Category: stories

Her birth

She was named Naledi even before her parents met her. In the village they could only guess that she was to be a baby girl because her mother craved samp and amasi. Her mother’s feet faced the entrance of the hut letting the light from Venus bathe Naledi’s head on her way into the world. When the witch doctor held her aloof and announced her arrival to the work the crescent moon sat atop her bobbing head.

She was a little baby, cute as any other little baby, but cute in a way that made her memorable. Her little eyes shone with the greyness of a new-born, totally unseeing, only recognising the light forcing her pupil open and squeezing its self down her optic nerve. She mewled, the cold of the world hugged her hello. The smoke that had held the room captive a few moments ago mysterious abandoned its perch and freed the room.

This was the welcome our heroine received.

The whine

The pitch must have been perfect. It was the sound his ears made when the world was quiet. That sound he woke up to hear at 4am.

The whine did not feel like nails across a chalk board, nor did he tire of it. The sound was as natural as his ears, hanging there unobtrusive but always present. It was the sound of the tiny hairs in his ear drums hugging each other and playing. A time when they are free to dance to their own beat, not swayed to the beat of vibrating air forced upon them by the world.

His moment enshrined in the sound of freedom. This was it. Shattered. For in the distance was the drone of an underpowered car mechanically muscling its way up an incline. The car might be carrying a baker to his morning mis-en-plus and a croissant or two. After all today was Friday, and I will kiss a pastry her final good bye. Gone – the drone and the thoughts of the baker.

Welcome back the whine of freedom, let me envelope myself in you a little longer, the world is awakening and you will be drowned out. The clanging, banging sounds of life will drown you out.

Whine on freedom.

Not much to say

Without much to say and the calendar ravenously consuming the days of my life, I know I have to pen a piece.

The following words are an obligatory contribution to the digital clutter, a few more bytes piled high on the trash heap of talent mistaken for talent. I think I have what it takes, but, the acrid smell of fingertips leave stains across the digital world, leading me to one conclusion. Maybe two conclusions, or even more. The conclusions seemly self-dividing, digital cells of my contribution to the unread, the uninspiring, the unwanted creation of an artist in waiting.

Yet here I am, piling byte upon byte, vowel upon vowel, and mashed together with consonants and loose bows of myself tying it all. None of that really matters, because for all these pieces invisibility I did it. I wrote. A piece to be lost when the digital ode to myself fades with my person. I do not care, because.

When my person goes, I will not have much to say.

pop song

The Bluetooth speaker sat on the floor playing a pop hit song. It was unconnected to power and drew down on its battery the songs that kept him moderately sane. The song was nondescript but the melody was memorable, he had heard it several times before but couldn’t whistle the tune or sing the chorus.

He sat at his desk with its Turkish walnut veneer and could not help to think that the speaker, its draining battery, and the familiarity of the pop music was a perfect analogy to the lockdown. A melody that had a flurry of words carried by a repetitive beat with a simple message and a modicum of feel-good vibes. The speaker itself represented deeper unspoken feelings. His drive and ability to see this through was finite, his self-belief had a limit, the zest for life that carved the smile in his face was turning sour; his battery was low.

fear

The life was being squeezed of them. They tried to escape, writhing and sweating in a vain attempt to release the grip. The smell of fear was pungent, like the smell of the first rains in Africa, sweet and aromatic, so delicious you wanted to run outside and eat the mud. Their captor wanted to eat.

It had been dark. Not pitch black, but the reddish hue of staring out at daylight from behind your eyelids. Shadows danced across his vision as his eyes darted left and right behind tightly shut eyelids. Terrified to open them, he shut them tighter, grimacing and baring teeth as his cheek and jaw muscles were brought onboard to keep his eyes closed. But he knew they would open. Not because anyone forced them open or his muscles gave up, but because fear had a crowbar and she was prising them slowly apart.

Blood roared across his eardrums deafening them. The blood racing around his brain feeding the roots of fear, powering fear to use her crow-bar to open his eyes. He knew this and yet his heart beat faster. He knew this and yet his jaw clenched tighter. This was a battle of the real and the illusory. The monologue in his head had long dropped the veneer of intelligence and was replaced by the mindless verbal stampede. Words clambered, stood, crushed, killing each other to try and reach his conscious mind.

His limbs trembled. His pores drenched him in sweat. His teeth chattered. He was scared, and anyone who bothered to look up from their life would have seen it. But he could not see them. But flash. Bright! His pupils screamed at the sudden dilatation. Fear had opened his eyes for a split second. With that singular action, she and he knew she had him, and still, he fought on. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as his teeth ground each other in a pointless attempt to keep his eyes closed. Bright! Pain, dilation. Again. His eyes started flickering open, tears lubricating the parting of eyelids. The droop of his mouth framing the sadness of the loss. The innocence of the darkness was gone.

His eyes were open. And everywhere they looked they saw the same thing. The news about COVID-19.

A dusty path

Naledi was lost.

She had chased the dry leaf across sandy pathways. The leaf captivated her mind with its tumbling form. A representation of her jumbled childhood thoughts. Her laughter chinkled through the empty air, its joyous sound serving as the lead to the sounds of dry grass and quarrelling crickets.

Naledi was simply dressed in her old, comfortable flowing dress, a torn ruin of faded white serving as the springboard for the printouts of barely visible flowers that she had never seen (for the curious of mind it was an agglomeration of hibiscus and plumeria), but she loved the bright colours. The colours serviced to be a star amongst the shades of brown that painted her natural world. Naledi was growing up in a small village in an arid part of South Africa. Day after day her existence was coloured by the browns of the earth and the blues of the sky, only interspersed by the flaming reds and purples of dawn and dusk.

Today, she had started her day with the long trek to the stream to gather water for the day. As the firstborn of two children, she had the bulk of the household chores starting with gathering water at dawn. Each day she headed off in the direction of the rising sun. Today like many before she repeated the chore with the clay water pot defying gravity on her head. She rushed along kicking off plumes of dust with her cracked and parched heels, she took pride in making sure there was water for the family to bath in by the time her dad groggily opened his eyes. Like yesterday, she was in her grove like the pathway was a groove between the wildness of the surrounding bush. The sun shone as it had shone yesterday but the breeze was a lot stronger, it buffeted the clay pot but never slowed Naledi down. That was until the tumbling leaf caught her eye.

She had seen countless tumbling leaves before. But this one was different. Like the flowers on her dress, it had colours that were foreign to her. It halted her on the path, the plumes at her heels settled with the sudden stop. Her eyes glued. On their own, her hands rose to clasp the clay water pot lifting it off its perch and settling on the edge of the footpath. Dad will have to wait. This leaf was all her seven-year-old mind cared about. Over and under it turned helpless in the wind, exposing to Naledi its multitude of never in nature seen before colours. To her the world had stopped spinning, the wind had stopped blowing and the colourful leaf was alive and dancing along the path.

Joy in hand she rushed along to the music of her giggling and the sweet encouragement of the wild breeze. Today she would dance, today she would hold her world, and today the world would remain behind. But the leaf was quick, carried by the breeze that was funnelled between the tall stalks of dried grass that framed the dusty path. Naledi ran, her heels kicking up against her thighs as she tried to hold her world in her hand. But the truth was simple, everything she wanted at that moment was ahead of her. The leaf would stay in front of her no matter how fast she ran.

breakfast nook

It began an hour or so before with the unholy shriek of alarms. A groan in the first bed, an audible expulsion of frustration (or was that a fart) in the second bed, and in the third bed silence, or if you listened very carefully the sound of grinding teeth. Outside birds and their songs rang free, unbothered by the electrical bird that knew only one song and sung it at the same time every day. What did bother the birds were the two-legged flightless birds that were now awake in response to the song from the electrical bird.

“Good morning,” one of the flightless birds said to two of its chicks after walking across its nest. The sound disturbed Heckling the Hadeda from his worm hunting, he squawked a warning his fellow winged birds, “She is AWAAAKE!” and to be certain he repeated it a few times. Then slowly in his old-man gait walked to the centre of the lawn, where the flightless she-bird would not unnerve him with her stare and her weird feathery mane, to continue his worm breakfast. Several of the other birds including Looney the laughing dove, Ruckus the rock dove, Goofy the Egyptian goose all responded to Heckling with their calls of “Thank you, Heckling the brave.” They called him that because he would always be the last to leave the flightless bird’s nest, waiting until the last moment and sometimes scaring the featherless chicks.

The flying birds never knew what family of birds of the solid nesters belonged to – they were awake during the day and during the night, were they day-time owls, or a night-time crows? Sometimes they fought like roosters all blustery and feathery, and at times they pranced around the garden like peacocks and peahens in their best regalia. They swam as good as Goofy, and lived in a nest bigger than any bird had ever seen! They also collected trinkets and shiny objects like Marlin the magpie and stuck the trinkets to their walls, on the floor, and even used shiny things to transport them. Most confusing to everyone, but especially Oscar the owl because he was the only one out at night watching them across the thousand moons, is their need to have a burning nest every night. Heckling saw those same burning nest every morning.

Some mornings Heckling screamed at the bird with the golden feathery mane when she lit the nest on fire. “Get out, fire! Get out, fire!” Some days it looked like it was working as one of the flightless birds looked at him, but then they either shooed him or closed their nest – they were the only bird with a nest that moved, as with many things about the featherless birds no one knew why you needed a nest that moved. The maned bird clucked over the fire whilst its chicks clucked back, Goofy thought the chicks were frightened of the maned bird and needed rescuing, like the time he saved Looney from Harry the hawk – but this is not the time to scare anyone with Harry’s name!

Ruckus called out to the rest of the winged birds, “they are eating!” she had made out the unmistakable shape of a seed. Her own belly grumbled back at her discovery, and her eyes widened as she saw the featherless chicks pushing the seeds away. Oh, no she thought. Her babies in her nest were hungry, and it was too early to go on the search for food, you see cats are on the prowl. Ruckus knew she will have to wait until it was hot, and the cats are lazily sleeping. She said nothing to the maned bird only because she couldn’t speak her clucks, but she wished she could ask her for a few seeds every morning to make sure her young ones had full bellies.

In response to Ruckus, several of the birds agreed, ‘yes you are right Miss Ruckus, they are eating!’ But what a turmoil. In the winged bird kingdom chicks made a commotion to get food, but once the food arrived they gobbled it greedily and almost silently. The featherless chicks were different.

They were commotion when they were unseen and recently woken up, they were commotion when the bath was run to rid them of mites and lice, they were commotion before food, they were commotion after food, and they were even commotion when nothing else seemed to be going on. This was something all the birds agreed on. Commotion.

Excitedly the birds discussed. They twittered. They fluttered. They crowed. They hooted – even owl was still awake. They cawed. They knew. The featherless birds – except for the crowns on their heads – had a name! From today they were to be called the ‘commotions’.

The one who clucked the loudest and the most would be Claumotion the commotion.