An an old book I started writing.... Then stopped :(
A land distant and not yet touched by the eyes of man sleeps calmly in the distance. Its forest luscious and its trees swamped with chlorophyll, give it a bright green that reflects the sun’s rays as a tin sheet would. Convocation of birds in melodious discussion gives the forest a voice. The agenda being; earth worms, fruit, water and the new enemy, closely watched upon by the Yellow Wood treetops and its life below. Ultimate tranquillity... This has been, still is, and always will be the order of the universe but this new force or wave of negative energy rather, is about to interrupt this divine equilibrium.
“Boy! Get your pale ass out of there and go do your God-given work!!” these words crept their way around the house, sliding on the worn orange walls dodging furniture on their way into my ears, down the outer canal to the brain, eventually my bones and rustled all 206 of them. My mother wasn’t the friendliest of human beings. Whenever I became victim to this, dad would say “God was in a bad mood when he made your mum, probably in a hurry too...” and his beer belly would start ‘twerking’ from his 56yr old laugh. It almost never helped, 100% of the time I ended up feeling like a worthless piece of shit after one of mom’s phases/spasms. I quickly sprung up off the dusty soil-brown couch to avoid the 2nd coming of Jesus via my mom.
My name’s Qaba, yes, I know, it’s a Xhosa name. Remember, God was in a bad mood when he made my mom. Why that particular one? I’ll leave that to your translation and imaginative capacity. My dad has a passive approach to everything, so there was never much input from his side with my name giving. Every weekday the stroke of 7h45 signaled the beginning of a transaction of sweat and energy for a productive farm. As all farm boys do. I’m one to notice minute occurrences another would regard as trivial. In time I would learn that this, “skill”, would hold near the proximity of a soldier’s skill to shoot.
The air of 1964 2nd September, Tuesday, felt different. Couldn’t exactly pinpoint where the nuances were but they were there. I went about my Boer-farm-boy-with-a-Xhosa-name daily routine, which obviously begins by stepping out the house. Which I forgot to mention is the constant highlight of my mornings, literally. With every creak of the door, the sound of nature’s choir finds its way in, gaining intensity with each door creak. This accompanied by the cropped sight of the Sundijonga Mountains, Sun & moon playing hide-n-seek, with the sun behind the mountains. The sun clearly had not a drop of cleverness. It’s blonde strands always ceremoniously stretched out beyond the mountain tops while the moon still hung high in a now dark blue sky bearing only 2 celestial bodies, the other being the Morning Star, attached to it. Not so bright if you ask me. I’d have to swallow these words soon though… right after its face pierced the horizon giving life to previously unseen sparkles which danced on the vegetation drenched in morning dew. No opening ceremony I’d seen or heard of of any nature could come equal to this. Generation of farming had paid off well I must say, our farm was a vast and colourful feast for the eye. It was as if someone was playing with a rainbow and accidentally dropped it on this once arid land. I’m sure that person got a glorious “klap”. With an opening ceremony of pleas and “I’ll never do it again” reiterations, followed by the “klap”, then a closing ceremony of tears. I’m glad though, not for someone getting “klapped” but for their clumsiness, or mistake. One man’s trash is another’s treasure I guess.
Should I continue writing this? :)