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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Relationships
- Published: 10/05/2010
Journeying
Born 1984, F, from Johannesburg, South AfricaJourneying
Ameera Patel
Kennedy sat in a pile. That was what life had become; clutter and cardboard and a street where names were inconsequential. His name mattered once. He was named after Robert Kennedy, after this American who brought another ‘ripple of hope’ to a country in need of a serious boost. Kennedy’s father had been moved by this white man who seemed to understand the magnitude of the problem. He was murdered shortly after Kennedy was born, well it was called an accident but everyone knew what that meant. Meanwhile back in the states Kennedy’s namesake was assassinated. His mother worked hard and never remarried but she too was killed, not fighting for the cause like his father, but fighting to bring home some money for her children. It happened at the train station on a busy platform; her weekly salary and life were taken in one swift swipe. Kennedy and his sister were still in school. She dropped out to find work so that he could continue. She was only three years older than him but she understood the art of survival. Making her meagre wages stretch food out for the week and pay for school fees and transport, she worked miracles in front of his eyes with ease. He never knew what happened to her but one day he came home from school and she never arrived. After a week he went to look for her. He was perhaps too innocent for that kind of journey. Kennedy saw more over the next few years than he cared to remember; murders for cell-phones, rape and the kind of violence that shifts your core.
He did change on that path to this very intersection, when he decided he would do no more, he would see no more, he would just be. He didn’t know how many years had passed since he left home and could no longer remember what the real colour of his skin was. Now greying, darkening under the sun, with lines that gave him a fierce edge the hurt in his eyes betrayed. Finger nails jagged, the reality of life embedded inside of them. Weathered like outdoor furniture, forgotten over the rainy and harsh winds of winter, unprotected against the elemental heat of a summer day. He is the essence of the past we have tossed out without a second thought. Giving up the struggle of the day to day, it was all too much, a heavy weight that pulled from inside his ribcage because he had seen the kind of brutality that kills the will to move. Instead he sits daily watching our lives go by, asking passing eyes for something to survive. He sits and soaks in the judgements, turned up noses, blank ignoring stares and the pity. It’s the pity that gets to him the most, even though those are the ones smiling patting themselves on the back for their unparalleled charity in the two rand they hand out like golden bars, feeding the needy and allowing themselves the ability to sleep easy. He wants to tell these eyes that he doesn’t need their pity. The sadness of his life is not his street corner and eaten clothes, it’s the road that led him here, a path no one is left to know.
Some of the guys who live nearby have formed friendships. They’re young and their energy allows for playful banter, shared cigarettes and if they’re lucky their money pooled at the end of the day is enough for a half loaf and something to wash the day away. He sees their minds deteriorate as the months go by, as drinks shift to glue and now it’s something new that they burn in a light bulb and then breathe in the fumes. It’s around that time that their eyes begin to change and he pulls his cardboard up to completely cover him. They lose themselves. If it were a painting the solid bodies below in dark colours and rich textures would be smiling wildly, dots of reds in the centre of their eyes, as their wispy souls drift upwards and away, terrified of the bodies they leave on the street. They seem to dissolve into the gravel, shift into an alternate universe where life is good and hunger isn’t eating them alive. Skin that used to burn starts to tingle, sensitive to the touch, and if a woman walks past altered mindsets and pumping blood contorts them into a wolfish pack, eyes low, adrenaline high and screams that pierce the emptiness of the night.
They got the stuff from a guy called Nicies (pronounced nice ease) because, well, he provided the nice things, the lack of creativity didn’t bother him much. He worked around the corner near the Engen garage, which saw a fair amount of shady traffic. The boys had met him one night when all they could afford was meth and a loaf of bread. Nicies was certain of his product and boasted about its unparalleled results and like any salesman who truly believes in his wares, he gave them their first hit as a tester and reap the rewards he did. It started with a nightly trip to him, bread was no longer a necessity, and it didn’t take long before they were on the stuff all the time. Lethargy replaced their readiness to approach cars and as the hit started to wear off there was definitely a belligerence that started to seep into their eyes and an already meagre income dissolved to a point where they could no longer afford what they needed.
Kennedy was an easy target. Life experience had taught him to recognise the anxiety in their eyes and hand over all he had. They badgered him to approach every single car as they lay back on the cement; frustration forming rage coated their slurred insults. He considered finding a new place to call home but nowadays people are territorial over their intersections and that would only lead to further difficulty. The boys left him alone before it had to come to that, he didn’t make enough to keep them going for even a day. Hollow faces pleaded with Nicies for lay-bye types of payments and were met with a new game-plan, a business venture if you will. Nicies provided the start up capital for a few spark plugs and access to enough nice stuff was no longer an issue.
It sounds like thunder on a muted night. Even if you see it coming, as the spark makes contact with the window a deafening shattering momentarily envelops the car. The driver is jolted into a freeze frame like the stunted growth of chickens affected by noise pollution. The moment is lost. Sparkles of glass fly into the car; a diamante express. Bags are taken and the wealth of the driving class is transposed into mind numbing freedom. Kennedy was relieved. The boys only needed one good bag a day so for the rest of the time he is left alone, at ease to slowly shift from car to car without harassment after each coin falls into his creased palm. At least no one was getting hurt, a few screams and tears and it was over. He could remain uninvolved. Daily he would sit on the side and observe it from a distance. It was like watching a re-run of a bad TV series. The targets were women drivers and they would strike just before the robot turned green, leaving enough time to get across the road without being followed around the corner and straight to Nicies. The women were shaken up and generally stalled the car before getting some sort of composure and speeding to a place of safety.
It didn’t take long before the police designated the intersection as a “Smash and Grab” zone. Sign boards were put up and motorists became suspicious of anyone nearing the windows. Some locked their car doors, which was futile against this kind of crime, but nevertheless made them safe. Others beamed at Kennedy as they handed over loose change, as if to say, “There I’ve paid you, so please don’t steal from me.” It made him want to laugh, he had no say in how or when the target was chosen but he was sticking to the thing that got him through most of life and that was to not get involved. He didn’t mind being seen as a criminal, as a black man on the street. That particular assuming gaze was nothing new so long as he was allowed to do his bit and continue to survive life. When the police came to find witnesses, he said that he didn’t know the guys or where they were and in exchange the boys left him alone.
Living solo was what he liked the best. Hardly moving, leaving the faintest trace of his even being there. He didn’t want to be a ripple. Everyone whose ripple ever affected him was gone. There would be no flood of change in his lifetime and he was at peace with that. It was an ordinary day, not hot or cold, in fact everything was tepid as if the world was being still for a moment. Kennedy walked to the car pulling to a stop at the red light, a young woman in a green car smoking a cigarette looked at him and shrugged. His eyes grew wide, he was about to be forced into motion, her face questioned his. He hadn’t realised that the boys were still waiting for a target that day and saw it. He saw the spark hit the window and the glass dance through the air and the girl’s scream reached up at him forcing him to stumble backwards into oncoming hooters and the brushing of wind so fast he remembered what life was. Out of breath and somewhat animated, he stumbled onto the pavement untouched. He sat. He sat and felt his heart attempt an escape from its cavity. Looking at his hands, they too seemed to be pulsing, sensitive to the light breeze that now coated the air. And on the one there was a tiny speck of red. The littlest shard of glass had inserted itself into his finger. Looking at this glittering light piercing his skin brought tears to his eyes; he let go and wept right there next to the traffic.
Being brought back to life after intense trauma can make one feel untouchable. Kennedy didn’t have much time to sit with his newfound emotional connection. The air became claustrophobic thick with police sirens and the girl in the green car. A mascara stained face and a thin finger pointed out the aggressor. Kennedy’s wet eyes met hers and she nodded confirmation. He was placed in the back of the van and nothing more needed to be said. The motion of the van felt like it was juggling his newly found inside. Nausea built up inside of him and like any well trained creature of habit, he quelled the feeling. Right there in the van he put a lid on his new found emotional landscape and crept back into himself. Once again he told the policemen that he didn’t know the other guys or where they were. They were lost souls he thought, they weren’t going to live for much longer anyways.
Waking in his cell the next morning, Kennedy thought that not much was different here really. A new home found him, a home where he really could be in blissful isolation. A key ran its way across the bars keeping him in his enclosure, he looked up.
“Hey sonny, you have a visitor.”
Kennedy kept still sitting. His stomach jiggled a little, his shoulders shook up and down, the corners of his mouth curled up and little gasps of sound came out in jagged bursts. He laughed.
“What’s so funny? Come now, move it!”
He got to his feet, still taken by this strange action that just came out of him, and followed the guard. He thought that perhaps this was a torture device they used on prisoners. They were obviously not well informed. He didn’t know anyone.
There was a woman in a soft yellow dress in the room he walked into. She faced the back wall until he sat down. As she turned, he knew. She turned and he saw his own eyes, same shape and size but heavy with guilt or maybe it was regret. A gentle silence alleviated the hard cold nature of the room, as they looked at each other.
“I’m sorry bhuti wam’,” she mouthed.
“I found you” he stated.
They sat looking at each other, the silence gently interrupted by comments on the weather and the condition of the room. She occasionally broke into nervous chatter about her life until the memory of her abandoning him pierced through her lyricism and quieted her. Eventually Kennedy, clearing his throat asked, “Are you happy?”
“Yes. Most of the time, yes.” Her reply seemed to smooth out the harsh lines of his face and for that moment she could see in this old man, the little boy she left a long time ago. “How did you know I was here?” his voice cracked with eagerness, almost expecting an answer that would prove the possibility of miracles. Her husband was a policeman and had come home last night to tell her of a man who was like her photocopy, a beggar called Kennedy. He laughed, thinking that if he had only known, he would have stolen something years ago. “I wasn’t involved in the crime but I knew there was no point in arguing. Anyways I had given up hope.” He was still smiling when the guard came to collect him and as he turned to leave she saw the slight shake of his head, unable to believe that this was actually happening.
Kennedy returned to his cell. His life had spun full circle. Now he sat with everything and nothing. All he had ever dreamed of happened in twenty minutes in a cold room. Recently arrested, yet feeling the freedom of a man without regret and the peace of a man who is not alone in the world. No possessions to claim but satisfaction. That night he dreamt of his parents. It was a tender dream of luxury he had never known, sepia colouring with a bright yellow burst as he was forgiven for not looking after his sister. In the morning an old man was carried out of his cell in a body bag. An old man, unknown to the world, died in his sleep. They say he went peacefully. The guard said that they should have known something was wrong. The man had spent the largest part of yesterday talking to himself, laughing for no apparent reason. But then again most of the people they picked up on the street weren’t completely in touch with reality.
©AmeeraPatel 2010
Journeying(Ameera)
Journeying
Ameera Patel
Kennedy sat in a pile. That was what life had become; clutter and cardboard and a street where names were inconsequential. His name mattered once. He was named after Robert Kennedy, after this American who brought another ‘ripple of hope’ to a country in need of a serious boost. Kennedy’s father had been moved by this white man who seemed to understand the magnitude of the problem. He was murdered shortly after Kennedy was born, well it was called an accident but everyone knew what that meant. Meanwhile back in the states Kennedy’s namesake was assassinated. His mother worked hard and never remarried but she too was killed, not fighting for the cause like his father, but fighting to bring home some money for her children. It happened at the train station on a busy platform; her weekly salary and life were taken in one swift swipe. Kennedy and his sister were still in school. She dropped out to find work so that he could continue. She was only three years older than him but she understood the art of survival. Making her meagre wages stretch food out for the week and pay for school fees and transport, she worked miracles in front of his eyes with ease. He never knew what happened to her but one day he came home from school and she never arrived. After a week he went to look for her. He was perhaps too innocent for that kind of journey. Kennedy saw more over the next few years than he cared to remember; murders for cell-phones, rape and the kind of violence that shifts your core.
He did change on that path to this very intersection, when he decided he would do no more, he would see no more, he would just be. He didn’t know how many years had passed since he left home and could no longer remember what the real colour of his skin was. Now greying, darkening under the sun, with lines that gave him a fierce edge the hurt in his eyes betrayed. Finger nails jagged, the reality of life embedded inside of them. Weathered like outdoor furniture, forgotten over the rainy and harsh winds of winter, unprotected against the elemental heat of a summer day. He is the essence of the past we have tossed out without a second thought. Giving up the struggle of the day to day, it was all too much, a heavy weight that pulled from inside his ribcage because he had seen the kind of brutality that kills the will to move. Instead he sits daily watching our lives go by, asking passing eyes for something to survive. He sits and soaks in the judgements, turned up noses, blank ignoring stares and the pity. It’s the pity that gets to him the most, even though those are the ones smiling patting themselves on the back for their unparalleled charity in the two rand they hand out like golden bars, feeding the needy and allowing themselves the ability to sleep easy. He wants to tell these eyes that he doesn’t need their pity. The sadness of his life is not his street corner and eaten clothes, it’s the road that led him here, a path no one is left to know.
Some of the guys who live nearby have formed friendships. They’re young and their energy allows for playful banter, shared cigarettes and if they’re lucky their money pooled at the end of the day is enough for a half loaf and something to wash the day away. He sees their minds deteriorate as the months go by, as drinks shift to glue and now it’s something new that they burn in a light bulb and then breathe in the fumes. It’s around that time that their eyes begin to change and he pulls his cardboard up to completely cover him. They lose themselves. If it were a painting the solid bodies below in dark colours and rich textures would be smiling wildly, dots of reds in the centre of their eyes, as their wispy souls drift upwards and away, terrified of the bodies they leave on the street. They seem to dissolve into the gravel, shift into an alternate universe where life is good and hunger isn’t eating them alive. Skin that used to burn starts to tingle, sensitive to the touch, and if a woman walks past altered mindsets and pumping blood contorts them into a wolfish pack, eyes low, adrenaline high and screams that pierce the emptiness of the night.
They got the stuff from a guy called Nicies (pronounced nice ease) because, well, he provided the nice things, the lack of creativity didn’t bother him much. He worked around the corner near the Engen garage, which saw a fair amount of shady traffic. The boys had met him one night when all they could afford was meth and a loaf of bread. Nicies was certain of his product and boasted about its unparalleled results and like any salesman who truly believes in his wares, he gave them their first hit as a tester and reap the rewards he did. It started with a nightly trip to him, bread was no longer a necessity, and it didn’t take long before they were on the stuff all the time. Lethargy replaced their readiness to approach cars and as the hit started to wear off there was definitely a belligerence that started to seep into their eyes and an already meagre income dissolved to a point where they could no longer afford what they needed.
Kennedy was an easy target. Life experience had taught him to recognise the anxiety in their eyes and hand over all he had. They badgered him to approach every single car as they lay back on the cement; frustration forming rage coated their slurred insults. He considered finding a new place to call home but nowadays people are territorial over their intersections and that would only lead to further difficulty. The boys left him alone before it had to come to that, he didn’t make enough to keep them going for even a day. Hollow faces pleaded with Nicies for lay-bye types of payments and were met with a new game-plan, a business venture if you will. Nicies provided the start up capital for a few spark plugs and access to enough nice stuff was no longer an issue.
It sounds like thunder on a muted night. Even if you see it coming, as the spark makes contact with the window a deafening shattering momentarily envelops the car. The driver is jolted into a freeze frame like the stunted growth of chickens affected by noise pollution. The moment is lost. Sparkles of glass fly into the car; a diamante express. Bags are taken and the wealth of the driving class is transposed into mind numbing freedom. Kennedy was relieved. The boys only needed one good bag a day so for the rest of the time he is left alone, at ease to slowly shift from car to car without harassment after each coin falls into his creased palm. At least no one was getting hurt, a few screams and tears and it was over. He could remain uninvolved. Daily he would sit on the side and observe it from a distance. It was like watching a re-run of a bad TV series. The targets were women drivers and they would strike just before the robot turned green, leaving enough time to get across the road without being followed around the corner and straight to Nicies. The women were shaken up and generally stalled the car before getting some sort of composure and speeding to a place of safety.
It didn’t take long before the police designated the intersection as a “Smash and Grab” zone. Sign boards were put up and motorists became suspicious of anyone nearing the windows. Some locked their car doors, which was futile against this kind of crime, but nevertheless made them safe. Others beamed at Kennedy as they handed over loose change, as if to say, “There I’ve paid you, so please don’t steal from me.” It made him want to laugh, he had no say in how or when the target was chosen but he was sticking to the thing that got him through most of life and that was to not get involved. He didn’t mind being seen as a criminal, as a black man on the street. That particular assuming gaze was nothing new so long as he was allowed to do his bit and continue to survive life. When the police came to find witnesses, he said that he didn’t know the guys or where they were and in exchange the boys left him alone.
Living solo was what he liked the best. Hardly moving, leaving the faintest trace of his even being there. He didn’t want to be a ripple. Everyone whose ripple ever affected him was gone. There would be no flood of change in his lifetime and he was at peace with that. It was an ordinary day, not hot or cold, in fact everything was tepid as if the world was being still for a moment. Kennedy walked to the car pulling to a stop at the red light, a young woman in a green car smoking a cigarette looked at him and shrugged. His eyes grew wide, he was about to be forced into motion, her face questioned his. He hadn’t realised that the boys were still waiting for a target that day and saw it. He saw the spark hit the window and the glass dance through the air and the girl’s scream reached up at him forcing him to stumble backwards into oncoming hooters and the brushing of wind so fast he remembered what life was. Out of breath and somewhat animated, he stumbled onto the pavement untouched. He sat. He sat and felt his heart attempt an escape from its cavity. Looking at his hands, they too seemed to be pulsing, sensitive to the light breeze that now coated the air. And on the one there was a tiny speck of red. The littlest shard of glass had inserted itself into his finger. Looking at this glittering light piercing his skin brought tears to his eyes; he let go and wept right there next to the traffic.
Being brought back to life after intense trauma can make one feel untouchable. Kennedy didn’t have much time to sit with his newfound emotional connection. The air became claustrophobic thick with police sirens and the girl in the green car. A mascara stained face and a thin finger pointed out the aggressor. Kennedy’s wet eyes met hers and she nodded confirmation. He was placed in the back of the van and nothing more needed to be said. The motion of the van felt like it was juggling his newly found inside. Nausea built up inside of him and like any well trained creature of habit, he quelled the feeling. Right there in the van he put a lid on his new found emotional landscape and crept back into himself. Once again he told the policemen that he didn’t know the other guys or where they were. They were lost souls he thought, they weren’t going to live for much longer anyways.
Waking in his cell the next morning, Kennedy thought that not much was different here really. A new home found him, a home where he really could be in blissful isolation. A key ran its way across the bars keeping him in his enclosure, he looked up.
“Hey sonny, you have a visitor.”
Kennedy kept still sitting. His stomach jiggled a little, his shoulders shook up and down, the corners of his mouth curled up and little gasps of sound came out in jagged bursts. He laughed.
“What’s so funny? Come now, move it!”
He got to his feet, still taken by this strange action that just came out of him, and followed the guard. He thought that perhaps this was a torture device they used on prisoners. They were obviously not well informed. He didn’t know anyone.
There was a woman in a soft yellow dress in the room he walked into. She faced the back wall until he sat down. As she turned, he knew. She turned and he saw his own eyes, same shape and size but heavy with guilt or maybe it was regret. A gentle silence alleviated the hard cold nature of the room, as they looked at each other.
“I’m sorry bhuti wam’,” she mouthed.
“I found you” he stated.
They sat looking at each other, the silence gently interrupted by comments on the weather and the condition of the room. She occasionally broke into nervous chatter about her life until the memory of her abandoning him pierced through her lyricism and quieted her. Eventually Kennedy, clearing his throat asked, “Are you happy?”
“Yes. Most of the time, yes.” Her reply seemed to smooth out the harsh lines of his face and for that moment she could see in this old man, the little boy she left a long time ago. “How did you know I was here?” his voice cracked with eagerness, almost expecting an answer that would prove the possibility of miracles. Her husband was a policeman and had come home last night to tell her of a man who was like her photocopy, a beggar called Kennedy. He laughed, thinking that if he had only known, he would have stolen something years ago. “I wasn’t involved in the crime but I knew there was no point in arguing. Anyways I had given up hope.” He was still smiling when the guard came to collect him and as he turned to leave she saw the slight shake of his head, unable to believe that this was actually happening.
Kennedy returned to his cell. His life had spun full circle. Now he sat with everything and nothing. All he had ever dreamed of happened in twenty minutes in a cold room. Recently arrested, yet feeling the freedom of a man without regret and the peace of a man who is not alone in the world. No possessions to claim but satisfaction. That night he dreamt of his parents. It was a tender dream of luxury he had never known, sepia colouring with a bright yellow burst as he was forgiven for not looking after his sister. In the morning an old man was carried out of his cell in a body bag. An old man, unknown to the world, died in his sleep. They say he went peacefully. The guard said that they should have known something was wrong. The man had spent the largest part of yesterday talking to himself, laughing for no apparent reason. But then again most of the people they picked up on the street weren’t completely in touch with reality.
©AmeeraPatel 2010
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