the first to come to the scene. Next the Constabulary Police, about five of them. They made a cursory investigation then cleared the area. The body was whisked away in a dark burnish colored van, leaving the ambulance empty. Spectators slowly trekked back with trepidation, filling the once emptied area and the merrymaking continued as if what they had witnessed was a common incident.

Again it showed that life was cheap, even meaningless. Because of something that had nothing to do with justice at all, it was snatched away uselessly. The monster had done it again, demonstrating that to silence adversaries, it was necessary to eliminate them from the roots and stop them from growing further. They considered him to be a menace to their existence.

The following morning people who read the news could only speculate. Most of the public had stopped believing in the press for some time. Unless it reinforced something they had known before or accept the news to be true, they never cared to read anymore. Arthur Marquez was gunned down during the Sinulog celebration. He died of two gunshot wounds on the head. The authorities were still investigating who the killers were and for what motive they had done the heinous crime. And people are numbed, to what´s going on in their very midst.

In some parts of the country, the opposition to the government was shocked and agog at the timing and execution of the crime. In Cebu, the Breakfast Club, where Arthur Marquez was a member convoked a meeting of the leaders. What transpired in that gathering of the minds was unknown to the public, but a press release was afterward issued condemning the crime and blaming the military as usual.