Zara stepped into the corridor to be greeted by her million reflections in skin-fit leggings and miniskirts and hot pants paired with matching tank tops and off shoulders from across mirrored walls of the discotheque, dancing in the flash of strobe lights in step with the moonwalking magician, hollow head in hand, and to the ear-blasting music of Mykul Jay’s Eat it!
They told her don’t you ever come around here
Don’t want to see your face, you better disappear
The fire’s in their eyes and their words are really clear
So eat it, just eat it
You better run, you better do what you can
Don’t want to see no blood, don’t be a pretty girl
You want to be a beauty, better do what you can
So eat it, but you want to be smart
Just eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it
No one wants to go hungry
Showin’ how funky and elegant is your flight
It doesn’t matter who’s wrong or right
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it
They’re out to get you, better live while you can
Don’t want to be a girl, you want to be a woman
You want to stay alive, better do what you can
So eat it, just eat it . . .
‘But your song is not what I desire to understand,’ yelled Zara above the din of the disco, striding down the corridor.
‘But you should know the singer,’ said the hollow man walking backwards, facing Zara.
And so, the second door slid open and in walked Zara into the next mirrored compartment in the invisible footsteps of the magician. And the music grew louder:
You better run, you better do what you can
Don’t want to see no blood, don’t be a pretty girl
You want to be a beauty, better do what you can
So eat it, but you want to be smart
Just eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it . . .
And Zara’s million reflections danced in jubilation.
‘But your music is not what I desire to understand,’ yelled Zara, reaching the end of the second compartment.
‘But you should know the musician,’ said the hollow man, before the third glass door slid open, making way for the two to step into the next compartment, where the music grew even louder:
No one wants to go hungry
Showin’ how funky and elegant is your flight
It doesn’t matter who’s wrong or right
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it . . .
And Zara’s countless reflections twirled in gay abandon.
‘But your dance is not what I desire to understand,’ shouted Zara.
‘But you should know the dancer,’ the hollow man shouted back, as the fourth glass door parted open, and the music grew still more louder:
They’re out to get you, better live while you can
Don’t want to be a girl, you want to be a woman
You want to stay alive, better do what you can
So eat it, just eat it . . .
And Zara’s reflections worked up the tempo.
‘But your form is not what I seek to understand,’ shouted Zara.
‘But you should understand the seer of the form,’ the hollow man shouted back. And the fifth door opened and in walked he with Zara in tow. And the music grew wilder:
They told her don’t you ever come around here
Don’t want to see your face, you better disappear
The fire’s in their eyes and their words are really clear
So eat it, just eat it
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it . . .
‘But your pleasure and pain is not what I seek to understand,’ hollered Zara.
‘But you should know the discerner of pleasure and pain,’ cried the hollow man, dancing backwards. And the sixth door parted, making way for the two to the next compartment, Zara in step with the hollow man. And the music grew still louder:
They’re out to get you, better live while you can
Don’t want to be a girl, you want to be a woman
You want to stay alive, better do what you can
So eat it, just eat it . . .
And Zara’s many reflections gyrated in tandem.
‘But your mind is not what I seek to understand,’ Zara shouted.
‘But you should know the thinker,’ said the hollow man. And with that, the doors opened to the seventh compartment, whereupon a heady aroma of a thousand dishes wafted into Zara’s nostrils as the music peaked:
No one wants to go hungry
Showin’ how funky and elegant is your flight
It doesn’t matter who’s wrong or right . . .
‘But odour is not what I seek to understand,’ screamed Zara.
‘But you should know the one that smells the odour,’ said the hollow man, turning around to face the eighth glass door that opened into the next compartment. And Zara followed in to face her million reflections jumping in ecstatic frenzy:
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it
Just eat it, eat it . . .
‘But taste of food is not what I seek to understand,’ yelled Zara at the top of her voice.
‘But you should know the discerner of taste,’ cried the hollow man before disappearing with a bang, whereupon the lights went off and the reflections drowned in the hollowness of the hollow corridor and the ninth door parted open . . .
And Zara stood right inside Mamaroy’s Kitchen.