Efforts to keep the dust from coming in came a little too late, and closing the little windows were like a smothering recipe. So we allowed the free entry and exit of air, with dust of course. We had to improvise with cloth face masks. Another ire to my nuances.
The mini was a legend in the route. I bet it had seen many more sunsets than I could count in my entire life, evidenced by its decrepit like nature. It's rear end exhaust was agush with blackening soot. The reving of the engine was as though a roar. But with time, I learnt to look passed all that. It was of little consequence how one traveled as long as one reached his intended destination, or so it seemed for every other person aboard. I too took note of the art of taking it all in, without a murmur.
It was a lonely track, with a paucity of vehicles heading the opposite direction.
As you may have guessed it, it's the old road that leads to the country. It's got no posters to guide you, but once you tread it one,two three times, you need no posters to act as a guide. The very sights and smells, sounds and scenes would,without ambiguity, dictate your station. And somehow once you disembarked , a train of years would begin to wind round your mind till, perhaps you grasped the time of your last visit. It would serve to grant you memory of people and place.
There I was, standing with my little brief case, not much in it save a few pairs of pants, sweaters, soaks and everything manly, and a back pack with everything miscellaneous. A few buildings stood erect right in front of me-buildings not of motor and clay, rather of wood and straw others with baked brick and/or mud. Folks, not many, dotted the place. I feared my little belongings being purloined. A little tension and awkwardness filled the air for about a minute or so, albeit they soon lightened up and I drew closer to them for to seek direction to folks I had come to visit. One or two approached me and took a good look at me, perhaps examining my frame for any
signs of belonging. They muttered amongst themselves -'His face, his ears and his voice too-they match one Mr so and so.' They chuckled and in concert asked, 'Are you one of the Lutanzi's ?' I quickly noded with an affirmative yes. These guys were better at putting pieces together than I was getting it together with patients . I wished I had their great acumen and insight, I would cut down on time spent clerking. 'How are you related to Mr Lutanzi?' They probed further. I responded, with a jargon of relationship maze. 'He's my grandpa's brother's son'. They retorted, 'Over here, you are either his son, grandson or brother , other relations are no importsnce tof us.' So I settled for son for I presumed it would confer me greater privilege if he, Mr Lutanzi, had won himself a good reputation in the land, though the opposite too was a possibility.
I was quickly granted a little lad for an escort . He was untamed as one could be, free spirited lad. Out here he seemed more mature than I. On our way we were met with a herd of cattle. Bulls and cows in large number were grazing in the area. I was no herder or cowboy, I dreaded the sight before us. The sheer size of the animals, the dagga like horns gave me unwonted tremens . With quivering lips, Lisping tongue I motioned, 'Perhaps we wait for the train to cross before we offend the multitude.' My little escort was not at all shaken by this 'fleet' as it were . It was all natural for him. At the rear of the herd was another young lad. It was rather strange how such a fellow should wield so much authority over these creatures. He could even call some of them by name, whether they took cognizance of that was anyone's guess, albeit they listened to his comand or the whip lash and non dared charge at him. Perhaps, here lay a perfect example of the 'power of the mind'. I needed to grasp a lesson or two from him, just not at the scene. Either his ignorance protected him from the fears I had or his experience given him enough guts he could lead the cattle on.
The train soon passed, we were at liberty to proceed, perhaps my mind was at liberty. We continued on our errand. As we traversed the upwinding and downturning dusty road. By this time I had nicknamed my escort 'chatterbox' for he was never short of stories and questions . He liked it, the power of ignorance- but of course I later reverted to calling him Menda, his real name, after a brisk explanation of what his nickname mearnt. He smiled and said, 'I still like it.' 'Menda, I'm worn out and parched, how far till we get there?' I mourned. 'Oh don't worry, just a few turns and we'll be there'. He then led me me to a place we could get a drink of water. I could not resist. We were served water. It was not the usual crystal clear, but water it was. Menda added, 'if you close your eyes, it will just be as clear'.
An Oxcart on the road was heading our way, we were in luck. We left that home and hitched a ride. In no time, we had arrived. We were warmly welcomed. And before Menda could leave, I handed him my wrist watch. It had made an impression on him all the way. He wondered how I could tell time simply by looking at some gadget that had three hands as it were, with no numbers save a few dots around the center. Apparently part of the talk along the road was a time telling tutorial on the same watch. He was an apt student, his mind was ripe for molding. I only feared he would never make it in good time back to the station, for he would spend much time looking down on his wrist watch laced hand than walking.
I was to be here for a week then return to the tamed city. Life under the rural sky was different as expected. No rush, all was hushed. No busy communtors, no pile of deadlines to meet. It seemed there was additional time yet with only a handful of things to do. Perhaps the busiest person was one who toiled in the field, herded the tame animals, fished from the river, or worked the harmer mill . The night sky was brighter, the moon glistened in majestic splendor, the stars seemed webbed in their sparkle. Costellations were candidly displayed. The Orion, Taurus the bull and the others whose names my tongue would get twisted in attempt to mention. It seemed nature had chosen to give some compliment to the lands far.
Perhaps I was able to unwind and recalibrate in a time slower paced. Amenities were few but they were just as good. I watched as lads would spot in the streaming water. Their diving board would consist anything from a tree branch or some levee on the banks. I dared not engage. My fears were many. The currents were strong. I knew not the depth of the water. Occasionally cattle would come for a drink, sometimes crossing to the other side. Some folks would plunge in while holding on to the tails of the animal. This was safe as long as one was quick to let go before the animal reached the banks. The results would be near fatal from my calculation should one receive a hind kick in the face. I reserved my energies in doing something more delicate-fishing. Of course I only caught reeds and everything else not fish. I had not the skill. Perhaps I was meant to preserve life, for my bait was never on the hooks once I pulled out the fishing line. Maybe I should have called it fish feeding instead .
So perchance, the country has place for one willing to tune in to the slower pace.
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