THE DIARIES OF AN INDIGENOUS FOLK

" Home is a place where the flame of nostalgia
burns the thickest, a place where a warrior returns
when at last wearied from the throngs of battle he
rests ."
- Michael James
1 January 2002.
The resplendent sun often comes home from its
journey across the blue horizon to rest upon this
place. It's luminous rays are quickly dispelled by
the non glittering brown coated roofing sheets that
have long lost their ability to respond to the sun's
warm caress. The houses are ancient in every
sense of the word, evidence of long ceaseless
habitation. The paint on the walls have long raised
their hands in surrender to the rain who now
encourages his green disgusting brother to grow
unhindered, their foamy mass snaking across the
cement walls. Children without clothing ran about
unfettered in playful glee with the adults ignoring
them as they went about their business. The roads
were anything but tarred with gaping holes where
sand should have rested, beside them were
makeshift kiosks ,scores of them enshrouded in the
background. Cockerel could be seen scavenging
about for a bit to eat while mother hens moved
with their small cluster of chicks surrounding them.
It was a place I could in all rationality rightly call
home. It was somewhat reminiscent of a feeling,
one that has caused a popular rapper to exclaim in
euphoria ALOBAM!!!!!! a word that brought a sense
of unity to people who had grown in places of a
similar sort. To an outsider opinions were nothing
short of that of Nathaniel when he regarded
Nazareth with contempt.
Once I took a jolly stroll, not that there was
anything jolly about a trek under the hot sun's
embrace with a grumbling stomach but it felt good
to have some air. To finally be away from the
alluring smell of mama's bean cakes, the ones we
had to painstakingly aid her to prepare only to be
forbidden from having any. The pain of it, to hear
her say each time the that we had to sell them all
to make ends meet. I was away from all that now,
all that mattered for now was the cooling sensation
of this breeze upon my dry skin. In the course of
my aforementioned jolly stroll I came upon a boy.
A young lad, hardly my age who was pushing a
constructed device with a stick. I looked closer to
get a better look..Ooooooo The joy on his face as
he moved his self constructed toy car, a
mechanical contrivance comprising mainly of a
stick and tin milk cans, it moved on four soft drink
corks as wheels. I thought to myself as he merrily
ran past me "poverty indeed is the mother of
innovative improvising" .Since the young one on
aged, tattered clothing had parents financially
incapable of buying toys.
The breeze suddenly assumed a serene violence
and this chilled me to the bones, I had to put my
hand inside my pocket to reduce this bitting frost.
It was always funny to believe but the wind made
the sun's warming effort look futile each time it
came. In my thoughts I could hear a wheel moving,
it creaked under effort and strain of not being oiled
in a very long time. I spun around to ascertain my
fears , behold before me was my thought come to
life. He moved with swiftness and agility of one
experienced at his job. He wheeled the barrow
around and came to a grinding halt. He scanned
the area with his hawk like eyes as if he could
perceive customers amongst the crowd that was
fast gathering. Inside the wheel barrow were
assorted wigs of various colours and strangely on
his head too was a black one. There were green
ones,orange ones,blue ones and every other colour
you can think of. He looked around and on seeing
no ethusiasm towards his wares, he wheeled
around gripping the two handles and with one last
look pushed the machine into motion. The slight
squeaking of the wheelbarrow could still be heard
long after he had gone. To be continued......