It was towards end of the hot summer season and so all sorts of flies under the sun had reached the summit of their population. They were everywhere and in everything; the rich smell of frothing milk and fresh manure created a sort of paradise for the little devils, which seemed to descend onto this place from all parts of the country. I greeted a cousin of mine keeping guard at the kraal entrance, and then I saw him. He was coming towards us with a bucket of fresh milk in his hand and so much purpose in his steps. His quick glance at me had turned into lowered eyes although his journey towards us remained resolute. There was so much happening on this young man’s journey to empty a bucket of milk. Those strides, purposeful. He gave me a generous smile as he got within reasonable reach. That sculpted face, carefully measured countenance and eyes that seemed to scream of untold tales contrasting with his outer calm. [Lets give him a name, Sven]
Later that day Sven and I were herding a dozen or so calves from a neighbouring waterhole, herding them towards an old farm were we would lock them up to graze. Albeit being younger than me he led the way. It would seem that the way of life in these parts of the country toughened you up and made you a man at a much faster rate than life in the excesses and comforts of a city. Despite that I could sense a tenderness about him. I could sense him trying to make things easier for me. I don’t know how exactly I could tell these things but it was in the look in his eye, the apologising smiles, the lift of his brow.
We were returning home after locking up the calves in grandma’s farm. To be honest it was more of a barren piece of land with decades old fence made of cut-down thorn trees that was shrinking by the year, giving way to the subtle but effective elements of decay. And again he led the way. Walking behind him, the style of his walk was all I could focus on. One foot in front of the other, sway majestically, repeat. There was a hypnotising rhythm to it. Resolute, sure, steady. I asked him a bunch of questions, subconsciously trying to find reason for the manner in which he walked. You may think my intrigue was bizarre, and I honestly probably wouldn’t protest. Perhaps ‘twas because I imagined those legs clad in the latest fashion jeans and Air-Jordans striding through crowded city streets with waves of young fashionable crowds out to have a good time. I could imagine those legs striding into a marbled office, clad in black Giorgio Armani pants and a shiny rolex on his right wrist were now stood some rubber-bands and colourful plastic wristbands. Yes I imagined a detailed alternative life for someone I had just met and knew very little about…but thing is, I felt as though I had met him before. Surely I’d seen that captivating stride someplace before; on people he would probably never meet, in places and worlds he would probably never get to see nor visit. And here again was that same measured stride, wading through a sandy meandering pathway, among shrubs and thorn bushes in the middle of a near nameless outpost of the country. And yet still, there was purpose in those strides, nothing about them was diminished.
