Staffrider Vol.6 No.2 1985 - DISA

The storm clouds hung heavily, surroundinghim with a humid greyness that didnothing to relieve his boredom. Ofcourse rain was what everyone waspraying for. It had been the worstdrought in history or as far as his fathercould remember. The only reality of allthis talk of drought was the hollow,rotting carcass of his cow. It hadshocked him. He thought of the day itwas born and felt a deep sadness eventhough he had never viewed it in thesame way as he viewed his dog, amongrel that an old Afrikaner farmerhad given them years ago. They hadreturned from Morakeng the nightbefore. The image was still fresh in hismind. The dust was beginning to annoyhim, everything he did, everywhere helooked, this fine brown dust, in his eyes,covering his legs, in his finger nails. Iteven managed to invade the privacy ofhis bedroom.Mt was theabstract centre of hisdeepest thoughts.He often gazed at the hill from hisbedroom window. For him it helda mystical quality. It was the abstractcentre of his deepest thoughts.Treasuring his solitude yet on adefinite search for stimulation of somesort, he started climbing. He knew thatthere were supposedly leopards livingat the top. They would sometimesappear in the early morning. People saidthey were looking for water. Heinterrupted some goats who studiedhim for a short time but quickly lostinterest and continued with theirincessant nibbling. He poked the largestone with the stick he was carryingwhich he now found tiresome havingstripped it of all its bark.mt wasfrustrating to say the leastand he felt emptyand lost.The boy next door with his comicbooks full of adventure could notsatisfy his deep seated boredom. Hisparents didn't really approve of suchcomics and never bought them. Hereceived what was considered a moreeducational monthly in the post fromEngland but he had already absorbedevery detail of last month's. Hewondered what it would be like to haveChristmas in the snow with a jolly redcheeked Father Christmas. His fatherworked for the colonial administrationand had been allocated a house in thecompound next to the Reynolds, anEnglish family. He had to admit thatMrs Reynolds did act rather strangelyand Tommy was not always the best ofcompany. It was frustrating to say theleast and he felt empty and lost. Therewere things to do; various chores whichwould be considered useful and constructivebut they didn't appeal tohim. He had looked forward to hismother's treat of scones and jam butthat had proven to be a momentarypleasure, a bit of an anti-climax really.He scrambled up a large boulder,using its natural cleavage, fashionedfrom unnumbered centuries of wind andrain, as a shelf upon which to rest hisfeet. He sat and contemplated the scenewhich lay before him. His mother wasjust a small speck in the cluster ofcolonial structures, isolated with itsshiny tin roofs and mass of white wallsfrom the sprawling village below whichmeandered off to join thorn trees andkoppies in the distance.lie saw abranch swinging, it wasrearing its head.The village fitted so perfectly with itssurroundings that he wondered why itwasn't considered to be a naturalphenomenon. After all ant hills weremanufactured by ants just as houseswere manufactured by man . ... Hedidn't see it until it was next to him onthe rock. It was light brown with manysmall black spots and flecks. He saw abranch swinging, it was rearing its headand moving its solid, shining body in aswaying motion, advancing, hood spread.Stay still, his father had once said, verystill. Were words reality? Could he reachout and stroke its glistening skin andperhaps feel moisture on his fingertips.He jumped, stumbling over a cushion oftumbling rocks. The goats fled bleatingbut not knowing. Why wasn't he amouse? One of those with the threestripes on their backs. It was their rolein the hierarchy of life and death to dieat the mercy of a snake. He was flying,not like a bird but as humans fly,just as he had done in his dreams. Hehad better let his mother know wherehe was. She was sure to be worrying bynow. Thorn trees tore at his skin withtheir gnarled fingers, trying to pin himdown, but he felt no pain. What was hismother going to say. She had warnedhim. His brain spun a fantasy ofquestions which he knew were logicalbut which wouldn't form themselvessatisfactorily. He couldn't sort themout. Words, judgements, experiences;where did one end and the other begin?He ran towards a mellow golden circleof sunlight which pierced the darkblanket of storm cloud. It was that lateafternoon light that he liked so much.Relief spread through his tense limbs,earth, wind and fire seemed to unite ashe fell.The cool rain washed his small dustylegs ....STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 33