the 7 minute story

My eyes slowly came open, blurry, the quiet hum of the bus and the dark night outside. I remembered I was on a bus to go be part of the parade. Parade? Yeah I think that’s what he said. I was going there to honour an invitation and not much else. He told me there’d be a little house party before then, someone’s birthday he said. Alright, I’ll just attend the party, don’t know bout the parade.

When I got there, it was lovely to see some familiar faces, some I hadn’t literally seen in almost a decade. So much for keeping in touch. I had long reconciled myself with what I felt was a natural occurrence; were we meet to only part later in the many crossroads of life, and that maybe, just maybe, we may meet again. Even if no effort is put in, the finite space of earth and Brownian-motion-like-forces of the universe make the chances of meeting again plausible.

I had been chatting with an old friend of mine by the kitchen chairs at the end of the room and kept looking over the chatter of younglings having the time of their life by the oven, over there at the other end of the kitchen, who periodically opened the oven door to check on the chicken sizzling inside, spewing clouds of gaseous white mist each time they did it, to much jolly amusement.

From among the pack had been the one guy with the frizzly hair. A lot of the signs made him out to be the life of the group, very chatty and animated. But for some reason or other he’d at times blank out. He’d laugh a few seconds later than his colleagues, as he’s eyes seemed to flutter to the kitchen door, expectantly waiting for someone else to show up maybe?

And sure enough, when a fair lady walked in, the eyes of the frizzly guy lit up like a thousand stars. He stepped over to the lady…the lady took notice of him and came over with a brilliant smile on her face…minute 1

I couldn’t tell what the two were talking about, only that they were enjoying each others company and that the frizzly hair’d dude was having the best time of his evening thus far. I turned back to be part of my conversation again. Took a look at the watch, gotta be heading home soon, I thought. With everyone chatting away and the music playing softly in animated slow motion, I was somewhat depressingly reminded of someone I care about back home, and how it sucked that they couldn’t be there with me that very moment, let alone that it would be weeks till I could see them again. I decided to turn back again towards our youngling couple, if only to remind myself what I missed. The flow of conversation had ebbed as the fair lady was preparing to leave with her loud friends, to another house party I suppose? The two waved goodbye to each other. The frizzly haird boy stood there, countenance changed…like a little boy whose icecream had fell right off the cone….minute 7

The Herdboy In Easter

I had just arrived at the cattle kraal with my brother, when I met the boy.

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.

Route 267: Bison Crater, Mars to Gaborone, Earth

“These Merlin engines better work this time, failing twice in the same day, that’s insane, passengers are getting jittery.”
“Raptors, Lizzy, these are Raptor engines…the Merlins have been scrapped for over five—“
“—I KNOW! Gertrude, yikes. Are you prepared to take one for the team then, telling all those passengers they have to wait another two years for the next launch window to get to earth? Heck, I know that I for one will not be doing that anytime soon.”

We were having the typical Lizzy rant all over again. All other space-attendants who had flown with her before had learnt to expect her craziness; it was perhaps a strangely reassuring constant in these Mars-Earth journeys. Being nearest to her meant I couldn’t avoid getting entangled in her internal arguments. No matter the futility of the exercise, I always tried to placate her.
“They wouldn’t have to wait that long, SpaceX always rebooks passengers onto other spacelines. Blue Origin would jump at our loss, and Virgin—”
“If any of these passengers could afford Jeff Bezos’ fancy spacecraft they’d have been on it already. At least the New Glenn doesn’t have failing engines on startup. I swear to Elon….” Lizzy’s last words were buried in a deafening roar as the Raptors exploded into life as if to make a point. But the PA system continued to drone on “—cabin crew please remain seated until the seatbelt indicators turn green on your dashboards, we’re are going to be…"
“Didn’t even realise we left the ground,” whispered Lizzy.
“Thrust required for lift off on Mars—”
“—is a third of that required on Earth, again Gertrude, I know. Gosh if you’re gonna lecture me about something, can it NOT be about something we both learnt at the SAME university.”
“You’re funny.”
Lizzy looked at me and smiled. She gave me a hard time now and then but we had been together far too long for me to mind whatever douchebaggery she threw my way.
We had reached cruising speed 45 minutes later and the solar array panels had just been deployed. The sight of the MCT unfurling the wing-like arrays was not unlike that of a majestic albatross preparing to take flight on a quiet Sunday morning by a deserted lake with nothing around it for tens of thousands of miles. Looking out at it through the cabin crew window never got old.
A few moments later Lizzy and I were shuffling between the isles serving passengers their dinner. Most were already restless and looking forward to leaving their confined launch chairs to head on to the upper deck. No one could blame them. The upper deck was the only thing among the strangeness of the interior of the Mass Colonial Transporter that had some sense of familiarity. It was a large space designed to look as homely and warm as possible, capable of having all 50 passengers at one time. Retractable book shelves, harnessed furniture and faux green lawn by faux walkways…everything that could make the 150 day journey comfortable had been thought of. Well, not everything, apparently Blue Origin’s New Glenn had much larger living quarters, with a passenger and crew dining area so that passengers didn’t have to return to their launch seats to be served meals.
“—can I have it with some lemon juice-please-thank-you.”
“—thanks darling, I’ll have the potato salad too”
I could tell Lizzy was already getting flustered as we pushed the service trolley from one customer to the next, and as I strained to see how far back the other space-hostesses were.
“Kopa o nthotheletse Bacardi foo tlhe motho wa modimo, nna kana ganke ke ja nako tse,” said a stout female passenger to a bewildered Lizzy. This made me smile.
“She wants the Bacardi for now Lizzy,” I helped her out, and in turn rewarded me with a quick smile of pretence-thanks (more like a "mind-your-own-business" smile), and served the lady. After all these years she still hadn’t picked up some of the basics of the language of those using route 267…this is going to be one long ride.