Khensani and Dudu

When Khensani met Dudu at the community centre it was a combo made in heaven for her, it was a dream that came true. And, these days, not many dreams ever come true, let alone promise to do so. 

At last, she was in a city and a city girl was going to be her friend.

Khensani was from a rural village far from anywhere near the life she envied on television and films screens-but never believed she could b happy to live. In her rural village she saw, on many days and many moons, countless fields of green, lush vegetation undulating from one hilltop to another, she saw a tapestry of beautiful art that serenaded her eyes atop many hilltops that littered the skyline around her. And it not only humans who regaled in such beauty, but the animals that belonged to the various clans in the village also regaled in such beauty when feeding, grazing in the succulent fields of green.


It was an area she knew well, cause this is where her mother gave birth to her, and this is where her life shares her own umbilical cord with her.

She knew everyone who lived in the fresh early morning breeze, in the sweet smelling waters of the nearby fountain which fed the sprawling river that spiralled down the valley below to run away into the world she has heard so much about, a world she so dearly wanted to smell in her nostrils, a world she wanted to taste, a world she wanted to feed on, and the world that her eyes longed to see.


But here in her village she was at peace with everyone in a neighbour scattered with many family compounds, people who, given any moment in time, were like a family to her. Many of these people owned many animals and did not want, but were self sufficient and life was good.

And, now the time came for her to travel to that world and she was eager for, yet nervous about. It was bout meeting new, foreign people who did not grow at any of the compounds that formed and shaped much of her childhood and her young life. Ever she was a child she was took a keen interest in nursing, and now she was going to study this exciting course in the big city, at a community development centre.


On her first day so many wannabe nurses, looking with trepidation at each other, ambled in the big premises as if waiting for a miracle to happen, while they completed registrations. They stared in amazement at the main hall, the vast kitchen and at the surrounding buildings that formed the centre. They were also struck in awe by the locals who ere dressed to the nines and who mingled effortlessly and made life exciting to live.  The girls were beautiful and Khensani was in dreamland, fantasizing about looking at Rihanna, a Nicky Minaj or maybe an Adriana.


Now a fortnight had gone by and she was almost all alone for most of the time while she looked at he surroundings and living like she was still in her village.

“Hi,” a young woman came out of nowhere and snuggled up to her, her smile tentative and her eyes alive with expectation. Khensani looked in to the big eyes and although the situation caught her by surprise, her mind worked fast and her heart was racing into the wilderness. The girl came from nowhere and Khensani was a bit rattled as she did not know anyone there and did not expect any of the smartly dressed girls to take a fancy to her. 


“Hallo,” she returned the greeting, preferring to say ‘hallo’ instead of ‘Sanibonani’, a village greeting she was used to. She wanted to fit in from the onset.

“I am Dudu.”

“I am Khensani.” And then both of them giggled randomly when they waited for the proceedings move forward. It was Dudu who recovered first. She asked Khensani if she would like a cup of coffee.  Khensani agreed and they went into a small tuck shop where an assistant served them.

“I can’t believe we have been here two weeks already,” Dudu said as they sat on some garden chairs to relax. “And I have been looking at you ever since,” she added, her eyes sparkling, full of promises. “Where do you live here?”


Khensani was exasperated when the lady said she had been ogling her, but at the same time she was overwhelmed but was excited that the most gorgeous woman she has seen around the centre was actually speaking to her and actually, befriending her. She was cautious though, because some of her family members warned her about strangers in the big city. They warned her about strange, rich men, about excessively helpful and charming men, about well-dressed girls who spoke smoothly and had too much money. She was advised about human trafficking, about crime. They also warned her to be wary of street children. ‘They are children because of their ages’, they alerted her, ‘but they are the worst of the slum world. Some of them work for pimps and some organise crimes and so on’. So when this pretty, young lass rubbed herself against her Khensani was befuddled and not sure, yet keen and pleased to be noticed.


So she smiled into the inviting eyes and her world brightened. “I live in a rented back room around here,” she told Dudu.  “What do you mean that you have looking at me all along?” she wanted to know.

“Come on Khensani,” Dudu patted her back, “every one here wants a piece of you. I can’t believe I am the one who broke the ice,” and she hugged her, slightly knocking her off her stride.

Khensani recoiled, but to hide her reaction she laughed and she too patted Dudu and said, frowning, “Every one? How so Dudu?”

“How is every thing for you here? I could do with some fun today,” she gave Khensani a smile. “It’s Friday.” 


Khensani became alive and a red light, like a Hong Kong neon light in a dark night, came alight and blinked irritatingly in Khensani’s mind. However, she chose to ignore it and continued to sip her coffee as she looked at Dudu, trying to make up her mind about her. Small groups of students formed around them and she was scanning them to see if any of them took interest in her and Dudu. Nearby a small band of young men who made an unsuccessful pass at her in the past: but that was what boys did most of the time: chasing after ladies and she was not troubled by them.    

But she did not want to tell Dudu that back home she was warned to stay away from trouble.

“Hmm…Friday? Neh?” She echoed Dudu.  “What do you have in mind?”

Dudu shifted on her seat, her hands flailing in the air in excitement. “All sorts of these things you know.”

“What ‘things’?” Khensani asked and forced a laugh.

“Do you smoke?” Dudu asked suddenly and Khensani nearly flipped over.

“Smoke? My grandma would toss me over a cliff if I did.”

“Just asking friend.”

“Do you smoke Dudu?”

“Well, let us say I have experimented.”

 “But you don’t anymore do you?”

“Weed was not for me…”

“Weed?”

Dudu finished her coffee in an exaggerated movement and threw her empty paper cup into a nearby trash can. “Let’s go sweetie,” she beckoned to Khensani who was still shocked. Weed, she thought. Dudu, her eyes all over the centre, led the way. “You see that boy over there?” Khensani said she did. “He sells weed and some stuff,” she giggled and hugged Khensani, ushering her away.

Khensani’s exaggerated her shock as her eyes widened in disbelief. “He looks like a choir boy,” she whispered. 

“I know him well…He is indeed a choir boy at our church. See that girl over there,” Dudu pointed to a girl in a happy pink dress and white sneakers. “She walks the street for money.”

“She what…Oh my God,” Khensani threw her hands all over the place. “She looks like an angel.”

“She is an angel. We worship together.”

Just then Khensani saw one of the boys who hit up on her a week before. The boy was in an exuberant mood then and bought Khensani a big lunch at a fancy restaurant in the city. She allowed herself to be in his company because there were other boys and girls with them from the centre and at the time she was hungry while she waited for an e-wallet from back home.

“That guy there,” she told Dudu, “Is a fancy play maker.”

“Play boy?” Dudu asked, surprised by the turn of the conversation.

Khensani was amused by this, the look of surprise in Dudu’s face. “Play maker. He took me out last week, made my day.”

“He did? He also took me out last week too.”

“He has lots of money,” Khensani pointed out.

“He steals cars when he is not in class or asleep at his house.”

Khensani stopped in her tracks. “A hijacker?”

“Yes, and you enjoyed crime money,” Dudu sniggered. “You are in trouble with the law.”

Khensani stiffened. “You are lying. I did nothing wrong,” she said, alarmed.

“The cops say something about the proceeds of crime.” She stopped in front of Khensani, blocking her way. “Let’s go this way. I want to see my friends.”     

They left the centre and in a few minutes they were in an alley between two towering buildings. It was smelly and rubbish lay strewn all over and as they trudged along they disturbed rats that scattered all over looking for an escape. The only other people who seemed unperturbed by their approach were a group of street kids who were lying on card boxes while some squatted with their backs to the wall, sniffing glue.

“Where are going?” Khensani wanted to know.

“Friends over there,” Dudu pointed to the group of dirty boys and girls they were approaching. It was scary for Khensani because they were now in the middle of the alley with the ends far away for an escape.    

“You mean these dirty children? She wrinkled her nose in scorn. “I am not going near them,” she said and stopped. Dudu, however, went over to the group which seemed to be happy to see her.

Khensani looked around her from left to right as if waiting for someone to appear and rescue her. Dudu continued with the group amid some hilarious laughter and hand clapping and patting on the back.  At some point she saw Dudu give them some money and one of the little urchins extended his dirty, grimy hand to Dudu but Dudu obscured the movement and Khensani failed to see what happened. Dudu opened her bag and put something in it. When she was finished with them she eventually came to where Khensani was. “Let’s go friend,” she said nonchalantly, a forlorn look on her face.   

“Something wrong Dudu?” Khensani asked because Dudu was in a disturbing silence for while.

“Well,” she said, finally. “One of the girls is pregnant. She needs help.”

“I didn’t see any pregnant girl there,” Khensani looked over her shoulder at the group which was now standing in a circle as if huddled in a prayer. “How old is she?”

“Only thirteen,” Dudu said and added. “And she is very sick right now.” She went on to explain that the girl was lying in a pile of rubbish that is why Khensani did not see her.  “I need to find help for her.”


As they   re-joined the busy street they saw the man Khensani call the play maker and the girl in the happy pink dress with some men standing by the door of a bar. Immediately, Dudu grabbed Khensani by the hand and led her over to the group.

When they were within ear shot Khensani stopped but Dudu let her go and went over t the group. Again, the red light in head flickered, and Khensani wondered what she going to do with the group and the thought of turning away from all this came into her mind but curiosity killed it. She was also afraid now that Dudu will laugh at her if she chickened out.  Dudu spoke rapidly to the group while gesturing towards Khensani and the group looked at her but, their faces serious and somehow in shock, continued to listen to Dudu who was pointing also in the direction of the alley, where the street children were.


Immediately, the play maker jumped into a nearby parked sassy vehicle and the lady in pink did too. Some in the group also boarded the car which roared off in great speed.

“That is taken care of,” Dudu said, relieved.

“Are they taking care of the pregnant child?” Khensani asked her.

“Yes,” she answered and remained still for some moments as she leaned against the shop wall as they stood on the pavement, people rushing in between them. “Let’s get back there,” Khensani pulled her by the hand and Khensani allowed her to.  

Khensani sat on a crate of beer while Dudu, the lady in the pink happy dress and play maker huddled around a funny, small man who worked furtively, and who from time to time looked suspiciously at the ends of the alley. The man, as he worked on the pregnant street child, kept looking over his shoulder as if he expected someone to appear and threaten him. Other street children also stood a little away from them and also looked around smoking weed and eating as if nothing was happening.  


In the beginning of it all Khensani also huddled around the man and the teenager but as the operation progressed she felt a knot in her stomach and became sick. She threw up three or four times until her stomach felt empty. It was the first time she experienced a street abortion, let alone abortion itself. The man appeared to know what he was doing because there was a set procedure he followed and even when the girl screamed in pain he remained unaffected. And everybody around him remained calm, only expecting her finish. It seemed to be something they had experienced before.

After some twenty minutes a parcel was wrapped in dirty clothing while blood flowed away. The funny man got up, took off his gloves and told them the girl will be well soon. Khensani saw the playmaker reach into his pocket and saw him give what appeared to money to the funny.  The man grabbed it quickly but remained placid, although it was obvious that he was eager to get away from it all as soon as he could.

“Let us all go have a drink,” Dudu said, urging the group to follow them. While others chatted quietly Khensani was very quite and tense in her thoughts, she was still in a shock, in disbelief, that she saw a life terminated in front of her eyes just like that, like putting off a lighted flame of a candle. Led by the playmaker, they all went into a bar and Khensani could not resist going in too, she was in a trance, trapped into a morbid fascination.


The playmaker bought them drinks and after two rounds he announced that he and his friends had a little job to do for a customer who wanted the merchandise before the week-end.

“So this is the big city,” Khensani eventually sighed. She hesitated, but in the end she remarked to Dudu about the brutal abortion of life earlier on. No one since then seemed keen to discuss it.

“Yes, Khensani,” Dudu let her shoulders drop and, sighed. “We got into a situation and what could I do?”

“Was it your first time?” Khensani found herself asking, although she did not want to know.

Dudu got from her stool and picked up her bag. “Let’s go friend.”

As they trudged along the busy pavements where vendors tried to sell them anything from dough to a pair of pliers, Khensani’s mind worked endlessly in a circle of doubt, of denial. She wanted to ask about the lady in the pink dress but was not sure how to do that without appearing naïve. The little she heard in the bar was that she was going to make ‘a quick buck on the other side of town’. 

Khensani did not have an inkling of what that meant but the lady appeared to be reluctant to go to the other side of the town. She seemed not to be happy about it, except she hoped they will pay ‘the money I want. If they don’t I will kick their butts for them’, she threatened.     

“Dudu,” Khensani called and pulled Dudu to a stop. “Can we pray please?”

“That is what I need too,” Dudu said and immediately there was another alley between two abandoned buildings. “Let‘s do it here.” Khensani noticed yet another group of dirty looking people in the alley who looked at them with some interest. She did not like their kind of attention. “Forget about them.” Dudu assured her, “I know them, they know me.” They held hands together and before they could start their prayer Dudu advised,” Don’t close your eyes when we pray?  And Khensanis’s eyes, once more, went to the community of hoboes in the alley and to both openings of the alley.


When she finally lay on her bed and trying to shake the day out of mind, Khensani’s phone alerted her of a new message. It was a WhatsApp message from her parents and she read, ‘How are you my child? We miss you here at home. We hope that, in between having a good time, you are also careful of the big city snakes. Bye’.

Before I lost the innocence

It is unreal that I let all of which was so precious to me, my innocence; go away in the manner in which it happened. But, to be more precise and to tell the truth of God, I forfeited it because I didn’t give a damn, I suppose. But maybe I am too self-conscious, looking too much into me. Maybe, truly, it was indeed taken away from me, I did not surrender it. Maybe it is how the world operates; you have to lose your innocence to an anonymous character in the shadows of apathy.


My grandmother, my mother, my true friends who meant well, and all people who cared about me and my bright, fruitful future, all told me how wonderful it would be for me to be all this perfect woman, with all of me still intact, for the rest of my youthful life.


But the future, and all its promises of exuberant prospects, with its buzz of financial security and glamorous working occupations and world travel, and with all its beautiful, intoxicating relationships, including marriage, drifted into infinity when I tried to look at it. The future seemed a long time too far into the horizon and I did not know who was going to marry me when all around me life was buzzing with all these gorgeous gentlemen, when the present was awash with all these glorious opportunities to shine and stamp a footprint.  This scenario was not going to be with me for always, so why not enjoy the real, live moment instead of waiting for the unknown. Mind you, Godot never showed up. He never came, he never arrived.


And the excitement of real life was enticing as everybody raved about it, lived it and died in it. Even the music said so many beautiful tings about hunky men and pretty women in love, and I was a beautiful woman who everybody wanted to be with, men and women. The world admires people who make music and make those around them dance in ecstasy, and I was the music maker.  I remember going to this mall in the city centre where the rich came to ogle expensive goodies and to eat exotic foods, where money makers came to exhibit themselves, and where starlets went to flaunt their wares. It is here where the rich, the stars and the cool would stop in their tracks when their eyes met mine to tell me how exquisite I was. Ever since that day I have always carried that tag with me as I flourished my tail as if it was a ticket to paradise, which, in the real world, it is a ticket to magical islands if you know how to use it wisely.


One of my English teachers, during a life skills’ period, always made it a point to cite a William Blake poem, The Sick Rose, as warning about a reckless, unattended life style. This Blake rose died too young, she told us, laden with sinful sicknesses.  This Blake rose did not bloom to the full, but it whittled under the burden of diseases, and no one enjoyed its beauty, nor did it live long enough to enjoy its beauty. That class was a long way ago, but I have not forgotten the poem, because it lit the red light for me when I was threatening to do the silly. Though I did not want to die young, I craved the excitement of living in the world of ecstasy and abandon to the finer things in life, the world in which I was free to enjoy my young life lest I, later, got caught in the middle of mid-life crises. And, in the process, I gave in to the call of the wild and the fantastic, of Blake’s morbid world of sick roses.


And so the hunky, sick-packed gentlemen‘s calls were too melodic to ignore. And the promise of money was too loud, too alluring, and it flung the Blake caution into oblivion.


So I lost my innocence to the world. To the world which, not long into the past, I could manipulate and fiddle with my finger tips, the world which was an oyster to me; I was always too intelligent to be caught unawares, I knew all the danger signs and I was not the one to be caught into an intoxicating mixture of sin and risk and blinding charms. I always knew how to fly into the safety net of the cautious. But the sick worm crept up to me like a thief in the dark of the night. I did not see it wobble its way into me, or maybe I pretended not to see it, lest I disturbed its magical thrust as it waved its way into me. Maybe I was too drunk with matters of youthful joy to notice the dangers at the time. The stupor was too thick, too gloomy for me to drift through, the grinning magic intoxicating and the shadows obscured, with the guise of fake sweet fragrances of dying summer flowers masking the smell of death.


The moment I gave in, yelling to my mother in the blue skies above embraced with shiny, exotic stars of the galaxy, and yielding to the powerful seduction of the breaking world, it was all over. The innocence flew away into the unprotected skies like a flapping whirl of beauty that was once rooted firmly in my bosom but was now spinning out of my reach. I was fixed there on the spot, prostrate and suddenly forlorn and bare, looking up at my life drifting away into demise. My life was now out in the open, exposed to every one to ogle at.  I dimly heard the murmurs of dismay and despair as people around me gasped in shock, not believing that a fully-fledged human like me, has let their being to float like a kite in the skies, exposing me for all and sundry to take in.


But here I am now, telling you what happened in that moment of a thrilling dark promise. I am still here, I can still reach for the skies and rock the world, but my energies are no longer as throttled-filled as before. I have lost a piece of adulation in my stride and the respect I command has lost its shine. But I am still the colourful, exquisite girl everybody raved about in the past. To you I am brand new and a good example of what tenacity and commitment mean. I am a good example of what it means to ignore the mishaps and to stagger up again, dusting your behind to get on with your life.


I want you to inspire many people with this story. And that is what I want you to do, please.


Tell people not to give in to passers-by with fancy proses in their tongues. To people who has a lot of promise but who want you to show them your worth before they can execute their promises. Don’t give in to trickery, because in the process you lose what you should preserve for the precious love of your life, the people who are the rock in your life. I want you to tell them everyone to bide their time and to enjoy each and every stage of their lives and not to leap-frog to the demise of their vision- in the quest for illicit happiness and joy.


All of us should enjoy our childhood and know how to control our urges until the time to blossom comes. 


When I lost my innocence I did not only lose me and my verve. I lost my life. Now I live with this disease. It is an albatross. It is with me all the time. It is an invincible reminder that I threw caution to the wind and succumbed to the ill-gotten pleasures of the world. Now there is always misery all around me and I am aware that I don’t relish the reverence that I once flaunted for all to see.


But, let me make this clear, although I have lost my innocence, I have not lost my faith in life and in the belief that life still promises so much for me.


And I am angry that I lost my innocence so in a matter of senseless naiveté, so cheaply.  Yes, I did lose my innocence like an athlete who loses a race by ignorance; because they lost focus, letting the one behind win because they stupidly celebrated the win and slowed down before crossing the finishing line. I behaved like a congregant who hastened to say ‘Amen’ before finishing the Lord’s prayer. I lost my innocence with my eyes wide open, I saw everything. But as soon as the experience was over, I buried my face between my knees and regretted it all. By then it was all over, it was gone, it was done, damaged, and the worm whistling away with my stolen sweet memories. 


Hug me, please. Give me your love, I am not defiled; I am not rubbish now that I am what I am. I still have so much love and empathy to give to the world. I intend to give you love and to cherish you.

I wish you all the best, and hope that you will never write a story like mine-ever. So don’t go astray, don’t be attracted to the shiny trinkets when you haven’t seen their inner demons.


Don’t lose your innocence to the worms. 

Your innocence is the only one thing in your life that will outshine all the other personal attributes you own. It is glorious, it is serene. 

The call of the blind

The evangelist, fired up and passionate, told his radio listeners: “When you are blind, don’t allow yourself to be led by the blind, because all of you might fall off the precipice,” he ranted. “Never be the one who, naively, will be led to the slaughter house by the blind like you,” he roared on, encouraged and inspired by his subject.


The evangelist’s sermon was part of a motivational programme broadcast nationally and was always top of the charts in the religious and motivation sections. Everyone who understood his language scrambled to hear his daily messages. These messages also reached the people high on the mountains of the Drakensburg on the border between Kwa-Zulu Natal and the Free State.


There, a man lived with his family on the Free State side of the divide. His farm was of immense potential and richness, but, sadly for his aspirations, it produced barely enough for a handful of families, resulting in an income of meagre pennies.


He too, like millions of radio listeners in the republic, listened to the evangelist on his radio and he frowned, his mind wandering to the politics of the day, wondering if the evangelist meant what he, as a farmer, was thinking of.


Mohau, that was his name, was a studious man of mild manners and, up to a point, sober in his approach to the challenges that life brought upon men like him. He was aware of his place in the sun, in the world where race defined who made the laws and who dictated to the economics of life, in the world where being poor was not a choice but a stipulation, an indication of which colour, background and creed you were. If you were rich but were in the colour box of those who are supposed to be poor then all glory was bestowed on you. You would be likened to the people on their side of the line and patronised, if the situation called for it. If you were so patronised, the rich would even, sometimes, discuss the plight of your own poor people as if they were not of your own race, implying that they are heathens, lazy and always looking for hand-outs and entitlement. They will also add that you, on the other hand, have a different attitude from ‘them’, that you are ‘civilised’ and hard-working. And full of ‘understanding’.


Mohau thought about this and spat aggressively on the ground. It is an entirely disgraceful, prejudiced way of looking at things, his thoughts continued, a sick determination by the rich about the poor while practicality and application determined that you should be well-off in your own right, regardless of the colour on your skin, among other things.  


He was therefore not rich because the law was not on his side. Like all farmers, he was taxed heavily if his harvest exceeded a certain number of a standard, so he made sure he did not transgress the laws of the people across the border and that of the present government although he knew, and was aware, that it was his black-led party that ruled the land, that determined the its laws, its media, how people thought and behaved and, how they should make their money.  “But,” he asked himself savagely, “how do the invincible rulers on the other side of the divide think? They always think of themselves first, then their pets, then their property, then the money, then God, if they ever do remember Him at all.”


His farm was not making money because: ‘I cannot put a finger to it’, as he put it. But the fact is that it was not making money because he did not have a big clientele with big money to buy from him. He marketed well and hit the road in search of big business, but they always told him a story or two why they could not buy from him at that time. They always promised to buy ‘next time’. But he and his friends and everyone else knew the market was cleverly secured exclusively to a section of the business population.


So, after listening to the fiery evangelist, his gaze was directed on the other side of the world, in KwaZulu-Natal, where a farming neighbour, a new man on the horizon, from overseas he heard, more affluent than him he believed, led a successful story. His eyes watered when he looked at his paltry livestock grazing along the river while on the other side of it, at the foot of the momentous mountain; he saw a large herd of cows, goats and sheep of his counterpart grazing lazily, as if assured of the peace of the land.  
“He bought the farm not so long ago,” farmers in his circle whispered as they discussed the land and who should own it. “He did not have trouble buying it,” they pointed that out to him. “He has money, you see. And obviously big connections,” they sneered.


“That is not the point,”Mohau interjected, “the issue is: Who sold him the land? Who betrayed us?”     


So his gaze across the river was with much more than mere interest. It was laden with so much disgust than it was with admiration. He was appalled in the way the new man nonchalantly moved around with so much arrogance as he shepherded his animals across the lush grazing lands. He was angry that, in his case, he acquired land after Pretoria took ages to grant it to him. Government officials were persistent and looked at so many of the sections of the constitution, they consulted with many other officials and so much debate was held and so many questions asked and yet again. His business plan was also one document which needed so much scrutiny. And, along the lines, his applications were rejected because, invariably, a fault would be found in his business plan. Nobody bothered, at times, to marvel at his knowledge of the farming industry. It was knowledge he gained from working for white farmers when he was a labourer. The rich, the opulent people, the people who ask many questions about his business plan, did not bother to ask him about his vast farming experience. What they are only interested in is to ask him about his five-year projections and about his political affiliations. And how much will he sell the farm for.


Then, suddenly without warning, he heard a man call out of the silence of the farm. The call came from across the river. His eyes, once more, rose to look up across the divide.  The caller was the new, affluent man, attracting his attention. Mohau stiffened, and he felt bile rise from inside his guts and into his mouth and the bitterness riled his senses.  So, absentmindedly, without intention, he snubbed the man. As a fellow farmer, and a human being, he wanted to acknowledge the man, but the issues that surrounded the land clouded his mind, and he instantly changed direction and turned his back to him, angry at the man and angry at himself.

Silence enveloped him, except for the usual sounds of the farmland; cows mellowing, sheep bleating and buzzing insects irritant.


He wants a chit chat, Mohau thought. He wants a chirpy, happy small talk as if things were on the equal, he mumbled. But everyone knows that things are not on the level. There is no equality at all. Even the president, who has a farm full of rich, magnificent Ankola cows, knows that. He knows, but he keeps talking as if we are forcing the unreasonable on these people, as if we are out of our minds, as if we are not eager, like these people, to feed our country from the womb of our African soil. We do, just like my neighbour does, his thoughts continued.  Apart from the president, on the other hand, a young man in parliament, known as the firebrand, or the commander-in-chief, fuels the land fire but owns no fire extinguisher or a wind pipe to fan the rains to bring sanity to the saga.


So Mohau, although he knows that he needs more than the land to feed the nation, wonders what would happen should the man known as The fire brand succeed in his quest to deliver the promised land. “I have no money to buy expensive machinery,” he grumbles out loud to himself. It takes forever for the Ankola man’s people to work on a paper, let alone papers. “When it is time to look at your papers the first thing they want to look at is the dreaded business plan,” he remembers angrily.


And suddenly, rudely, he was shaken out of his thoughts when he realised a shadow falling along with that of his own and he hesitated, but kept his presence. He became aware that he was no longer alone. He was conscious that, at that time of the day his workers and every body else were away from his dwelling and his kraals, busy with tasks in the fields. So there was supposed to be no one nearby. And there was the situation with crime. It was a disturbing factor in the area, if not the land, so he thought that he was about to be hijacked, or robbed.      


He spun around and was immediately stunned.  The man from across the river was standing next to him. And, Mohau’s dogs, which were running playfully around him all along in a merry-go-around, were now fawning up to the white man. Anger brew in his marrows and swelled in his muscles. He jerked around and confronted the farmer, but the latter merely grinned and extended his right hand for a greeting. But Mohau ignored the man’s hand.  The first thing that came into his mind was to tell the white farmer to leave him and his farm alone, but the glint in the man’s eye blunted his fury.

Grinning happily, the man said, “Hi mate, I am Henry.” So this confirms it, Mohau thought as the man spoke in his distinct foreign accent. “He is a foreigner, a European,” he mumbled to himself, “our former colonisers.”


“So?” he asked out loud, indignant.

“We are neighbours, aren’t we mate?” Henry asked him. The way in which the white man spoke reminded Mohau of how the rich treat those they deem inferior to them. He refused to fawn to the man in the way his dogs were.


“So?” he repeated his question, steadfast to stand his ground. He owned the land on which the white man stood and this was his country. He fought for it. He took part in countless marches to free it.  He was involved in the struggle.

“I came to say hi,” Henry said. “I am new here and I am keen to know my neighbours and all things local.”

“But you can do that with your people on your side of the divide,”Mohau said, still distant, still looking straight into the man’ eyes. “Your people,” he said and pointed to the other side.


But Henry was undeterred by Mohau’s angry stance. He replied simply, “You are my people, you are a fellow farmer.”

“So because of that we are friends?”

“Maybe not, but we are in the same boat, so to speak mate.”


Mohau looked away for a moment while he thought about this, then, without saying anything further, he shook his head.


Henry, with an easy smile on his face, stood waiting, his head tilted to the side. When 
Mohau said nothing Henry shifted his feet and sauntered to one of the three tree stumps nearby and sat on it, crossing his legs, while Mohau’s dogs played around him. Henry said: “Let us forget about the hullabaloo and talk about us.”

“What hullabaloo?”


“Yes, let’s forget about the noise about the land for a while,” Henry said firmly.

Mohau was baffled. How dare this man come onto my property to tell me to forget about the land? He has a nerve, or he is blind? But seeing the other man lolling on the tree stump and looking up at him, Mohau suddenly felt naked and forlorn standing up there like a bean pole. He slowly looked around him as if unsure of things then, hiding his confusion, deliberately slowed his movements as he sat down on one of the tree stumps.  


“Are you not going to offer me a drink, Mohau?” Henry asked him with a bishop’s benign smile on his face.


“There is no time for tea. The land is much more important than the luxury of small talk and tea,” Mohau said as he looked intently at Henry, trying to make up his mind about him.


“Aw, come on mate. Leave the politicians alone as they go about trying to look smart on the land debate.  It is you and I who will make this thing right.”

“How so?” Mohau asked, anxious. “You people are sure defaulting on the land you stole,” he continued, pointing at Henry. He was a smouldering furnace, waiting for an excuse to explode.


But Henry was all serenity and sure of himself. “Let us be blind to all the negative talk about hate and about white and black and be farmers for while,” he said in his easy manner. “Let us farm together. You need the prestige. I need the money. It can’t be more practical than that. If we work things out as farmers we will reap the harvest.  I need to secure a big contract from a supermarket chain. To secure it I need you in the same way in which you need me.”


For a minute or so Mohau said nothing as he looked out into the distance, his eyes narrowed while he pondered what Henry said. It was true that his farm was not performing to its potential, and it needed a boost. He also wanted to assure government officials that he can make it work and to prove to the world that black farmers knew what they were doing. And the money will come in handy too.


Henry continued in his easy stance and demeanour, and waited.


“How do you I know this is for real?” Mohau finally asked.

“Trust me,” Henry assured him. “Do you think I can cross the line just to play marbles with you? I haven’t the time to waste here. I want money, you want prestige.” 


Mohau seemed to think about this for a while and in the process some of his anger dissipated. “I see,” he sighed, and then the silence continued.  He thought about  all that money to be made and what it will do for him. His thoughts wandered to the respect he will carry when he was considered successful and his farm doing well in the market. He urged himself on, accept that I am on the road to success, he said to himself.


Then Henry, seemingly having decided that Mohau actually agrees to his offer, got up and offered his hand. This time Mohau extended his hand and the two men shook their hands, unsurely and hesitatingly at first, but with Mohau showing a hint of a smile, the hand shake became firm and reassuring.


“I will come by with my lawyer tomorrow morning,” Henry told Mohau. “It is not about the land,” he said seriously, with an edge to his voice. “It is about being blind to the politicians and their hangers-on. It is about your prestige, and about the money.”  

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.