Broken hearts born again

As he hastily packed his clothes into a big box he thought of his precarious situation. It was scandalous that a man of his stature was accused of such a filthy deed, something he sometimes talks against at life skills and health workshops organized for both teachers and learners.  But he seemed to be going nowhere with the task at hand; his clothes were many and there were still many books to fill many boxes. He sighed as he lay on the bed, trying to make up his mind what to do with all his belongings. Maybe give some away to the locals, he thought.

The teacher was a man of great honour and immense integrity, and was respected by this rural community where he was the head of the sports and the arts. The school was one of the only three local schools in the area. But now he was faced with a dilemma; he was supposed to leave the area within a few hours of being sacked from the school. So he wanted to leave the area as soon as he could.

The scenario flashed over and over in his mind like a record stuck and unable to continue playing. It was a nightmare that refused to go away, a scene that was hampering his thinking. Then, to take his mind off his troubles, he decided he needed a smoke so he decided to take a walk to the local store to buy some cigarettes. He was aware that being on the streets was going to excite the locals. He knew that there will stares and whispering as people discussed him but his body yearned for the nicotine.  He opened the door of his rented backyard cottage so slowly as not to disturb the neighbourhood and walked tentatively outside, his mind alert. He looked from side to side like a caged fugitive. No one stared at him and no one passed a snide remark.

Stepping onto the street he glanced ahead of him. There were a few people standing on either side of their fences, talking and laughing. He noticed that as soon as they saw him they suddenly spoke in hushed tones; their eyes wide open as they lowered their heads as if they did not want to cause some noise. But he wanted a few things from the store and he held his head high and walked forth.

He was not sure, but he could swear that he heard one of the women whom he believed hated and blamed him for her daughter's inability to progress any further at his school. She failed so many times until she quit school to have a baby with one of the rascals of the village. He stumbled forward as he strained his ears but managed only to kick a few stones loose. But the words were there, hanging in the air and audible in the still of the afternoon- he was not sure who was saying them in that group but the words-and the stares-impaled his heart. He looked at one of the women and he was sure she said, He is a dog. He did not hear her, but he was sure that was what he read on the woman’s lips.

I know, the woman said. He is a smelling wild dog. My daughter refused to sleep with him and she paid the price for her refusal. He failed her.

One of the other women echoed the same sentiment. He wanted me to sleep with him ever since he arrived here six years ago.

The former interjected, saying, He has caused so much mayhem in our little village. It is good that he has been shown the door at our school. Just imagine, raping a teenager when we are available. God knows why he didn’t ask us.

We refuse him, the other returned, laughing. Maybe he knows we don’t play around when it comes to money. We will break his bank balance, unlike the little girls who accept any pittance he gives them hey. Tell me, what really happened? I mean the rape?

She always cleaned his cottage and did his laundry now and then. That we know, of course. You know how it is; the girl’s family is so poor that they hardly have anything to eat at their house. So the family depended on his money for survival. But I am sure, away from our eyes and behind closed doors, she slept with him because she has no boyfriend and he, you know, has no girlfriend here and no wife back home. All these girls like men old enough to be their grand dads. Now she says he raped her. We have all heard that story before. The police just shrug their shoulders when they hear such stories and the education people just go through the motions when they should be investigating.  But how could we have allowed an unmarried teacher at our school where so many fertile, hungry girls roam around aimlessly?

And where so many naïve girls hopelessly dream for a distant future with no local role models to look up to?  

And some of these girls have no fathers to speak of.

And so many orphans hope to it will better tomorrow.

I think we looked too much into his impressive cv than in running the rule over his behavior. But how were we to know?

All men are dogs, they stink. How can you desire a teenager when you are already in your fifties?   She raised her eyes to look at him. Where is he going now?

Down the road stood aimlessly smoking their pipes and some, zols, their old, worn hats drawn in their faces. They looked at the sports teacher as he walked past.

Satan. He has turned our daughters into his personal condoms

Sies!  One of the men hissed and sneered. He must go back to the big city where these things are an everyday life. Just imagine, a sixteen year old.

The oldest shook his fist in the direction of the passing teacher, and, without addressing him directly, scoffed, Satan. We must just necklace him.

 One of the younger guys who were with them spoke for the first time. These girls can sometimes be naughty you know?

But the oldest retorted. Don’t blame the girls. They do nothing wrong. What does a child know? He asked? They think it is a way of life to be given money.

The young man returned. That girl knows hunger, you know it. And there is a lot of hunger here.  But the oldest glared at him. Oh, I see. The big city has tinted your thinking as well my boy. You see, this is not the big city where everyone goes around without morals. These kids respect us as their elders, but it is men from big cities who corrupt them. No, it is not the hunger and neglect that we must blame.

The young man asked, Did you ever go to her house to feed her and her siblings and buy them clothes?

 I cannot be seen going there lest I am accused of immorality.

 So you agree that the elders here do not care of their offspring…

The oldest man frowned. We need to do only one thing.  We need to hang him and impale him…the dog…

Just down the road the teacher met with the local pastor. The pastor, a much younger man, greeted the teacher with so much dignity in the glare of the locals who were standing in the narrow street, discussing the developments.

I know of what has befallen you Sir, the pastor offered.

Yes, I am sure you do. Everyone here knows. It is headlined on all their foreheads.

But we need to talk sir. I have spoken to the social worker and the lawman from our town….Can we meet in half an hour?

When he finished his shopping the teacher went to see his mechanic. He needed the car early the next day so he could drive back home and meet with education officials.

So you want to get away from this entire saga first thing in the morning? The mechanic asked. He went on.   I do not think that is the right thing to do right now. It will only fuel the fire into a wild runaway veld fire. 

What do you think is the rational thing to do then?

Stay put to confront whatever is thrown into your face. This is your doing so you wear it.  This is what I think you should do…You are a learned man and very dignified. I have always looked up to you and expected so much from you but you were always aloof and detached from this community… Now that I have my chance to put in my word, albeit so late, allow me to say it. I know for sure that you do not know who I am except that I am a mechanic. I am a mechanic but I was an instructor at one of the car manufacturers on the coast.  Then a woman who was as dump as the dodo screamed sexual harassment one afternoon when we were alone deep in the factory and, as always, the finger of fate pointed at me and, in the end, I had to walk, although I protested vehemently for my innocence. My wife took one look at me and gathered all hers stuff, our children's and our things she could lay her hands on and fled into the arms of another man in the nearby town. I took refuge down here to start a new life. And that was a relief. So I know and understand your predicament. I am not saying you are not guilty, but I understand the situation.

He paused to draw some air then went on.

So here is what I have been thinking. You and I should speak to the people in the government and the corporate world to empower the youth and the parents here. You see, most of the parents here are uneducated and naïve. Most of the women still expect men to provide for them and most of the men think women are their toys. Most of the rural government officials think people in the bundus are stupid and do not have the courage to ask questions and are afraid to protest. This of course is truly true, if you asked me. So we speak to these people and organize ourselves into a little organisation and confront the blasé situation.

Will they listen to us? The teacher asked .But you know, there is always money not used by government for youth activities…

Firstly, we identify facilitators, the early adopters, as they say in business. All these teenage girls who already have children and the unemployed youth will do as facilitators.

They are tainted, and so are we. Who will listen to them? To us?

The other half will. Those are the people who see the truth though all this dark shade. Even if we start with only a fraction of the community, that will do. Look at me, I have remained here since and the locals have forgotten about what happened on that damned shop floor. So they will forget about us.

Did you, you know, touch the woman deep in the factory on the shop floor?

We did the deed several times before but then she wanted a raise which, of course, stiffened my resolve as the raise was not immediate at the time.            

When the teacher arrived at the pastor’s he found that a crowd gathered. He did not expect anyone else except the social worker and the lawyer. He did not know how to react as he sauntered towards the pastor’s house but the crowd did not move towards him, so he relaxed.  Their arms were folded defensively and did nothing except stare at him. He also noticed that the women wore doeks on their heads and their arms were covered in a sign of respect as when women attend a religious ritual. The mood was quiet and sombre. He found the social worker already there. Once inside the teacher and the social worker learned what really happened. The principal was dead.  She committed suicide after she confronted the allegedly raped girl into opening a case against the hapless teacher. The girl, too, was dead. Under duress, she went home and hanged herself. Before that, she went to the police and wrote a letter addressed to the teacher. She also wrote a letter she gave to one of her trusted friends to read aloud in the event that I am not around to do so…

to the police,

to my friends

This is goodbye to the world and to you my friends. this is to tell the truth about the ongoing malicious stories doing the rounds about my filthy sex life, as it is called.I was not raped and never had sexual relations with the teacher. The teacher is actually the best man I have ever known in my life because he was my other father from another woman. He helped us a lot at home and do pray that he will continue to look after my brothers and sisters like they were his own children. he helps other children in the village as well.He is a good man the teacher. He taught me decorum and how to prepare for the world in the coming years. Sadly, the stories doing the rounds are too much for me, so I am ending my life. I die a virgin, I have never been tampered with, I am pure to the hilt! The teacher never even one day suggested anything filthy. He is a good man with a lot of dignity.The principal hates the teacher so she forced me to cry rape. She gave me pointers on what I should do when I am with the teacher so that he is enticed to sleep with me. She gave pornographic material to plant in his cottage. She has been rewarding me with money and food in the last four months or so. Now I am tired of this double life. I am going to God to live peacefully.     

Yours truly

When the principal heard about the girl’s damning letters she drew the gun on herself with so much force her brains, blood and skull were found strewn all over her school office.

Now what are you going to do? The pastor asked.

You, the mechanic and I are going to blow the winds of change and hope into this community in her honour. The girl’s, I mean.  I tell you, pastor, the promise of a new vision for this village is on the horizon.  A new dawn beckons where everyone will have value and work to toil hard for their bread and their future.  We are going to create a new vibe here…we are going to rip this village apart and sew it together man by man and woman by woman, each young person involved, until humanity exudes from the broken hearts of all mankind here...  

Greatest Inspirational story ever:The Passion Of The Hobo by Kabeli Abia Lichaba

Although the heat bothered him, the hobo was too lazy to get up. He scratched himself furiously, yawned, then scratched himself some more. From where he lay he could see his buddies some distance away, already having a drink and making merry. But he did not have any inclination to join them as yet. He was tired and was resting peacefully, having slept late the night before.
He laughed at their antics, grimaced when one of his friends was hard done by and yawned even more when the action bored him. The only other voices coming to him were from over the mound running parallel to the main road as people went about their business. Vehicle sounds too grew louder as the traffic got busier up and down the main road, as the usual taxi commotion picked up. But the hobo area was peaceful and less busy, as it was shielded from the main road, the border shielding the hobos away from the main commercial area. The only shrieking voices were those of his fellow hobos as they horsed around. From time to time they called out to him, but he ignored their pleading calls to wake up.
Then out of the blue a man appeared into the hobo’s focus. Smartly dressed, big and obviously important, the man appeared to be looking for something. He was looking carefully around him, trying to locate something. The hobo looked intently at him. For a moment there was only a blur as he tried hard to place the man wandering over to him. Then, as the man came nearer to where he lay, he recognized him. It was the local politician. The hobo became alert. Anxiously, as the politician wandered through to where he was lying, side- stepping puddles of stagnant, stinking water, the hobo waited.
The politician was not familiar with the terrain, and the heat bothered him too. He stepped carefully, and, eventually going through a dry clearing, he saw in the distant a massive thicket under an oak tree. That was where they said the hobo would be. He hurried across the clearing and, pausing under the oak tree, he wiped his brow. Then, suddenly, he found the hobo.
The politician looked at the sleeping man and reared back at the smell coming over to him. The hobo, pretending to be sleeping heavily, woke up suddenly, peering at the politician in disgust.
“Why do you disturb me like this,” he protested, rubbing his misty eyes feverishly and getting into a sitting position under the bush. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”
The politician looked around for a place to sit. He was in no hurry. There was some five twenty litter tins arranged in a half circle nearby. He ignored them and finally sat on a big, flat boulder with a newspaper on top, and sat looking directly under the bush where the hobo sat, rubbing his stomach.
“I haven’t seen you for a while at the traffic lights,” the politician told him.” And I wondered what happened to you.”
The hobo emerged from under the thicket, dressed only in his dirty underpants. He stretched his body and sighed repeatedly. He then yawned heartily, scratched his chest, stomach, bums and all over his body.“What time is it mister?”He asked the the politician..
“It is past eleven,” the politician responded.
“Oh,” the hobo returned. “That is alright.”
“What is alright?”
The hobo ignored the question and ambled to one of the twenty litter tins, away from the politician, and sat down.
“What do you want from me?” He asked, ignoring the politician’s question. “I don’t sell drugs, dagga and all those things.” He looked the politician up and down. “Go to the crossing at eleventh for that.”
“What about that crossing?”
The hobo looked searchingly at him again through his misty eyes. “I asked you, what do you want?”
The politician felt uneasy under the stare of the misty, questioning eyes. “I told you,” he said, shifting his body on the boulder. “I missed you.”
“You missed me?” The hobo quipped, startled. “How odd… I do not know you… I am not our friend.” He scratched himself again and got up and, to the astonishment of the politician, he began a series of the stretching exercises athletes do just before a race.
“Look,” the politician said as he looked up at the tall, scrawny man performing his stretching routine. “I know you. You may have forgotten, but I have given you money from time to time at the traffic lights at tenth. I have also given you the newspaper in the afternoons.” He pointed to the thicket where the hobo slept. “I see you keep all of them to read and sleep on, all those papers and magazines.”
“Still,” the hobo pointed out, “I do not see why you should come to my place for a visit.” He was still rigorously going on with his stretching routine. “What I do with the money you give me is none of your business.” Finishing his stretching routine, he asked, “Or are you busy with a survey?”
The politician chuckled. “What? A survey? I am not here for a survey. I know all about you. In fact, I have known you for almost a year now and have given you money, food, clothes and other things.”
‘You are lying,” the hobo said simply. “You are not the one who gave me the radio.”
He immediately went into the thicket, scrambled into it and, after rummaging through several plastic bags, he took out a radio from one of them. He stepped out of the thicket and switched the radio on.
“Do you know this radio?” He asked.
“Yes,” the politician nodded. “I bought it for you.”
“No, you are lying,” the hobo said furiously. “This radio was given to me by a security guy who passes here from time to time driving in those dark state vehicles.”
“That security guy,” the politician returned, “is one of my security personnel.”
“Don’t lie,” the hobo shouted. “You are not important. Where are they now? Why are they not with you now?”
The politician shrugged his shoulders. “I guess this is a different meeting,” he said. “I wanted this to be a private meeting.”

The hobo looked intently at him. “But I could kill you now if I wanted to. I could harm you.”
“Look,” the politician said and got up. “They are here, they are looking. But I warned them to stay away from us. This is between you and me.”
The hobo examined the politician for a moment. “I am not gay…”
The politician laughed again. He looked humorously at the haggard, tall and scruffy man in front of him and said, “You think I am…?”
“Yes,” the hobo interjected. “Why do you want to see me without your body guards? Heh? Why all the attention? Why all the money? The gifts? I am not…”
The hobo was pacing up and down. He paused, composed himself before going on. “I may be down and out,” he spoke slowly, but with such venom that the radio nearly fell out his hands. “But I have my dignity. I may be a no body, but I still have choices to make. And, let me tell you, I may not be used as a scumbag.”
He extended the hand with the radio to the politician. “Take your radio and leave in peace.” Stepping forward, he came within touching the politician’s nose with his. “And, don’t ever give me anything again.”
“I don’t want the radio,” the politician said coolly, retreating. “And I don’t want to leave either!”
“Leave!” the hobo barked.
“Do you realize that you are speaking to an important man in the government?”
But the hobo was infuriated. “You think I am a tart? A prostitute?” He ranted. “I don’t give a damn about your radio or your stinking government. Leave me alone! I want my peace and you are disturbing it. Go!” He pointed into the distance. “Go!”
But the politician did not move. “It will not help to shout and jump around,” he said quietly.
“So what do you want?”
“I told you…”
“What?”
“That I was wondering what happened to you.”
“Why are you interested in me?”
“I am a politician. I was elected by the people of this country to serve them.”
“I know,” the hobo said. ‘I know. I know you.” He turned towards the thicket and put the radio away. “I know you… your name is…” He went on to tell the politician his name.
“You know me?” The politician was shocked. “You actually know my name?”
The hobo nodded and sat down. “What do you think I do with all these newspapers? I am not an idiot, you know?”
The politician sat down as well. “You disappeared for a while…”
“Four weeks…”
“Yes. I was worried. You know, in a big city like this many people are from all walks of life. Most of them are from rural areas and when those we know disappear, we always do not know what has happened to them. It is always a problem when people like you die or get sick. They always do not have their beloved ones with them. And we do not know who to contact when such things happen…So when I did not see you for some time and instead saw a stranger take your place at the traffic lights I became worried.” He rubbed his hands together and looked at them. “So I made time to stop by… to know the truth.”

“Will you please buy me a beer?” the hobo asked, smiling suddenly. Many of his teeth were missing. “Buy me food…no,” he shook his head. “Buy me nothing!”
“No problem,” the politician said. “I did not know that you drink.”
“You do not know because it is not your business to know us people who vote for you,” the hobo spoke slowly. “I am not important to you until just before the elections.”
The politician raised his hand, indicating to the hobo to stop talking. “That is not for us to talk about. I am not here to talk to you as a politician and you as a citizen, a voter. No, I am here to know you… to be a friend…”
“A friend?” The hobo edged forward on his seat, his misty eyes shocked. “A friend?” He repeated.
“What is so shocking about it?” the politician asked. “I see no problem with that.”
“I for one,” the hobo responded, “do see a problem. To begin with, you are a politician. Politicians are famous for lying, or let me say infamous for not speaking the truth. They also make false promises. They are notorious for corrup…”
“I told you not to go into that…” the politician insisted.
“For dodging thorny issues…”
“I said let’s talk about good things…like…friendship…”
“For treachery” the hobo said. “Or is it trickery?”
“Look,” the politician pleaded, “I sit here speaking to you as a friend, and not as a politician.”
“So you are indeed a man of many hats?” the hobo said as he got up and disappeared into the thicket. He came out with bathing things and then proceeded to pour water from a basin and went on to bathe while the politician watched.
When he was finished and dressed up the politician suddenly got up and said, “Let’s go.”
“Where to?”
“I am going to address a seminar in an hour and a half,” the politician told him.
“Who said I will go with you?” The hobo was gathering his things, putting them in a plastic.
“We are wasting time,” the politician put an edge to his voice. “You know, you will be grateful for this moment. It will be meaningful to you to come with me, you know. Do something different for a change…”

The hobo laughed. “The way you speak, you remind me of election time,” he said.
“I am here to talk to you man to man. It is something that you feel inside of you. It is something that you feel right inside your gut. You feel it inside of you that the man standing there with nothing on his back is a friend, a brother. Your soul howls like a raging furnace as it seeks to connect to the fellow man’s soul.” The politician cleared his throat and looked straight into washed-out eyes of the hobo. “I don’t intend to encourage you to forsake the friendship of your own, but sometimes you have to go up the hill for a clearer view.”
The hobo smiled. “Sometimes when you throw away your politician’s hat you become a complete stranger. We then we see and hear a man of complete honesty, a man who spreads his truth from the depths of his heart, a man I can go along with.”
He made sure his things were securely stacked away then stepped away from the thicket. “Let’s go,” he said.

The auditorium was vast and big, and refreshingly cool. There were people every where. They were engaged in small talk as they waited for the seminar to begin. The hobo recognized some of the faces, those of the politicians and the business fraternity. They were as smartly dressed and as beautiful as they appeared on TV, and the air was rich with scented perfume. He noted that those close to him were looking curiously at him, their expressions asking questions. Some edged away from him and some smiled haltingly. He knew some were asking themselves who he was and what he wanted at such a high profile gathering. He was also dismayed to notice that some of the women shifted their handbags away from him. But he did not mind them; he knew he looked out of place. So he sauntered around without any guilt, sipping juice which was served on the tables.
“I have a seat for you,” the politician said suddenly in his ear. “You are going to sit with us on the stage!”
The hobo froze. He looked up on the stage and a cold sweat ran down his back. “There?” He asked, pointing.
The politician smiled. “Yes.”
The hobo was still gazing at the people seated on the stage in awe. He recognized an elderly, tall man walking with an aid of a stick and he smiled. The man had an air of aura around him and a lot of people were clamouring to shake his hand. He knew instantly who he was. He was the man who was incarcerated on an island for a long time for his beliefs and for the struggle of freedom for his people. He then became the first president of the free nation. His presidential successor, a shorter man with a white beard, was also popular on stage.
“Let’s go,” the politician said as he took the hobo by the hand and led him up the stairs to the stage. After everybody was seated, the master of ceremonies opened the proceedings and then went on to introduce the important dignitaries. The hobo clapped loudly as his favourite personalities’ names were mentioned and even louder when the politician was introduced. He hardly paid attention when the politician started to address the crowd. It was all the things he had heard before, all those good intentions the government wanted to achieve and all the other programmes in the pipeline. He was content to look around at the crowd seated in front of them. The hunger also troubled him. There was a faint aroma of food drifting from somewhere outside the auditorium, and he wished that lunch was immediately served.
The hobo was brought back to reality by a sudden, complete silence. He looked up to the politician and saw the man holding his throat in agony. The politician tried to resume reading his speech but he coughed so badly that his eyes watered. Aids rushed in to help, some offering him a glass of water. He drank some and tried to read again, but his voice again failed him. In the end it became clear that he had to excuse himself for a while.
“I am not sure what is happening to me,” the politician said as he sat down next to the hobo.
“You have stage fright,” the hobo mocked him. “Relax for a while.”
“This was my best moment,” the politician said ruefully, shaking his head. “This was my best moment to impress the top brass. Chances like these don’t come twice in a century.”
‘It is because you inhaled foul air before you came here,” the hobo quipped again.
“What foul air?”
“Remember where you were this morning? You were at the hobo land and that affected you badly.”
“Stop talking nonsense,” the politician chided him. “This is a serious matter.”

“Why then don’t you give your speech to one of the aids to read it for you?” The hobo asked him.
Once more the politician shook his head. “This is an important speech.”
He cleared his throat. It croaked. “It must be done by me. I worked so hard, toiled nights and days for this moment. What will I do now?”
The hobo touched his hand. “Your aids will do a fine job. We all know that it was written by you.”
“You are stupid,” the politician hushed. “The speech was written by one of my trusted speech writers.”
To this the hobo smiled wickedly. “There it is,” he said. “Then give the speech to the writer to read. It is as easy as that.”
The politician eyes suddenly flickered with excitement. “Look, do me a favour.”
“What?”
“Read my speech for me!”
The hobo nearly fell from his seat. “What? That will be an insubordination to the important people here.”
“No, please help me.”
But the hobo protested. “What will the important people think of you? They will fire you.”
“Ag man they will not be offended. Please help.” He peered at the hobo. “They will think that you are a newly recruited aid.”
“Are you sure?”
The politician nodded. “I am sure.”
The hobo straightened his clothes and looked at his dilapidated shoes. He shook his jacket into position and adjusted his pants. Then, confidently, he looked around at the people seated in the auditorium and nodded silently. The master of ceremonies was busy addressing the crowd.
“Will you do it then?”
At once the hobo nodded. “Yes, I will do it!”
The decision was relayed to the MC who accepted it with a blank stare. But after glancing at the politician he turned back to the audience and announced the hobo.
The audience did not show any emotion, nor did they show any appreciation.
However, the hobo was not deterred. He took the politician’s notes and proceeded to the podium. He put the notes in front of him, looked sideways and then nodded. He did not greet, offer apologies or give explanations. Immediately, he went on to read the speech.
After six or seven minutes of reading he paused and smiled. The politician also paused, but when he saw the hobo smile, he became alarmed. The hobo put the notes aside, dislodged the microphone from the stand and stepped around the podium. He looked like a disheveled singer who was ill-prepared for a show but was ready to render a ballad.

The crowd now gaped and edged forward in their seats but the great men sitting behind him on the stage remained passive, waiting. The politician, who held a copy of his speech in his hands, let it slip through his fingers. He sat upright and looked with shock at the hobo.
Licking his lips and totally at ease, the hobo began to talk.
“This moment,” he began, “is a great moment to explore what is happening here. I fully understand what is happening here. This gathering is meant to diagnose why state programmes do not yield what is expected of them. Further more, it is the right time to examine what is needed to combat the spate of failed initiatives. Look,” he invited the audience, “when you examine the causes of failure, you must be robust. You must also have the ability to recover.”
He paused and looked around the great auditorium. The audience looked blankly at him... “The ability to recover,” he repeated. “In life, there are ups and downs, just like in all plans that you make as you go along in your life. Some fail, some succeed. When you fail, you must be able to recover and do an analysis. This is very important. If you do not have the ability to recover, then it won’t matter how many times you try again and again to succeed. You will always fail. You will have your tactics in place, and your strategies lined up. You will go on and take risks. In the scheme of things you will appear to be winning, on top of things, riding the crest of the wave, high above on a pedestal. The governments, the business fraternity, the sports teams, everyone dreams of failure-free programmes. So do soldiers out in a battle. They want to win the battle and return home as heroes, in honour. But, such is life, something goes wrong and the best intentions plunge down, falling out of the skies and to the depths of the oceans. When that happens, that is not the time to wallow in sorrow. That is not the time to give up. That is the time to take a step backwards and to take stock of the situation. Firstly, you must not be in denial. You must admit that something did go wrong. We must be able to take criticism on the chin, go through what we did wrong, inspect the obstacles, and then be brave enough to acknowledge any shortcomings. The ability to recover calls upon ourselves to deal with our prejudices and to get rid of misguided intentions. We all do this. We always want to spite our detractors by refusing to admit to failures... and then go on and blame somebody else.”
No one moved. They sat quiet in their seats, intent on him.
“Prejudice is evil,” he continued. “Let us discard it as we move on and become a better society. It retards progress. Let us remember one thing. Honour is not in the secret applause of your detractors when you have defeated them, but it is in the smiles of your deserving beneficiaries. So it is to our advantage to rid ourselves of spite and prejudice. Please, don’t do anything to prove a point to your enemies. As a servant of the people, do it for the benefit your people. Do not do it to fulfill a personal mandate.”
The politician nodded, and so did other people in the audience. There was a muted attempt to clap hands, to applaud. There was also a shuffling of shoes on the floor, a sigh here and there but, eventually, a full-blown applause followed. The hobo, however, remained stern faced, his eyes fixed to the back of the auditorium. When the audience became settled again he turned and once regained his place behind the podium. He resumed reading the politician’s speech, but it proved to be a damp squib. There was a sense of detachment from the audience, which he felt, and he lacked the enthusiasm to go on and read. The notes lacked the power and the mesmerizing verve of the hobo’s speech. Finally he read the last word and the audience once more got on its feet to applaud.
The politician was the first to shake his hand. He said, “How did you manage to marry my speech with yours without so much preparation?”
“Knowledge, and education,” the hobo said. “Did you like it?”
The politician gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder. “It was sheer magic. Pure class. What education do you have?”
At this moment the elderly statesman, walking with the aid of the stick, joined them.
“Young man,” the elderly statesman addressed the hobo. The hobo hesitated but quickly composed himself. He was not young anymore; he wanted to tell the elderly man. “You did well.”
“Thank you so much sir.”
“It is good for our country to have leaders like you,” the old man was clearly impressed with the hobo. “Well done.”
There was a lot of confusion as almost everyone wanted to shake the hobo’s hand. Journalists also caused a commotion as they vied for the hobo’s attention, wanting to know who he was and asking many other questions. But the hobo was not surprised by all this commotion. He was all smiles, glancing and prancing around like a seasoned celebrity.
“Time to go back to your lair,” the politician whispered in his ear.
But the hobo was already being led into the main VIP dining lounge.
“What?” He asked.
The politician tried to say something but he gave up, helpless. The hobo smiled wickedly as he allowed himself to be ushered into the dining hall with all the other important people.
“See you,” he said with a big, toothless grin on his face.