Mawazo came out of his sleep rather reluctantly, where again his dream had floated him back to Salmini village, in his home country Abantonea. His mobile phone alarm had roused him from camaraderie with his childhood friends. The alarm was a muffled siren-like sound that began softly, but gradually grew to a crescendo. If he didn't stop it, it would wake up everyone in the whole flat. He reached out his hand to the low-lying coffee table, where it lay wailing, and its dim light throwing a strange blue light on the settee opposite him.
He pressed the tiny stop button and ended the disturbing sound.
Across the room where the blue light shone, an outline of a man's face stared back at him. His heart raced as he stared at the face which was very pale; the unmistaken face of a well-known personality in his home country. Now in real panic, he raised his head to look at it keenly, only to realise that it was the reflections of the light on the decorations and the buttons on the settee. Eerie and strange images, had of late been playing on his mind, and this unsettled him a lot. The state of his mind followed the turbulent political events from his country some of which bordered on the macabre.
His bedsit room felt chillier than usual and he began to think about the warm cosy cottage that housed his wife and children in Salmini. At this poignant moment, he could give anything to be where they were. But he had to earn a living and fulfil the promise he had made to them twenty-four months ago: to buy a piece of land and build them a permanent house.
The irony of his circumstances made him laugh nervously at himself. Here he was, living in a bedsitter, in Vikony, a small country, but whose currency enabled him to raise enough wealth to improve the lifestyles of his own kith and kin. Were it not for the fact that the menial wages he toiled for in Vikony translated into a comfortable income in Abantonea, he would have thrown in the towel and headed straight back home. But a sense of pride and the hope of a better future propelled him to hang on. The time difference between Abantonea and Vikony meant that it was approaching dusk at this time in his home country. Mawazo wondered what Amina and his children were doing now. They were probably seated around the hearth on the couch, telling folktales and shelling the maize and stacking them in sisal sacks, ready for storage in traditional barns.
He jumped out of bed, dashed into the bathroom, brushed his teeth and dry-cleaned himself using a wet sponge. Although he normally took less than five minutes to take a shower, he thought it was already getting late, and he needed to move much faster. Once he was done with his bathing, he packed a sandwich and some fruit juice into his back-pack, dressed himself warmly against the winter cold, and headed for the bus-top down the road. Outside, the pavements and the narrow streets of Dale City were snow-covered, and cold rain mercilessly lashed at him. As he walked briskly towards the bus-top, he saw two white girls, probably coming from a late-night party, walking towards his direction. When they noticed him, they quickly crossed the road at a trot, to avoid meeting him.
He sighed sadly, but nevertheless told himself that they were doing what was in their best interest. However, he could never comprehend what threat he posed to those who evaded him. Only he knew the deep sense of rejection he felt, owing to the fact that warmth was the by-word for Salminian character. Warm weather embraced you all the year round, and complemented the laughter and the warm nature of the people, he thought. Abantoneans only ran away from dangerous persons or a deranged man.
As he approached the narrow glass shed bus stop, he saw two thin chocolate coloured females. He recognised them as the newcomers who had joined Minster Coleslaw factory the previous day. From their features, it was really difficult to tell their gender. Apart from the high pitched low voices, their thin bodies betrayed neither feminine bosoms nor waistlines. With half their faces hidden under woollen hats to keep their heads warm, it was really difficult to tell whether they were actually teenage boys or girls. Their faces brightened a little when they recognised him. They chattered in a guttural language which came out in a trembling hiss as their teeth clattered because of the cold.
Mawazo wondered which gale storms had washed them onto these shores, and why they were here on their own. Nevertheless, they chattered away, totally oblivious that Mawazo was concerned about them.
As five-thirty in the morning approached, more people filled the now crowded bus shelter. It wasn't really a shelter as the wayfarers were getting wet from the sleet that was falling on them at right angles. The bus taking them to Minster soon arrived and stopped at the edge of the shed. The winter chill this morning was so biting that Mawazo felt pain in his fingers and knees. It was as if sharp needles were pricking his fingers and knee caps. Three males arrived just as the bus stopped. It was hard to distinguish their half-hidden faces because of the hoods covering their heads. They queued to board the bus, three pairs of catlike eyes twinkling out of dark caverns where their faces should have been.
The bus, an old double-decker Ford Leyland was hired by The Personnel Agency to carry temporary workers from Dale City to Minster Coleslaw factory twenty miles north. Inside the lower deck of the bus were two dozen or so hooded personnel who sat or crouched silently in their seats as though journeying to a fateful destination against their will. Apart from responding to quiet greetings from acquaintances, they mostly remained silent or slept during the twenty minute's journey.
In a short while, the darkness outside and the silence in the bus created a repressive atmosphere which engulfed the reticent human cargo travelling north. Fifteen minutes or so later, as the Ford Leyland droned towards its destination, a dark stocky bespectacled man who introduced himself as Willy Notter (he pronounced it Nutter) appeared from nowhere with a paper in his hand. He read what he said were the Agency and factory regulations which had to be strictly followed.
'If you f......g can't follow this simple rules', he said, cursing profusely, 'then you better catch the next f......g bus back to Dale.'
'The Agency cannot cover for your big-headed stubbornness', he went on, 'and we pay you for obeying the rules and doing a good job.'
He went on to welcome all new comers to the factory, and wished them a rewarding Christmas work. He suggested that if anyone wanted to continue working till mid-night they could see him immediately as there were few places to fill. When the bus came to a stop next to Minster Coleslaw factory Willy Nutter led the group in a single file to the factory changing room. Here a factory orderly was standing sombrely, in all whites, like a surgeon waiting to perform a difficult operation. Absurd as the comparison was, his duty of directing workers to different sections of the Coleslaw factory was a much loathsome job. Even though all sections of the factory were equally detested, he was still seen as the executor of workers misery. Like a doctor conveying bad news to the next of kin, he the bore brunt of the workers' hatred.
In the meantime, perhaps to fill in the time or for the benefit of the orderly, Willy proceeded to instruct the newcomers what size of Wellington boots or overcoats to wear. Satisfied that he had done his bit, he laughed uproariously and wished them a good day as he headed for the bus.
Even though Mawazo had gone through this drill numerous times before, it appeared like a dream to him. The agency supervisor's strong language, the cold weather and the bizarre hour of starting work all combined to make his experience surreal. On the other hand, the mute-like deportment of the workers, most of who were foreigners reminded him of his history teacher telling their class of a people who were shipped in chains across the seas to work for their masters in far lands. In his lifetime Mawazo had done odds and bits of work. His claims that the work he once did in a morgue could never compare to the chilly atmosphere at Minster factory was as unbelievable as it was chilling.
True the temperatures at Minster Coleslaw were deliberately kept far much below freezing point, even in winter. For some strange reasons the supervisors' ill-tempers added to the misery of the weather. Mawazo thought that the management either intentionally employed foul-mouthed temperamental supervisors or the cold rooms changed their behaviour.
This morning as these thoughts went through Mawazo's mind, he could not help wondering how unreasonable life could be. He thought about the favourable climate at home, amidst the backdrop of short supply of well-paying work. Working in a cold room for eight hours would not be such a punishing ordeal in Abantonea, he thought. He could even do the extra shift if it was as well-paying as it was here. But life was not a straight line.
He grabbed the nearest large white coat and slid his feet into size nine wellington boots. Just as he was trying to evade the gaze of the factory orderly, he heard him say:
'Hey you! Yes, Mawazo. You are in the mixing room today', he stressed gleefully as if paying back a wrong-doing. Knowing that the man's word was final, Mawazo entered the washroom to wash his hands, in readiness for the frozen conditions of the mixing room. He steeled his mind and body for the next eight hour ordeal by visualising the sunny weather in Salmina.
Quietly whistling the tune madh mari kata tin (have your own drink however little) he put his heart and soul on mixing mashed potatoes, cabbages and milk, looking forward to another dawn shift.
Showing posts with label Short stories: contemporary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short stories: contemporary. Show all posts
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
The scheme
Fukara Alim dragged his feet with false confidence as he walked along the corridor of the second floor balcony of Hekima Academy’s tuition block. He had a double lesson in Form 1 East class and he tried to summon all his attention to the task ahead of him.However, confused thoughts bombarded his mind at will: Tajiri his landlord was coming this evening for his rent, heaps of unmarked books lay on his desk, and there was a staff-meeting scheduled for this mid-morning.... ouch he nearly head-butted Jemo Audi the Chemistry teacher, who was rushing out for another class next door.
‘Morning class’, he hoarsely greeted the class as he entered in.
‘Good morning Sir.’ chorused the young eager faces of the Form 1 E.
‘Now, who can tell us where we had stopped last time?’ Fukara asked the perplexed group of fourteen year olds.
Meanwhile he flicked through the worn-out pages of his copy of Integrated English Book 1. He knew he was guilty of having not looked at any book since last Friday afternoon, but had instead been on a bender till last night. On his way to this class, he had glimpsed through the staff-room window, three heaps of exercise books on his desk awaiting his attention. Good practice required that he marked the last exercise before embarking on any new topic, but what could he do?
He had reached a point in his career where all interest in his work had reached rock bottom. He neither read much, nor tried to search for any new techniques to motivate his pupils. Indeed they respected him because of the good reputation he had built over the years. However, his Head of department always complained about the delay with his schemes of work, and even when they came, they did not reflect any achievable objectives.
Now as he flicked through the class textbook, his mind was in turmoil and his confidence at its lowest. He yearned to be alone, locked in his room and lying down on his bed for the rest of the day. His hands shook as his fingers reached chapter eight where several familiar passages and topics flashed by; African myths of creation, phrasal verbs, noun phrases, vocabulary ...... we must have done all these. Oh God I need help, he thought. These children must not realise what I’m going through.
‘Sir, you asked us to read the passage Anjiko Joins a New School in chapter nine, which we did and answered all the questions. Our books are on your desk in the staffroom’, calmly offered Florida, the class prefect.
That’s my girl, thought Fukara with relief as he quickly reached the page. He had to do something desperately quickly to occupy this class in the double lesson period which lasted an hour and twenty minutes. He wrote words and phrases used in the passage on the black wall. He went through with them each vocabulary, phrase and expression as they were used in the passage. They inferred their meanings from the passage and compared them with actual meanings in the dictionary.
Experience had taught him that younger pupils who had just joined High School were highly motivated, and enjoyed interactive language learning. Many, particularly the extroverts, aspired to show off their knowledge of new words and phrases in their second language. A lively discussion proceeded which covered an entire forty minutes of the first lesson.
However, he couldn’t tell whether they could see through his bluff or not. He thought he heard suppressed giggles from the class at his confusion at the beginning of the lesson. And something in the eyes of Florida alerted him that she could see through him. It was as though she felt very sorry for him. It reminded him of his eight year old daughter Rachel. In his moments of doubt and confusion, Rachel would offer to take off his shoes, polish them and offer him a cup of coffee. During such moments, Rachel was like his mother, and he was a small boy again. Today, his mind was elsewhere as he went through the motions of teaching, like a zombie. He secretly yearned for the lesson to end.
When the bell rang to end the first half of the lesson, he asked them to read the next passage as he hurried to the staff-room to complete marking their books. Hardly had he gone through a couple of exercise books when Buri, the Form three North class prefect brought another heap of books. He slapped them carelessly on the big table in the middle of the staffroom, and without a word turned to walk out.
In Fukara’s depressed mind, he felt as though the whole world had hatched a plan to destroy him professionally. At the corner of the staffroom, he sat with shoulders hunched behind his desk like someone who had been defeated in a fight.
‘Hey Buri, whose books are those?’ Mteja the Kiswahili master asked Buri when Fukara said nothing.
‘They are so-forth’s, sorry... I....err meant to say Mr. Alim’s Sir’, stammered Buri, letting slip Fukara’s nick-name.
‘Come here Buri’, Mteja commanded. Bury walked timidly towards Mr. Mteja’s desk fearing the worst. As he approached Mteja, he was mortified to see Alim calmly seated behind his desk, laboriously poring over a sentence in a book as if he hadn’t noticed him. He went on with his business, as Mteja, now enjoying himself to the fullest, seized the Buri’s unguarded moment to torment him.
‘Buri’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Who is so-forth?’ the evil smirk on Mteja’s face left no doubt in Buri’s mind that he was in deep trouble. It always amazed him how this man never tired of causing trouble for pupils. Pupils knew they were in hot soup if Mteja caught them breaking a rule. It never mattered whether the culprit committed the offence inadvertently or if it was premeditated. This was particularly sticky for Buri because the so-called felony was committed in the staff-room which Mteja claimed was within his area of jurisdiction.
As the Master in charge of the staffroom, he reined terror on all pupils to the chagrin of teachers like Fukara. But today, Fukara felt a kind of satisfaction, some sort of poetic justice being done on the bloke-headed Buri. He ignored the pleading look on Buri’s face as Mteja interrogated him further. Mteja was a short slight man, hardly four feet three inches, and was the same height with some of the boys in forth form. In fact Clara, the deputy head-teacher was recently overheard saying that he instilled fear in pupils to safeguard himself from any potential threat from them.
Fukara somewhat felt that Buri had paid enough for his sins, and decided to intervene. He ignored Mteja’s line of interrogation but proceeded to pin him down on account of bringing the books at the wrong time.
‘Buri when were you supposed to bring these books?’ he asked feigning annoyance.
‘Last Friday, Sir.’
‘Well, Buri you’ll have to explain to Form three North that the books will be marked first before I can come to your class’, he said lamely.
‘I will Sir, but you still owe us two lessons. Last Friday’s doubles went untaught’, he cheekily retorted. Before Fukara could think of what to say, the bell rang for morning break, and Buri dashed out of the staffroom. There was heavy movement of chairs and desks as pupils rushed out of their classrooms, and teachers streamed into the staffroom. Across the staffroom from where he sat, Mteja felt disappointed with Fukara for letting Buri off the hook so easily. Buri will have to answer for his arrogance next time, he thought.
‘Excuse me teachers’, suddenly announced Mr. Busara, ‘Due to unforeseen circumstances, our staff meeting scheduled for this morning has been postponed to next Friday.’
Fukara hadn’t noticed the head-teacher coming into the staffroom. Deep down in his heart there was a sigh of relief. He was neither in the mood nor in a mental state for any meeting. But when the head-teacher asked him to come to the office immediately, his heart skipped a beat. Perhaps it was the way he said it, or it was just his own premonition that warned Fukara that the summons to Mr. Busara’s office was about a complaint about his work.
As he walked down the stairways to the ground floor, he thought of all the possible shortcomings in his work of late. He could only think of the heaps of unmarked books in the staffroom. His mind was clouded, and he felt thirsty and dizzy, but there was no time to waste. So he walked up to the head-teacher’s door and knocked gently.
‘Come in’, came Mr. Busara’s booming voice from inside.
He was surprised to see Mrs Binafsi, Florida’s mother, seated on the visitor’s chair inside the office. Noticing his discomfiture, Mr. Busara quickly hastened to explain.
‘Take a seat Mr. Alim’, he said cheerily without any trace of pretence, ‘You know Mrs. Binafsi who is a parent as well as the chair-person of the Parents Teachers Association.’
He explained that she was there on routine BOG business but thought she needed to talk about her daughter’s performance in school.
‘I’ve noticed in particular that her English exercise book has been marked only twice this term’, she chipped in matter-of-factly even before the head-teacher could finish, ‘Some of the exercises are marked with a pencil which she said was done by a classmate. I wanted to know the truth by myself.’
Caught off guard, Fukara tried to explain as convincingly as he could, why there were few teachers’ marks on Florida’s exercise book. He did not know whether his reason for asking the pupils to mark their classmate’s books was convincing enough. He broke into a sweat when Mr. Busara commented that he had noticed the work he had covered did not tally with his schemes of work. Did he have an explanation for that? He did not seem to have an immediate answer. The head-teacher, however, assured Mrs. Binafsi that Fukara was one of the most experienced teachers in Hekima Academy, and that any oversight will be ironed out.
Fukara walked out of the school office in a daze. He thought about his twenty odd years of teaching English language, and wondered whether there was any tangible achievement he could show for it. He felt small and cornered like ant in a square room full of spiders. As he walked into the staffroom, he could sense all eyes probing his face but ignored them as he sat down heavily on his chair. He felt tension building in the staffroom as nobody was saying anything to him. It was as if they had known all along, and had been waiting for this to happen.
The leeches, traitors, he angrily thought to himself. For the umpteenth time, he told himself that he would tender in his resignation, and concentrate on his own private business where he was his own boss. As he tried to calm himself, his mind went back to the good old days, when a teacher’s word was his bond. Motivated by a desire to impart knowledge, and an in-built self-regulation, he worked at his pace and required no interference from ‘stake-holders’ as happened these days.
As far as he saw it, a modern teacher’s career expectancy is short-lived, if not doomed.
The glare of probing eyes from the head-teachers, the parents, government and the public can break any iron-hearted individual. The last straw is the empowerment of the pupils, to do and to say as they will. It is an inadvertent scheme to bring down, and to destroy one of the noblest professions in the world.
‘Morning class’, he hoarsely greeted the class as he entered in.
‘Good morning Sir.’ chorused the young eager faces of the Form 1 E.
‘Now, who can tell us where we had stopped last time?’ Fukara asked the perplexed group of fourteen year olds.
Meanwhile he flicked through the worn-out pages of his copy of Integrated English Book 1. He knew he was guilty of having not looked at any book since last Friday afternoon, but had instead been on a bender till last night. On his way to this class, he had glimpsed through the staff-room window, three heaps of exercise books on his desk awaiting his attention. Good practice required that he marked the last exercise before embarking on any new topic, but what could he do?
He had reached a point in his career where all interest in his work had reached rock bottom. He neither read much, nor tried to search for any new techniques to motivate his pupils. Indeed they respected him because of the good reputation he had built over the years. However, his Head of department always complained about the delay with his schemes of work, and even when they came, they did not reflect any achievable objectives.
Now as he flicked through the class textbook, his mind was in turmoil and his confidence at its lowest. He yearned to be alone, locked in his room and lying down on his bed for the rest of the day. His hands shook as his fingers reached chapter eight where several familiar passages and topics flashed by; African myths of creation, phrasal verbs, noun phrases, vocabulary ...... we must have done all these. Oh God I need help, he thought. These children must not realise what I’m going through.
‘Sir, you asked us to read the passage Anjiko Joins a New School in chapter nine, which we did and answered all the questions. Our books are on your desk in the staffroom’, calmly offered Florida, the class prefect.
That’s my girl, thought Fukara with relief as he quickly reached the page. He had to do something desperately quickly to occupy this class in the double lesson period which lasted an hour and twenty minutes. He wrote words and phrases used in the passage on the black wall. He went through with them each vocabulary, phrase and expression as they were used in the passage. They inferred their meanings from the passage and compared them with actual meanings in the dictionary.
Experience had taught him that younger pupils who had just joined High School were highly motivated, and enjoyed interactive language learning. Many, particularly the extroverts, aspired to show off their knowledge of new words and phrases in their second language. A lively discussion proceeded which covered an entire forty minutes of the first lesson.
However, he couldn’t tell whether they could see through his bluff or not. He thought he heard suppressed giggles from the class at his confusion at the beginning of the lesson. And something in the eyes of Florida alerted him that she could see through him. It was as though she felt very sorry for him. It reminded him of his eight year old daughter Rachel. In his moments of doubt and confusion, Rachel would offer to take off his shoes, polish them and offer him a cup of coffee. During such moments, Rachel was like his mother, and he was a small boy again. Today, his mind was elsewhere as he went through the motions of teaching, like a zombie. He secretly yearned for the lesson to end.
When the bell rang to end the first half of the lesson, he asked them to read the next passage as he hurried to the staff-room to complete marking their books. Hardly had he gone through a couple of exercise books when Buri, the Form three North class prefect brought another heap of books. He slapped them carelessly on the big table in the middle of the staffroom, and without a word turned to walk out.
In Fukara’s depressed mind, he felt as though the whole world had hatched a plan to destroy him professionally. At the corner of the staffroom, he sat with shoulders hunched behind his desk like someone who had been defeated in a fight.
‘Hey Buri, whose books are those?’ Mteja the Kiswahili master asked Buri when Fukara said nothing.
‘They are so-forth’s, sorry... I....err meant to say Mr. Alim’s Sir’, stammered Buri, letting slip Fukara’s nick-name.
‘Come here Buri’, Mteja commanded. Bury walked timidly towards Mr. Mteja’s desk fearing the worst. As he approached Mteja, he was mortified to see Alim calmly seated behind his desk, laboriously poring over a sentence in a book as if he hadn’t noticed him. He went on with his business, as Mteja, now enjoying himself to the fullest, seized the Buri’s unguarded moment to torment him.
‘Buri’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Who is so-forth?’ the evil smirk on Mteja’s face left no doubt in Buri’s mind that he was in deep trouble. It always amazed him how this man never tired of causing trouble for pupils. Pupils knew they were in hot soup if Mteja caught them breaking a rule. It never mattered whether the culprit committed the offence inadvertently or if it was premeditated. This was particularly sticky for Buri because the so-called felony was committed in the staff-room which Mteja claimed was within his area of jurisdiction.
As the Master in charge of the staffroom, he reined terror on all pupils to the chagrin of teachers like Fukara. But today, Fukara felt a kind of satisfaction, some sort of poetic justice being done on the bloke-headed Buri. He ignored the pleading look on Buri’s face as Mteja interrogated him further. Mteja was a short slight man, hardly four feet three inches, and was the same height with some of the boys in forth form. In fact Clara, the deputy head-teacher was recently overheard saying that he instilled fear in pupils to safeguard himself from any potential threat from them.
Fukara somewhat felt that Buri had paid enough for his sins, and decided to intervene. He ignored Mteja’s line of interrogation but proceeded to pin him down on account of bringing the books at the wrong time.
‘Buri when were you supposed to bring these books?’ he asked feigning annoyance.
‘Last Friday, Sir.’
‘Well, Buri you’ll have to explain to Form three North that the books will be marked first before I can come to your class’, he said lamely.
‘I will Sir, but you still owe us two lessons. Last Friday’s doubles went untaught’, he cheekily retorted. Before Fukara could think of what to say, the bell rang for morning break, and Buri dashed out of the staffroom. There was heavy movement of chairs and desks as pupils rushed out of their classrooms, and teachers streamed into the staffroom. Across the staffroom from where he sat, Mteja felt disappointed with Fukara for letting Buri off the hook so easily. Buri will have to answer for his arrogance next time, he thought.
‘Excuse me teachers’, suddenly announced Mr. Busara, ‘Due to unforeseen circumstances, our staff meeting scheduled for this morning has been postponed to next Friday.’
Fukara hadn’t noticed the head-teacher coming into the staffroom. Deep down in his heart there was a sigh of relief. He was neither in the mood nor in a mental state for any meeting. But when the head-teacher asked him to come to the office immediately, his heart skipped a beat. Perhaps it was the way he said it, or it was just his own premonition that warned Fukara that the summons to Mr. Busara’s office was about a complaint about his work.
As he walked down the stairways to the ground floor, he thought of all the possible shortcomings in his work of late. He could only think of the heaps of unmarked books in the staffroom. His mind was clouded, and he felt thirsty and dizzy, but there was no time to waste. So he walked up to the head-teacher’s door and knocked gently.
‘Come in’, came Mr. Busara’s booming voice from inside.
He was surprised to see Mrs Binafsi, Florida’s mother, seated on the visitor’s chair inside the office. Noticing his discomfiture, Mr. Busara quickly hastened to explain.
‘Take a seat Mr. Alim’, he said cheerily without any trace of pretence, ‘You know Mrs. Binafsi who is a parent as well as the chair-person of the Parents Teachers Association.’
He explained that she was there on routine BOG business but thought she needed to talk about her daughter’s performance in school.
‘I’ve noticed in particular that her English exercise book has been marked only twice this term’, she chipped in matter-of-factly even before the head-teacher could finish, ‘Some of the exercises are marked with a pencil which she said was done by a classmate. I wanted to know the truth by myself.’
Caught off guard, Fukara tried to explain as convincingly as he could, why there were few teachers’ marks on Florida’s exercise book. He did not know whether his reason for asking the pupils to mark their classmate’s books was convincing enough. He broke into a sweat when Mr. Busara commented that he had noticed the work he had covered did not tally with his schemes of work. Did he have an explanation for that? He did not seem to have an immediate answer. The head-teacher, however, assured Mrs. Binafsi that Fukara was one of the most experienced teachers in Hekima Academy, and that any oversight will be ironed out.
Fukara walked out of the school office in a daze. He thought about his twenty odd years of teaching English language, and wondered whether there was any tangible achievement he could show for it. He felt small and cornered like ant in a square room full of spiders. As he walked into the staffroom, he could sense all eyes probing his face but ignored them as he sat down heavily on his chair. He felt tension building in the staffroom as nobody was saying anything to him. It was as if they had known all along, and had been waiting for this to happen.
The leeches, traitors, he angrily thought to himself. For the umpteenth time, he told himself that he would tender in his resignation, and concentrate on his own private business where he was his own boss. As he tried to calm himself, his mind went back to the good old days, when a teacher’s word was his bond. Motivated by a desire to impart knowledge, and an in-built self-regulation, he worked at his pace and required no interference from ‘stake-holders’ as happened these days.
As far as he saw it, a modern teacher’s career expectancy is short-lived, if not doomed.
The glare of probing eyes from the head-teachers, the parents, government and the public can break any iron-hearted individual. The last straw is the empowerment of the pupils, to do and to say as they will. It is an inadvertent scheme to bring down, and to destroy one of the noblest professions in the world.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Credit Crunch Hits Cringle Town
Cringle town the suburb of the world famous University City of Shafford is known simply as Cringle or old Cringle. Its fame has ensured the maintenance of its magnificent and complex past. Whereas its attractive medieval, Elizabethan and Victorian mystery has been its crème de la crème, modernity has formulated a paralytic catch up strategy with it. Modernity seems to be saying that if we can’t defeat we will join them.
The archways of its famous streets and the small bridges across its serene river are neon lit at sunset. Its narrow roads and streets are criss-crossed not only by early 1900s vintage cabs but also by modern BMW, Toyotas and Nissans. Youngsters with iPods and ear-phones plugged on, mix easily with occasional horse riders in the narrow town paths.
Basking on many years of achievements and discoveries at Shafford, Cringle town like other suburbs have over the years attracted modest to wealthy residents. These people maintain that the almost rural quiet lifestyle here suits their temperaments and careers. Should they need any change, all they had to do was to drive seventy miles south to the capital city of Elizabethville, or twenty miles north-east to Nork city.
The credit crunch that hit the world’s financial sector and big cities this year has not spared Cringle town. Many agree that there is a noticeable slow down, not necessarily in the modern boutiques or cafeterias sitting side by side with old cigarette and fishing net stores, but in some of the few industrial set-ups in the suburbs. This is not to say that Cringle has suddenly reduced its demand for some of the industrial goods, but these outlets of bigger conglomerates are either cutting down on their workforce, or shedding off expenses they can do without.
Although the effects of the crunch is hardly noticeable in the largely cosmopolitan populace, few Cringledans like Jim Crow can tell you that it is in the air, and you can see it in the faces and gaits of the people. The confident brisk walk has been replaced by the deliberately slow plod that one notices in many of the older generation of Cringle town. The common banter about the weather has been overtaken by an obsession with economic forecasting. This morning is no different and it is driving the forever optimistic Mel mad.
‘Mel can you imagine what would happen if Cringle Dry Cleaners wound down? Jim quavered.
‘Well, you know that it won’t soon Jim, and most people around here still want their laundry done at the dry cleaners’, Mel countered.
‘I just don’t know what I’d do Mel. I’ve known to do nothing else for fifteen years.’ Jim whimpered.
‘Can please stop your whining and thank your stars that you live in Shafford City’, She pleaded, ‘A lot of people would pay a fortune to be where you are.’
Although Jim won’t say it aloud, even at The Old Boar pub where his voice was always loudest, Mel Crow has always been his pillar of emotional and moral support. When the going was tough, and the neighbourhood and the world seemed overbearingly cruel she was always there for him. Having known no other man, and living with Jim for eighteen years had taught Mel some simple life rules. One of the cornerstones of these was that no woman has ever died from turning an occasional blind eye to a man’s flaws. The second rule was being there when he needed you, not exactly in the feet over rag scenario, but being the shoulder upon which he cried or the ear through which he poured his heart out.
Some of Jim’s failings were his inability to organize his finances. Although his total monthly obligations revolved mostly around rent and domestic recurrent expenditure, he never seemed to learn from his past mistakes. He would not only spend the part of his rent on ale and bitters, but occasionally put Mel through a serious mental strain trying to make ends meet on grocery and food. The paradox was that other than complain and offer some feeble reprimand she was always forgiving, and wholeheartedly sided with him when criticism came from outside.
This has not been without positive dividends. Standing by her man at whatever cost has ensured a stable matrimonial life to the Crows. Jim’s loyalty to Mel has remained rock steady and unquestionable, and she knows that at the end of the day, it was her policies that were running the household, and if she walked out on Jim, he would be a shipwreck. She reasoned in her heart that no man was born a rat. With nurturing and constant watch, any flop could turn into a pope.
Take for instance Jim’s miraculous turnaround since the beginning of this credit crunch. Though in her heart she had always feared the worst, she knew that agreeing with her husband’s paranoia would only drive him further into a drinking zombie. So, rather than join the bandwagon of purveyors of doom, she loudly preached tomorrow’s beam of light at the end of a dark tunnel of economic down-turn. The change in him was as astounding to Mel as it was to Zach, their landlord at 101 Blue Orion. His Friday and weekend escapades to The White Boar become fewer even as his rantings over Zach’s Chevrolet slowly subsided.
The Credit crunch which for many households has given way to the monster family crunch had become a family life-boat of the Jim Crows of 101 Blue Orion Cringle town.
The archways of its famous streets and the small bridges across its serene river are neon lit at sunset. Its narrow roads and streets are criss-crossed not only by early 1900s vintage cabs but also by modern BMW, Toyotas and Nissans. Youngsters with iPods and ear-phones plugged on, mix easily with occasional horse riders in the narrow town paths.
Basking on many years of achievements and discoveries at Shafford, Cringle town like other suburbs have over the years attracted modest to wealthy residents. These people maintain that the almost rural quiet lifestyle here suits their temperaments and careers. Should they need any change, all they had to do was to drive seventy miles south to the capital city of Elizabethville, or twenty miles north-east to Nork city.
The credit crunch that hit the world’s financial sector and big cities this year has not spared Cringle town. Many agree that there is a noticeable slow down, not necessarily in the modern boutiques or cafeterias sitting side by side with old cigarette and fishing net stores, but in some of the few industrial set-ups in the suburbs. This is not to say that Cringle has suddenly reduced its demand for some of the industrial goods, but these outlets of bigger conglomerates are either cutting down on their workforce, or shedding off expenses they can do without.
Although the effects of the crunch is hardly noticeable in the largely cosmopolitan populace, few Cringledans like Jim Crow can tell you that it is in the air, and you can see it in the faces and gaits of the people. The confident brisk walk has been replaced by the deliberately slow plod that one notices in many of the older generation of Cringle town. The common banter about the weather has been overtaken by an obsession with economic forecasting. This morning is no different and it is driving the forever optimistic Mel mad.
‘Mel can you imagine what would happen if Cringle Dry Cleaners wound down? Jim quavered.
‘Well, you know that it won’t soon Jim, and most people around here still want their laundry done at the dry cleaners’, Mel countered.
‘I just don’t know what I’d do Mel. I’ve known to do nothing else for fifteen years.’ Jim whimpered.
‘Can please stop your whining and thank your stars that you live in Shafford City’, She pleaded, ‘A lot of people would pay a fortune to be where you are.’
Although Jim won’t say it aloud, even at The Old Boar pub where his voice was always loudest, Mel Crow has always been his pillar of emotional and moral support. When the going was tough, and the neighbourhood and the world seemed overbearingly cruel she was always there for him. Having known no other man, and living with Jim for eighteen years had taught Mel some simple life rules. One of the cornerstones of these was that no woman has ever died from turning an occasional blind eye to a man’s flaws. The second rule was being there when he needed you, not exactly in the feet over rag scenario, but being the shoulder upon which he cried or the ear through which he poured his heart out.
Some of Jim’s failings were his inability to organize his finances. Although his total monthly obligations revolved mostly around rent and domestic recurrent expenditure, he never seemed to learn from his past mistakes. He would not only spend the part of his rent on ale and bitters, but occasionally put Mel through a serious mental strain trying to make ends meet on grocery and food. The paradox was that other than complain and offer some feeble reprimand she was always forgiving, and wholeheartedly sided with him when criticism came from outside.
This has not been without positive dividends. Standing by her man at whatever cost has ensured a stable matrimonial life to the Crows. Jim’s loyalty to Mel has remained rock steady and unquestionable, and she knows that at the end of the day, it was her policies that were running the household, and if she walked out on Jim, he would be a shipwreck. She reasoned in her heart that no man was born a rat. With nurturing and constant watch, any flop could turn into a pope.
Take for instance Jim’s miraculous turnaround since the beginning of this credit crunch. Though in her heart she had always feared the worst, she knew that agreeing with her husband’s paranoia would only drive him further into a drinking zombie. So, rather than join the bandwagon of purveyors of doom, she loudly preached tomorrow’s beam of light at the end of a dark tunnel of economic down-turn. The change in him was as astounding to Mel as it was to Zach, their landlord at 101 Blue Orion. His Friday and weekend escapades to The White Boar become fewer even as his rantings over Zach’s Chevrolet slowly subsided.
The Credit crunch which for many households has given way to the monster family crunch had become a family life-boat of the Jim Crows of 101 Blue Orion Cringle town.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Humour: Childhood Dreams
Bongo woke up with a start, more from disappointment than shock because once again, he’d been taken for a ride by a dream. Although four years of age, he was smaller than average, but his mind more alive and inquisitive. Unlike his three older siblings, he claimed some firsts in his family. At ten months he was able to walk unaided, and uttered his first word at one year and three months. Surrounded by more role models than he could bargain for, he seized every opportunity to learn quickly.
He sighed wistfully and tried in vain to relive his dream. For several minutes he couldn’t recall his dream. Instead, his mind was awash with memories of his first day at school the day before. It wasn’t exactly what he had been eagerly looking forward to for weeks. Although his brother Kim had warned him that snacks won’t be allowed in school, he hoped that hundreds of things in his new wonderland would compensate for a missed snack or two, from his mother’s kitchen.
He thought he could survive the mug of diluted porridge and a bun on offer at St. Thomas Pre-school, but was not anticipating the wailings and tears he encountered on the way to school. When he met the usually cheerful Chalo tearfully running after his mother near the school gate, he felt that it had something to do with his sore knee. But encounters with three other wailing children triggered his doubts about his new school.
Soon he came face to face with one feature which to his young inquisitive mind, had something to do with all the sobs and running noses around him. No doubt committed to her calling, sister Gao (short for Gaudensia) was nonetheless a creature of contradictions. She was small in stature, but deep of voice. One of her two large eyes seemed to be at right angles with the other, and when she was talking to you she appeared to be staring fixedly sideways. If her physical features were a let-down to her heart’s commitment, she attempted to overcome that by an unnatural zeal that somehow drove her charges away from her.
She came to the door of her classroom when Bongo was brought in by his mother. He looked warily at the catholic nun who seemed to be staring at something above his head, and held his mother’s hand tightly.
‘Good morning young man’, she clucked, holding her right hand to Bongo.
‘Morning ma’, piped Bongo as he held out his hand.
Her hand right hand clamped tightly around his tiny hand in a vice-like grip. Her palms felt rough under his fingers but he lamely followed her as she led him to a tiny desk next to a small girl with a pony tail. All around him were about thirty or so glum looking and bewildered children.
Sister Gao fussed over them like a hen that had just hatched new chicks. This morning she was trying to cheer them with a new song:
‘rondo spurning, rondo spurning,
‘rook yonda, rook yonda,
Paya paya, paya paya....
Powota powota.....’
Timidly at first, the children repeated each line after her, and soon a few faces brightened. They had no idea what they were singing about, but they could tell by Gao’s passionate tenor that it was a merry song, so with childhood gusto they refrained:
‘paya paya... powota,powota.’
Sister Gao would later explain to them, that it was about a big city somewhere in Europe which was on fire, and water was needed urgently. And it was now time for toilet break, necessary as some had already wet themselves. The queue to the two toilets in use was very long, and Bongo felt hard pressed to relieve himself. On second thoughts he decided that he would go and look for Kim in the primary school section. He looked round for a few minutes, didn’t see him and decided to run home. He was just about to disappear round a corner when he heard a familiar voice:
‘Hey Bongo!’, Kim had somehow noticed him walking towards the gate from the playing field where his class was helping to mark the Athletics track. Kim caught up with him and told him that he couldn’t walk in and out of school at will. He had to stay until classes were over, and he had to obey school rules like everyone else.
In Bongo’s young mind the school world was one he could live without. He decided that that was his first and last day at school. He had to go to the toilet quickly, and he also was feeling hungry. Kim took him to the toilet and led him back to class where everybody was being served a mug of porridge and a bun. Gao stared at him crossly with one of her eyes and handed him a mug of cold porridge. This one doesn’t look as unsettled as the rest, she thought. Once he makes friends, he’ll be alright she silently concluded.
Bongo’s mind came back to the present, and he moved over from the left side of the bed to the drier patch on the right side. The left side of his body was wet from his shoulder to his waist and he felt miserable about it. For the umpteenth time, he kept telling himself that it won’t happen again. He tried to piece together the events that led to his current predicament, and decided that his mother should take the blame.
He recalled his dream of the night before. His mother was taking him for his first visit to his grandmother in Alara. Alara a small rural village was thirty miles away from Manga Township where Bongo and his family lived. He couldn’t wait to meet his grandma whom Kim said spoiled everyone who visited her. They had just alighted from the bus, and were walking the two mile country road taking them to Alara.
The countryside surrounding Alara is a beautiful pleasant region. Large fertile plains are bordered on both sides by green rolling ridges as far as the eyes could see. Large farms of green maize stretched for miles on both sides of the small road. The soil’s fertility here is legendary, producing yams and sweet potatoes as large as a man’s torso. This has earned the county the nickname: Alara the female county.
Bongo and his mother met many women, colourfully dressed in brightly embroidered clothes going to or coming from Chiro, a nearby market. Baskets or pots of fresh produce neatly balanced on their heads, they cheerily called out greetings. Most of them knew Karen, Bongo’s mother from childhood:
‘Yoo Karen, it’s good to see you. Your boy has become a big man.’ Someone called out.
‘Hey my man, what have you brought for your wife?’ Another teased Bongo.
Bongo giggled and hid behind his mother’s skirt. After a short while, as they approached a little stream running alongside the road to Alara, Bongo felt he needed to go for a short call.
‘Ma, I want to wee.’
‘Hold it for a bit till we reach grandma’s home.’, She said.
‘I can’t Ma.’ Bongo whined.
‘Okay, run to that little bush.’
No sooner had Bongo reached the edge of the road, joining the bank of the stream than he noticed a boy of his age on the other side. The boy seemed to be in a similar predicament as Bongo. The only remarkable thing about him was that he was in no hurry, and was trying to achieve what Bongo thought was a spectacular feat. He was trying to push his wee across the small stream. Bongo thought it was a great idea and tried to emulate him. The best he could do was a trickle near the edge of the stream. The boy looked at him and laughed mockingly. The sly look and chuckle reminded him of someone he knew. Yes, that was it, Kim!
‘Bongo where are you?’ he heard his mother calling him. That was when Bongo woke up and his frustration was palpable.
‘Bongo are you going to school today or not?’ his mother continued.
‘No Ma, I’ve a headache.’ He replied, trying to work out how he was going to wiggle out of his current predicament. He thought his mother should bear some of the blame, but he didn’t quite know how to figure it out. He promised himself that no dream will ever make a fool of him again.
A brilliant idea suddenly came to him, and he called out:
‘Ma, are dreams from the devil or from God?’
‘Bad ones are from the devil, and the good ones from heaven.’ She said, suddenly realizing that something was coming. She had come to learn that her youngest child only adopted this conciliatory tone when he had committed an offence. During such moments he was always amenable and so she was ready to seize the opportunity.
‘Ma you’ll have to ask God to help me ‘cause the devil always make me wee in my bed.’ He pleaded.
‘I’ll do that my child, and then we’ll go to school. Agreed?’ she asked triumphantly.
‘Yep.’ Shouted Bongo, as he jumped from his bed.
He sighed wistfully and tried in vain to relive his dream. For several minutes he couldn’t recall his dream. Instead, his mind was awash with memories of his first day at school the day before. It wasn’t exactly what he had been eagerly looking forward to for weeks. Although his brother Kim had warned him that snacks won’t be allowed in school, he hoped that hundreds of things in his new wonderland would compensate for a missed snack or two, from his mother’s kitchen.
He thought he could survive the mug of diluted porridge and a bun on offer at St. Thomas Pre-school, but was not anticipating the wailings and tears he encountered on the way to school. When he met the usually cheerful Chalo tearfully running after his mother near the school gate, he felt that it had something to do with his sore knee. But encounters with three other wailing children triggered his doubts about his new school.
Soon he came face to face with one feature which to his young inquisitive mind, had something to do with all the sobs and running noses around him. No doubt committed to her calling, sister Gao (short for Gaudensia) was nonetheless a creature of contradictions. She was small in stature, but deep of voice. One of her two large eyes seemed to be at right angles with the other, and when she was talking to you she appeared to be staring fixedly sideways. If her physical features were a let-down to her heart’s commitment, she attempted to overcome that by an unnatural zeal that somehow drove her charges away from her.
She came to the door of her classroom when Bongo was brought in by his mother. He looked warily at the catholic nun who seemed to be staring at something above his head, and held his mother’s hand tightly.
‘Good morning young man’, she clucked, holding her right hand to Bongo.
‘Morning ma’, piped Bongo as he held out his hand.
Her hand right hand clamped tightly around his tiny hand in a vice-like grip. Her palms felt rough under his fingers but he lamely followed her as she led him to a tiny desk next to a small girl with a pony tail. All around him were about thirty or so glum looking and bewildered children.
Sister Gao fussed over them like a hen that had just hatched new chicks. This morning she was trying to cheer them with a new song:
‘rondo spurning, rondo spurning,
‘rook yonda, rook yonda,
Paya paya, paya paya....
Powota powota.....’
Timidly at first, the children repeated each line after her, and soon a few faces brightened. They had no idea what they were singing about, but they could tell by Gao’s passionate tenor that it was a merry song, so with childhood gusto they refrained:
‘paya paya... powota,powota.’
Sister Gao would later explain to them, that it was about a big city somewhere in Europe which was on fire, and water was needed urgently. And it was now time for toilet break, necessary as some had already wet themselves. The queue to the two toilets in use was very long, and Bongo felt hard pressed to relieve himself. On second thoughts he decided that he would go and look for Kim in the primary school section. He looked round for a few minutes, didn’t see him and decided to run home. He was just about to disappear round a corner when he heard a familiar voice:
‘Hey Bongo!’, Kim had somehow noticed him walking towards the gate from the playing field where his class was helping to mark the Athletics track. Kim caught up with him and told him that he couldn’t walk in and out of school at will. He had to stay until classes were over, and he had to obey school rules like everyone else.
In Bongo’s young mind the school world was one he could live without. He decided that that was his first and last day at school. He had to go to the toilet quickly, and he also was feeling hungry. Kim took him to the toilet and led him back to class where everybody was being served a mug of porridge and a bun. Gao stared at him crossly with one of her eyes and handed him a mug of cold porridge. This one doesn’t look as unsettled as the rest, she thought. Once he makes friends, he’ll be alright she silently concluded.
Bongo’s mind came back to the present, and he moved over from the left side of the bed to the drier patch on the right side. The left side of his body was wet from his shoulder to his waist and he felt miserable about it. For the umpteenth time, he kept telling himself that it won’t happen again. He tried to piece together the events that led to his current predicament, and decided that his mother should take the blame.
He recalled his dream of the night before. His mother was taking him for his first visit to his grandmother in Alara. Alara a small rural village was thirty miles away from Manga Township where Bongo and his family lived. He couldn’t wait to meet his grandma whom Kim said spoiled everyone who visited her. They had just alighted from the bus, and were walking the two mile country road taking them to Alara.
The countryside surrounding Alara is a beautiful pleasant region. Large fertile plains are bordered on both sides by green rolling ridges as far as the eyes could see. Large farms of green maize stretched for miles on both sides of the small road. The soil’s fertility here is legendary, producing yams and sweet potatoes as large as a man’s torso. This has earned the county the nickname: Alara the female county.
Bongo and his mother met many women, colourfully dressed in brightly embroidered clothes going to or coming from Chiro, a nearby market. Baskets or pots of fresh produce neatly balanced on their heads, they cheerily called out greetings. Most of them knew Karen, Bongo’s mother from childhood:
‘Yoo Karen, it’s good to see you. Your boy has become a big man.’ Someone called out.
‘Hey my man, what have you brought for your wife?’ Another teased Bongo.
Bongo giggled and hid behind his mother’s skirt. After a short while, as they approached a little stream running alongside the road to Alara, Bongo felt he needed to go for a short call.
‘Ma, I want to wee.’
‘Hold it for a bit till we reach grandma’s home.’, She said.
‘I can’t Ma.’ Bongo whined.
‘Okay, run to that little bush.’
No sooner had Bongo reached the edge of the road, joining the bank of the stream than he noticed a boy of his age on the other side. The boy seemed to be in a similar predicament as Bongo. The only remarkable thing about him was that he was in no hurry, and was trying to achieve what Bongo thought was a spectacular feat. He was trying to push his wee across the small stream. Bongo thought it was a great idea and tried to emulate him. The best he could do was a trickle near the edge of the stream. The boy looked at him and laughed mockingly. The sly look and chuckle reminded him of someone he knew. Yes, that was it, Kim!
‘Bongo where are you?’ he heard his mother calling him. That was when Bongo woke up and his frustration was palpable.
‘Bongo are you going to school today or not?’ his mother continued.
‘No Ma, I’ve a headache.’ He replied, trying to work out how he was going to wiggle out of his current predicament. He thought his mother should bear some of the blame, but he didn’t quite know how to figure it out. He promised himself that no dream will ever make a fool of him again.
A brilliant idea suddenly came to him, and he called out:
‘Ma, are dreams from the devil or from God?’
‘Bad ones are from the devil, and the good ones from heaven.’ She said, suddenly realizing that something was coming. She had come to learn that her youngest child only adopted this conciliatory tone when he had committed an offence. During such moments he was always amenable and so she was ready to seize the opportunity.
‘Ma you’ll have to ask God to help me ‘cause the devil always make me wee in my bed.’ He pleaded.
‘I’ll do that my child, and then we’ll go to school. Agreed?’ she asked triumphantly.
‘Yep.’ Shouted Bongo, as he jumped from his bed.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
The Bully
The shrill ring of the bell at 9.30 am,signaled break-time at Harisa Boys primary school.As the ten-year old boys, known as 'ticks'in Harisa, shouted and made a rush for the fields to play football, a subdued Benny Karim slowly rose from his desk and walked to the door.
Playing football was the in-thing for Boys at Harisa.In reality it was tennis-ball rather than football,popularized by the acronym 'abisidi'.Its name was actually the boys'creative way of pronouncing the manufacturer's ABCD trade-mark printed on the ball.Any Harisa 'tick' worth his short-trousers, aspired to own 'abisidi'which cost ten cents.As ten cents was hard to come by, they did all sorts of things to buy this cherished item.
Your popularity rating rose among the boys when you owned abisidi:you chose who played in your team, as well as the rival team.Of course the owner was treated with utmost respect, and a game which usually lasted the entire fifteen minutes of break-time, could end prematurely if the big-headed proprietor of the tennis ball was fouled, or when he thought his team was losing the game.Today the match between class two 'ticks' and class one 'ticks' appeared headed for a draw.
Benny the class-teacher's favorite, was watching from the sidelines nearer his classroom. Although usually playful at home, he dreaded break-time at Harisa boys because 'mobo', another name for bullies, made life very difficult for smaller boys like Benny who could not stand up to them.He was so engrossed on the game to notice Menichi walking towards him.His neatly pressed khaki shorts, and white shirt made him an easy target for bullies who were usually unkempt in dirty uniform.
'This boy lost my abisidi yesterday',croaked Menichi menacingly.Before Benny could run into the classroom,Menichi held him by his short trousers from behind.
'Where is my abisidi?',asked Menichi threateningly.
'I ain't got ya abisidi',squeaked Benny.
'Shit the abisidi now or give us ten cents', roared Jeuri, Menichi's pal and fellow molestor,'Your dad's a shopkeeper'.
A swelling crowd of boys, itching for a free-for-all roared with laughter at Benny's discomfort.Menichi's tight hold on Benny's shorts made the smaller boy look incongruous with his feet hardly touching the ground.His pleading eyes were nearly popping out of his head, and his running nose made his face a piteous site.Trouble was surely brewing fast for him.
Suddenly out of the blue another bully, going by the infamous name Mshenzi, held a lock of Benny's hair between his right thumb and fore-finger, and yanked hard. As benny yelped in pain,Jeuri aimed a vicious kick at his exposed backside.The force of the kick was so immense that it lifted the hapless ten year old slightly in the air, making him fall on his face with a thud.There was a small whimper followed by total silence.Menichi tried to yank him to his feet, but he fell back limply to the ground.A trickle of blood oozed from his nostrils.The loud laughter and sniggers died suddenly.
As quickly as they had gathered like vultures at the sight of a carcase, the crowd of boys slinkered away, leaving the tiny body of Benny Karim lying at the sidelines.Menichi, Jeuri and Mshenzi quickly jumped over the neatly trimmed thorn bush fence, and disappeared in the vast semi-arid bushes.
Playing football was the in-thing for Boys at Harisa.In reality it was tennis-ball rather than football,popularized by the acronym 'abisidi'.Its name was actually the boys'creative way of pronouncing the manufacturer's ABCD trade-mark printed on the ball.Any Harisa 'tick' worth his short-trousers, aspired to own 'abisidi'which cost ten cents.As ten cents was hard to come by, they did all sorts of things to buy this cherished item.
Your popularity rating rose among the boys when you owned abisidi:you chose who played in your team, as well as the rival team.Of course the owner was treated with utmost respect, and a game which usually lasted the entire fifteen minutes of break-time, could end prematurely if the big-headed proprietor of the tennis ball was fouled, or when he thought his team was losing the game.Today the match between class two 'ticks' and class one 'ticks' appeared headed for a draw.
Benny the class-teacher's favorite, was watching from the sidelines nearer his classroom. Although usually playful at home, he dreaded break-time at Harisa boys because 'mobo', another name for bullies, made life very difficult for smaller boys like Benny who could not stand up to them.He was so engrossed on the game to notice Menichi walking towards him.His neatly pressed khaki shorts, and white shirt made him an easy target for bullies who were usually unkempt in dirty uniform.
'This boy lost my abisidi yesterday',croaked Menichi menacingly.Before Benny could run into the classroom,Menichi held him by his short trousers from behind.
'Where is my abisidi?',asked Menichi threateningly.
'I ain't got ya abisidi',squeaked Benny.
'Shit the abisidi now or give us ten cents', roared Jeuri, Menichi's pal and fellow molestor,'Your dad's a shopkeeper'.
A swelling crowd of boys, itching for a free-for-all roared with laughter at Benny's discomfort.Menichi's tight hold on Benny's shorts made the smaller boy look incongruous with his feet hardly touching the ground.His pleading eyes were nearly popping out of his head, and his running nose made his face a piteous site.Trouble was surely brewing fast for him.
Suddenly out of the blue another bully, going by the infamous name Mshenzi, held a lock of Benny's hair between his right thumb and fore-finger, and yanked hard. As benny yelped in pain,Jeuri aimed a vicious kick at his exposed backside.The force of the kick was so immense that it lifted the hapless ten year old slightly in the air, making him fall on his face with a thud.There was a small whimper followed by total silence.Menichi tried to yank him to his feet, but he fell back limply to the ground.A trickle of blood oozed from his nostrils.The loud laughter and sniggers died suddenly.
As quickly as they had gathered like vultures at the sight of a carcase, the crowd of boys slinkered away, leaving the tiny body of Benny Karim lying at the sidelines.Menichi, Jeuri and Mshenzi quickly jumped over the neatly trimmed thorn bush fence, and disappeared in the vast semi-arid bushes.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Memories
Those who have been to Tambo beach know the enchanting beauty of the white sands stretching for miles along the blue waters of the Indian Ocean. Between the white sands lining the ocean front and the hinterland, stand arrays of palm trees with leaves flapping in the cool breeze from the sea. Just behind these palms and coconut trees, are neat lines of palm-roofed cottages. No matter how long you have lived here, you will always feel wrapped up in the bewitching spell of Tambo.
But if you come closer enough to the cottages, you'll notice something striking about them; they are too neat, and do not fit naturally into the surroundings. They are not only painted white, but they also have a long paved foot-path running in front of them. Further to the northern part of the beach is a modern five star hotel complex known as Tambo beach hotel. This long three storied complex is built in a curve, facing a large swimming pool built in a similar shape. Around its palm fringed surroundings are groups of people, mostly tourist women lying on their sun beds, soaking in the rays of the benevolent mid-morning sun.
As I stand on the edge of the cottage pavement, a few metres away from where my uncle Mpango's hut used to repose, a feeling of nostalgic sadness slowly engulfs me. I'm amazed at the structural transformation of this familiar landscape within a short span of time. Memories of old Mpango suddenly flood my mind. In my mind's eye I see him standing outside his hut, in his white flowing kanzu with a yellowing fez patched on top of his head. He is holding a chewing-stick to his mouth with his left hand, while in his right hand he holds a short metallic object, shaped like a miniature hammer. It is one of his tools of trade; he is a palm wine tapper. He stands there, looking out to the sea and then to the sky and after what seems like eternity, he suddenly dashes into his hut and comes out with a hollow container.
'Pendo', I hear him call me, 'the weather is superb today for climbing the coconut tree.'
And with these few words he comes out of the hut, bare-chested with only a cloth tied to his waist. With the agility of a monkey, he climbs one of the palm trees in front of his hut, drops a few coconuts for our consumption, and then proceed tapping' the coconut trunk for its juice which would be used for making palm wine. Old Mpango is not an ordinary palm- wine tapper; he is a poet as well as a story-teller. Patched up on the dangerously leaning tree, he croons a love song in taarab. This song is a treatise to a girl called Zawadi by a lovesick suitor.
As Mpango's trembling falsetto passionately floats towards me in the warm humidity of a mid-morning Tambo, I wonder whether Kipenzi Zawadi is not really a dirge for aunt Fatu. Aunt Fatu, Mpango's only wife had died suddenly one evening, of severe headache and fever, when I was eight years old. Fatu and Mpango were the only parents I knew,my single mother having died when I was only three . They deeply cared for one another, and their devotion to me as an only child, was shown by my nickname which means 'affection'. As he now describes Zawadi's beauty and his limited means, I think I notice tears welling up in his eyes, but these could only be my own imagination.
I stand there staring fixedly at one of the cottage doors, as these thoughts go through my mind. Suddenly the door of the cottage I'm staring at creaks open and out comes a balding man in his early sixties. Hanging onto his arm is a slim brown skinned girl who could have been his grand-daughter. They walk towards the beach stealing glances at me, apparently perplexed by the fixed look I was giving their holiday cottage.
I pull myself out of my reverie and walk towards the large Pier on the ocean front. I see no familiar faces. Most of my age-mates had either migrated to other regions or to the nearby large port city of Kibao, in search of livelihood. A large number of Tamboans who had been compensated for their land, to give room for the tourist development you now see had settled in the neighboring regions, where they had bought new plots. Others not wise enough, and thinking that they had come upon sudden bounty, had squandered away their money and either died in grief, or were living as squatters in abject poverty.
As I come near the Pier, I'm sure I see Musa my old school mate, walking towards me. I'm excited as I hurriedly walk towards him only to realize that it is not him. Disappointed and now a little irritated, I sit on this wooden bench near the Pier. I've sat on this wooden bench many times before hoping that the Steamship Kisulisuli would appear in the horizon carrying back uncle Mpango. I'm now sitting on this bench, wondering what had happened to my uncle Mpango. I recollect that he never got any compensation for his coconut trees and his hut. Heart broken at the death of his wife Fatu who was barren, and my joining a boarding school, he lost all interest in wine-tapping. He would often wander to the sea shore and with a faraway look, stare long into the sea.
It was not surprising that when a shipping company offered him a job as a cabin crew, he jumped at the chance with open arms. He would be out in the sea for weeks or months, and during holidays I came home to find exotic gifts from the Middle East that he had brought me. His stay at sea became longer, and because he never knew how to write, I was content only with his verbal account of exotic far away ports when I came back for holidays.
My final year in High School was a busy time for me, and I never went back home for holidays. A neighbor's account was that SS Kisulisuli had set sail to the Far East for a six month expedition. Another story was that SS Kisulisuli had been sunk by pirates in the high seas. Mpango never came back and no word was heard from him.
I suddenly come to my senses to realize that tides are now rising high, and the sea water is just a few feet from the wooden bench. I rise to my feet and walk quickly to the hotel car park, where my car is. As I sit in the car contemplating whether to drive to Kibao or stay overnight in Tambo, the flood gates of pent up grief bursts open, and my whole body shakes as I let myself weep for Tambo beach, aunt Fatu, and uncle Mpango.
When the grief finally subsides, I decide to drive as far away as I could, from the memories of Tambo beach.
But if you come closer enough to the cottages, you'll notice something striking about them; they are too neat, and do not fit naturally into the surroundings. They are not only painted white, but they also have a long paved foot-path running in front of them. Further to the northern part of the beach is a modern five star hotel complex known as Tambo beach hotel. This long three storied complex is built in a curve, facing a large swimming pool built in a similar shape. Around its palm fringed surroundings are groups of people, mostly tourist women lying on their sun beds, soaking in the rays of the benevolent mid-morning sun.
As I stand on the edge of the cottage pavement, a few metres away from where my uncle Mpango's hut used to repose, a feeling of nostalgic sadness slowly engulfs me. I'm amazed at the structural transformation of this familiar landscape within a short span of time. Memories of old Mpango suddenly flood my mind. In my mind's eye I see him standing outside his hut, in his white flowing kanzu with a yellowing fez patched on top of his head. He is holding a chewing-stick to his mouth with his left hand, while in his right hand he holds a short metallic object, shaped like a miniature hammer. It is one of his tools of trade; he is a palm wine tapper. He stands there, looking out to the sea and then to the sky and after what seems like eternity, he suddenly dashes into his hut and comes out with a hollow container.
'Pendo', I hear him call me, 'the weather is superb today for climbing the coconut tree.'
And with these few words he comes out of the hut, bare-chested with only a cloth tied to his waist. With the agility of a monkey, he climbs one of the palm trees in front of his hut, drops a few coconuts for our consumption, and then proceed tapping' the coconut trunk for its juice which would be used for making palm wine. Old Mpango is not an ordinary palm- wine tapper; he is a poet as well as a story-teller. Patched up on the dangerously leaning tree, he croons a love song in taarab. This song is a treatise to a girl called Zawadi by a lovesick suitor.
As Mpango's trembling falsetto passionately floats towards me in the warm humidity of a mid-morning Tambo, I wonder whether Kipenzi Zawadi is not really a dirge for aunt Fatu. Aunt Fatu, Mpango's only wife had died suddenly one evening, of severe headache and fever, when I was eight years old. Fatu and Mpango were the only parents I knew,my single mother having died when I was only three . They deeply cared for one another, and their devotion to me as an only child, was shown by my nickname which means 'affection'. As he now describes Zawadi's beauty and his limited means, I think I notice tears welling up in his eyes, but these could only be my own imagination.
I stand there staring fixedly at one of the cottage doors, as these thoughts go through my mind. Suddenly the door of the cottage I'm staring at creaks open and out comes a balding man in his early sixties. Hanging onto his arm is a slim brown skinned girl who could have been his grand-daughter. They walk towards the beach stealing glances at me, apparently perplexed by the fixed look I was giving their holiday cottage.
I pull myself out of my reverie and walk towards the large Pier on the ocean front. I see no familiar faces. Most of my age-mates had either migrated to other regions or to the nearby large port city of Kibao, in search of livelihood. A large number of Tamboans who had been compensated for their land, to give room for the tourist development you now see had settled in the neighboring regions, where they had bought new plots. Others not wise enough, and thinking that they had come upon sudden bounty, had squandered away their money and either died in grief, or were living as squatters in abject poverty.
As I come near the Pier, I'm sure I see Musa my old school mate, walking towards me. I'm excited as I hurriedly walk towards him only to realize that it is not him. Disappointed and now a little irritated, I sit on this wooden bench near the Pier. I've sat on this wooden bench many times before hoping that the Steamship Kisulisuli would appear in the horizon carrying back uncle Mpango. I'm now sitting on this bench, wondering what had happened to my uncle Mpango. I recollect that he never got any compensation for his coconut trees and his hut. Heart broken at the death of his wife Fatu who was barren, and my joining a boarding school, he lost all interest in wine-tapping. He would often wander to the sea shore and with a faraway look, stare long into the sea.
It was not surprising that when a shipping company offered him a job as a cabin crew, he jumped at the chance with open arms. He would be out in the sea for weeks or months, and during holidays I came home to find exotic gifts from the Middle East that he had brought me. His stay at sea became longer, and because he never knew how to write, I was content only with his verbal account of exotic far away ports when I came back for holidays.
My final year in High School was a busy time for me, and I never went back home for holidays. A neighbor's account was that SS Kisulisuli had set sail to the Far East for a six month expedition. Another story was that SS Kisulisuli had been sunk by pirates in the high seas. Mpango never came back and no word was heard from him.
I suddenly come to my senses to realize that tides are now rising high, and the sea water is just a few feet from the wooden bench. I rise to my feet and walk quickly to the hotel car park, where my car is. As I sit in the car contemplating whether to drive to Kibao or stay overnight in Tambo, the flood gates of pent up grief bursts open, and my whole body shakes as I let myself weep for Tambo beach, aunt Fatu, and uncle Mpango.
When the grief finally subsides, I decide to drive as far away as I could, from the memories of Tambo beach.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Reality
Bright light blinded his eyes. He could not understand why, for this time of the night, or was Jim dreaming? He reached out for his watch from the top of the bedstead: it was truly and really seven O'clock in the morning. He covered his head with the bed-spread as if to shield himself from the outside world.He knew that he couldn't have slept for more than three hours.
Events of last night came flooding in his mind:
'Can't be true', he groaned.'My car couldn't have damaged Zach's vintage 1930 Chevrolet, it must be a bad dream.'
He cleared his throat and tried to wish away the tormenting thought. Jim, whose full name is James Crow, lives on 101 Blue Orion Avenue, with his wife Mel Crow. This Saturday morning, Mel is uncharacteristically up early.Goes to show that this is indeed true, rued Jim. Zachary Snubs is the Landlord of several houses on Blue Orion, but fatefully, as Jim often says, lives next door in 102 Blue Orion.
He owns a navy blue 1930 Chevrolet that he rarely drives, but which he spends a good time in the morning cleaning and polishing. Every Friday night, popularly known in Cringle Town as pay Friday, Jim would come home tipsy and rail about people who've nothing better to do than spend time polishing old cars with no engines; how come it never drives anyway? Zach would say nothing. People have rights to speak their minds, especially if they were talking within their four walls, he reasoned to himself.
Every Saturday morning, to the dismay of tenants, he would cheerily knock at every door to find out if there was anything amiss, but in reality to collect his dues. A day's delay often solicited myriad reasons for not being able to pay:
'The wife needed a new pair of curtains. Will pay double next week Mr Snubs',Jim was wont to say.
If Zach agreed to his plea, his merry-making would surprisingly continue into the week, and his rantings about Zach's ritual with his car would be a nightly affair. This not only set him on a collision course with his Landlord, but acutely embarrassed the friendly, but mild charactered Mel who was in good terms with Mrs Kim Snubs.
It is this demon drink, Jim silently consoled himself. I never utter any unkind word to Zach before I drink the pale liquid. Must be my mother's curse before she died.Said I'd never amount to anything, and that I would be the laughing stock in my town.What can one do about his fate? A familiar shrill voice from outside brings him to the present.
'He's not a bad man really, it is the demon drink', Mel's voice floated into the room from outside.
'Ha, he doesn't drink till pay Friday, does he?', clucked Kim.'Shows that he can stay away from it if he tried hard.'
'Tut tut, says he cant sleep soundly on Friday night without a drink he has nightmares of his mother taunting him.' Mel offered.
'Mel, if I were you, I would ask the Cringle Dry Cleaners to pay me instead of Jim.'suggested Kim.
'No, I wouldn't anyway.Would go mad trying to work out how to pay the bills from his meager wages.' wailed Mel.
There was a sudden eerie silence followed by a familiar rap on the living room door. He then heard Zach's usual query:
'Hallow, anybody there?'
The reality of facing his seemingly taciturn landlord, and the mounting bills that needed his attention downstairs made Jim feel sick. His head spun, and his stomach churned.He knew that the situation he was in required a calm disposition that he neither felt nor had.
He knelt down beside his bed and prayed.
Events of last night came flooding in his mind:
'Can't be true', he groaned.'My car couldn't have damaged Zach's vintage 1930 Chevrolet, it must be a bad dream.'
He cleared his throat and tried to wish away the tormenting thought. Jim, whose full name is James Crow, lives on 101 Blue Orion Avenue, with his wife Mel Crow. This Saturday morning, Mel is uncharacteristically up early.Goes to show that this is indeed true, rued Jim. Zachary Snubs is the Landlord of several houses on Blue Orion, but fatefully, as Jim often says, lives next door in 102 Blue Orion.
He owns a navy blue 1930 Chevrolet that he rarely drives, but which he spends a good time in the morning cleaning and polishing. Every Friday night, popularly known in Cringle Town as pay Friday, Jim would come home tipsy and rail about people who've nothing better to do than spend time polishing old cars with no engines; how come it never drives anyway? Zach would say nothing. People have rights to speak their minds, especially if they were talking within their four walls, he reasoned to himself.
Every Saturday morning, to the dismay of tenants, he would cheerily knock at every door to find out if there was anything amiss, but in reality to collect his dues. A day's delay often solicited myriad reasons for not being able to pay:
'The wife needed a new pair of curtains. Will pay double next week Mr Snubs',Jim was wont to say.
If Zach agreed to his plea, his merry-making would surprisingly continue into the week, and his rantings about Zach's ritual with his car would be a nightly affair. This not only set him on a collision course with his Landlord, but acutely embarrassed the friendly, but mild charactered Mel who was in good terms with Mrs Kim Snubs.
It is this demon drink, Jim silently consoled himself. I never utter any unkind word to Zach before I drink the pale liquid. Must be my mother's curse before she died.Said I'd never amount to anything, and that I would be the laughing stock in my town.What can one do about his fate? A familiar shrill voice from outside brings him to the present.
'He's not a bad man really, it is the demon drink', Mel's voice floated into the room from outside.
'Ha, he doesn't drink till pay Friday, does he?', clucked Kim.'Shows that he can stay away from it if he tried hard.'
'Tut tut, says he cant sleep soundly on Friday night without a drink he has nightmares of his mother taunting him.' Mel offered.
'Mel, if I were you, I would ask the Cringle Dry Cleaners to pay me instead of Jim.'suggested Kim.
'No, I wouldn't anyway.Would go mad trying to work out how to pay the bills from his meager wages.' wailed Mel.
There was a sudden eerie silence followed by a familiar rap on the living room door. He then heard Zach's usual query:
'Hallow, anybody there?'
The reality of facing his seemingly taciturn landlord, and the mounting bills that needed his attention downstairs made Jim feel sick. His head spun, and his stomach churned.He knew that the situation he was in required a calm disposition that he neither felt nor had.
He knelt down beside his bed and prayed.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Strange Encounter
Saturday has always been my favourite day; looking forward to it can, therefore, be an obsession that borders on the absurd. I know this may seem childish but it has something to do with the fact that being the first day of the weekend, I can do whatever I like and still stay long in bed on Sunday. There is also the added joy that there is nobody breathing down my neck.
This obsessive yearning for Saturday-as the story you are about to read will show- has further revealed an inward looking and rebellious side to my nature that I’ve never known. Apart from scoring poorly in meeting work deadlines, my output during the week is appalling. I have this unreasonable feeling that the conditions under which I work are stressful, and the demands on me are untenable.
As a result I’m known as gloomy Folksy Joe in the office. Folksy, I suppose because that is really who I’m, more so at home. At the office I’m always on about something; if is not the poor weather I complain about, it is the heating system or always being the one to do the unpleasant chores.
Last Saturday was one of those days that you wake up feeling fine and anticipating a great time, only for things to end up going haywire. After imagining (or psyching myself to believe) I could go jogging in the cold weather only to be stopped by a drizzle, I still couldn't imagine staying indoors the whole day.
So at around 2.15 pm when it is relatively clear, I decide to walk to Yalkriver town centre to do some shopping, and to deposit a cheque at the local Bank. I have only walked a couple of yards from 61 Yalkriver road where I reside, when a weather beaten red Ford Mondeo stops right next to me. Although Yalkriver road is on the M6, our section of the road is much quieter and most folks here know me. So when a man who speaks English with a strong foreign accent opens his car window, and asks if I could help him reach a certain address I think nothing about it.
Under normal circumstances, if I know the direction of an address, I would point the inquirer to that particular direction and continue on my way. But this is no ordinary encounter; the man who claims that he speaks only German well, has two female passengers in the back seat and a small boy. Pointing to the fuel gauge which is in the red, he says that if he misses the address and run out of fuel, he is done!
An inner voice warns me that this could be a story, but my humanity can't help feeling pity for the hungry and tired looking women and child at the back. Thinking that if I want to reach the Bank before 4.30pm (when it closes), I will have to abandon these people and go my way. However, I can't think of a more humane way of doing it, and have to think very fast. So I do the most logical thing: I get into his car and ask him to drive to the nearest teller-machine, where I withdraw twenty pounds which I hand to him. I figure that he’ll pump in ten pounds worth of fuel and buy snacks with the balance. But he does the most bizarre thing: he stretches out his hand right to shake mine, thanks me and drives away.
Perplexed and a little annoyed that I’d just fallen prey to a trickster, I don’t realise that he has actually left something in my hand. When I do, my first instinct is to throw it away in anger, but immediately realise that it is metallic. It could hurt someone on the busy street and add more misery in an unnecessary lawsuit.
Curious to discover what it is, I open my palm to find the most beautiful decorated ring I’ve ever seen; gold coloured. More confused now than angry, I wonder why someone would want to drive around playing pranks on total strangers with a wedding ring. I slowly and dejectedly walk back to my house, all my plans to go to Yalkriver town cancelled.
......................................................................................................................................................
‘Did you say that he never said anything else, Joe?’ Walter Salinger of Glitz Jewels, asked in wonder.
‘Nothing and I can swear that if anyone asked me to describe his face, or his car registration numbers I’ll score zero’, I limply answered.
‘Well believe me, this is an eighteen karat gold ring’, He announced triumphantly, ‘From the decoration, it is easy to tell how special it was to the owner.’
‘What do you advise me to do?’ I inquired.
‘Well if it was stolen, the owner would soon make an announcement on the radio or the papers’, He chimed in, ‘If there is nothing in three weeks, you may count yourself lucky, for shaking the hand of Azure the goddess of precious stones.’
I shake my head in wonder, still dazed at the unusual encounter the previous Saturday, which now seemed like a dream.
This obsessive yearning for Saturday-as the story you are about to read will show- has further revealed an inward looking and rebellious side to my nature that I’ve never known. Apart from scoring poorly in meeting work deadlines, my output during the week is appalling. I have this unreasonable feeling that the conditions under which I work are stressful, and the demands on me are untenable.
As a result I’m known as gloomy Folksy Joe in the office. Folksy, I suppose because that is really who I’m, more so at home. At the office I’m always on about something; if is not the poor weather I complain about, it is the heating system or always being the one to do the unpleasant chores.
Last Saturday was one of those days that you wake up feeling fine and anticipating a great time, only for things to end up going haywire. After imagining (or psyching myself to believe) I could go jogging in the cold weather only to be stopped by a drizzle, I still couldn't imagine staying indoors the whole day.
So at around 2.15 pm when it is relatively clear, I decide to walk to Yalkriver town centre to do some shopping, and to deposit a cheque at the local Bank. I have only walked a couple of yards from 61 Yalkriver road where I reside, when a weather beaten red Ford Mondeo stops right next to me. Although Yalkriver road is on the M6, our section of the road is much quieter and most folks here know me. So when a man who speaks English with a strong foreign accent opens his car window, and asks if I could help him reach a certain address I think nothing about it.
Under normal circumstances, if I know the direction of an address, I would point the inquirer to that particular direction and continue on my way. But this is no ordinary encounter; the man who claims that he speaks only German well, has two female passengers in the back seat and a small boy. Pointing to the fuel gauge which is in the red, he says that if he misses the address and run out of fuel, he is done!
An inner voice warns me that this could be a story, but my humanity can't help feeling pity for the hungry and tired looking women and child at the back. Thinking that if I want to reach the Bank before 4.30pm (when it closes), I will have to abandon these people and go my way. However, I can't think of a more humane way of doing it, and have to think very fast. So I do the most logical thing: I get into his car and ask him to drive to the nearest teller-machine, where I withdraw twenty pounds which I hand to him. I figure that he’ll pump in ten pounds worth of fuel and buy snacks with the balance. But he does the most bizarre thing: he stretches out his hand right to shake mine, thanks me and drives away.
Perplexed and a little annoyed that I’d just fallen prey to a trickster, I don’t realise that he has actually left something in my hand. When I do, my first instinct is to throw it away in anger, but immediately realise that it is metallic. It could hurt someone on the busy street and add more misery in an unnecessary lawsuit.
Curious to discover what it is, I open my palm to find the most beautiful decorated ring I’ve ever seen; gold coloured. More confused now than angry, I wonder why someone would want to drive around playing pranks on total strangers with a wedding ring. I slowly and dejectedly walk back to my house, all my plans to go to Yalkriver town cancelled.
......................................................................................................................................................
‘Did you say that he never said anything else, Joe?’ Walter Salinger of Glitz Jewels, asked in wonder.
‘Nothing and I can swear that if anyone asked me to describe his face, or his car registration numbers I’ll score zero’, I limply answered.
‘Well believe me, this is an eighteen karat gold ring’, He announced triumphantly, ‘From the decoration, it is easy to tell how special it was to the owner.’
‘What do you advise me to do?’ I inquired.
‘Well if it was stolen, the owner would soon make an announcement on the radio or the papers’, He chimed in, ‘If there is nothing in three weeks, you may count yourself lucky, for shaking the hand of Azure the goddess of precious stones.’
I shake my head in wonder, still dazed at the unusual encounter the previous Saturday, which now seemed like a dream.
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