The Clock of time

There I was, in the city square. My form bore the semblance of a midget. The stack contrast. Every turn was met with ever rising towers, the architecture of great wits. I was helmed in by the towering heights. In a rare turn, a pegion or two would wing its way straight into the upwinding structures, for it could not tell the difference between the open air and the glass paned buildings. It would come down with a slight tumble and slum to the ground. Maimed, it would cease its flight, till nature wrought her healing touch, else it would have to await burial from natures civilized scavengers-cats and dogs.
With streets paved, lined with what seemed like an array of engineered firs , oaks, palms or spruce and weeping willows of perfect symmetry-a silvery avenue, the scene was just right for a cast. Jets of water shot into the sky from a central pool. Folks walked by, with little minding of the suround. Like an army of ants, moving in lines unbroken, they walked across the breath of the earth as it were. Delay was fatal. Vehicles too, moved in perfect array, any delay on one would warrant a horn blow-a resonance to a hum made by a swarm of bees in rage. So all had to move at speeds dictated by the majority. Every one had to be in some sort of hurriedness, at least for the sake of others if not for self.
On one of the skyscraping sttuctures hang a larger than life Gothic wall clock. It moved relentless. Perhaps it controlled the pace of the multitudes. But i took it all in, that which my eyes beheld, I needed to take a second look. Perhapds  I would gain insight. I stared long and hard at the clock, pera venture I would get entranced into what Eistein perceived-slowing of time with an increase in one's motion. Was it the reason for the great haste that was ensuing? Perhaps. Saddened for the lack of an Esiteinian moment, I resolved that I had my filed of play in a different arena. I bumped into a lad or two for the sights and beauties  that betrothed my eyes, but a thousand  apologies did the trick. Yet, had the mass gotten so used to the stack beauty, it no longer appealed to their taste? Or where the errands so great of import, they dared not waste a second to savour the moment?
Monuments that stood,dotted throughout the scape, some on roof tops, building entrances, middle of the square,and along side walks and within buildings too gother my attention. Some had a manly frame, others anything from a beast, to amoury. Sculptors of marble stone or metal. Each was rich in history, a story to tell. They dipicted themes of conflict-war in form of gallant soldiers, generals and military artillery , sometimes atrocious savagery, perhaps giving a backdrop that should never have a repeat for the current and future, or experiences  of the days ebbed. Some depicted the arts and siences, in the form of statues of men of renown in the same trade. There was a theme for every occasion it seemed.
The scenes before me wrought in me the realization that man was hardwired for eternity. Deep inside, we all desire to live forever. We leave the stage of life with great pains, save one whose belief grants him a hope of a life beyond the dreary depths -the grave. In a bid to evade the grip of mortality, men have inverted ways to prolong their stay in the arena. Futile ecsarpade. Perhaps in this one sense man has succeeded to gain imortality, the creation of statues, and perhaps the writing of books. For in them only are the lives of yesterday preserved for today. They live on for an eternity, as it were, in the minds of the living. Perhaps this too may explain the rush-folks have little time to achieve so much. Maybe those with fewer goals in life have it easy, warranting them a little more time to enjoy the short life here on earth.

The African Kitchen

In my travels I have come to appreciate the roots of my African homestead. I've had a little of the taste of the rural wade. All plain town mice? Ney! I've got patches of country on me. I recall the times I was full of energy,of course with very little meaningful direction. I was quite the tame lad-not outgoing, intrusive yet not aloof. Trouble never really got a hold of me, but when it did, pardon was ready to tap me on my shoulders-I wonder where it has all gone now. I enjoyed the company of the older folk, for they took many of life's blows aimed at me. Perhaps I was never my own responsibility.  Freedom from self? Perhaps
Days came by and left in a rush,with no itinerary for me. Duty was not always pleasant, and with time, I had learnt a few tricks of the trade, factitious behaviour -pretend to be ill, and you'll not only get waned from the task, you'll get yourself a 'sick child's treat. Of course time weeved in me the realization that falsehood was probably more like a boomerang, it always finds you out.
Getting dirty was like obsession, one couldn't help it. It ran it's course, till mom called for a bathe. What a dread it was. Peradventire one of the reasons a lad of my age then would stay squicky clean-the dread of mom's bathe. It was an ordeal-first you're dipped into the tab or basin, then came the ire of the soap. Finally, like a grinders machination, a rock of offense was latched to your body, grinding away every taint of dirt as it where. Yet the outcome was worth the process. All clean, you were the darling of the home. But all too soon the dirt called. Rainy season saw young rascals like myself venture on rather unwonted play-mud slide. One would stand at a distance, aim for the wet spot, and dash off in a frenzy and like an expert skier, slide over the rain kissed mud. A few bruises may be incured, but the price was little compared to the amount of endorphins released at the end of the escapade. Germs were then not common! Or at least they gave one the leeway to a little joy.
Every young lad was entitled to at least one occasion of a fall from a tree or breaking of a bone. I did not get the later, but the former.
The  best memoirs , however were to be found in the kitchen. Whether it be a little old smoking hut, or a modern array complete with switch ignited cooker, or semi modern with charcoaled braziers ,  the kitchen was as sacred to my stomach as the family alter to the soul. I watched as the fire was lit, the stove turned on-the heat was the one most important reactant in the equation. Pots rang out, knives squicked. The water was brought to the boil, pulses of corn meal (mealie meal)  were made-nshima. Rice , pasta and all other pastries were a reserve of the affluent, or holidays that doted the calender year. One dared not interrupt the queen of the kitchen as she majestically tentacled her hands on everything needed for the task. One risked facing her wrath, bolstered by her instruments of mass destruction -the cooking stick, the serving spoons and the frying pan or pot. Only get close if your hands were needed.
I watched as the onions were choped, the fumes from it got me soaked in tears, yet I stood my ground. She butchered the tender reds-tomatoes, and a few other secretes of the trade . Soon the whole kitchen was in a frenzy-sometimes the fried portions of delight would catch a flame- I would scream out-"fire!" yet in calmness , she would put it out. Sometimes it was simply a concord of grains, nuts-pounded and whole, and litany of other nitty grittis. The sweat on her brow testified to her efforts -non could gainsay. Soon the aroma would begin to permeate through the air. A growling of the stomach was a respone, yet one had to stay the trend just till the right moment. All marauders such as flies and roaches were unwelcome to the feast. They sure did know better than to mess with mamas cooking. Unless they were ready for the stake.
When all was done, a transformation occurred . The Warrior's armour was put off, the sweat marked brow now aglow. Her cheeks dimpled with love. And a smile of relief and tenders care. She walked pleasantly as it were a bride walking down the Isle ready to say 'I do' or a princess ready for coronation. The tables were set, well, the floor in any case. But it mattered little, whether we reclined on the table or sat with legs crossed on the less than marbled floor encircling a bowl or two of pudding , soup , pulse or any other delicacy. My greatest delight however was in the effort attached to the process. The meal was often meager, yet the love was seldom less than plentious. Non dared miss mom's meal. We all ate as one, and our white patched lips put on a new shine, complete with a smile.  Non would dig in before the cleansing rite-all hands had to be washed clean in a lava, as it were.
Belching was an unpardonable offence, yet we oft found ourselves committing it one too many times. The punishment was meted out-sentenced to dish washing.

A Wreathe of Friendship

The room was well lit for the occasion, perfect lighting gushed through the window, the long wavy curtains gave way to the enlivening rays of the sun. The rays ricocheted on our brows giving each one a golden glow. A rendezvous of three pals. We sat in the middle of the room as if poised for another scene take. We wore no make up to hide any marks or expressions on our visage. Coco and Rick gave a long stare at each other and then, as if in an epiphany turned to me. I wondered what transpired in a moment's look. Did I have low intelligence quotient for non verbal cues? They seemed to communicate in tones audible only to those with apt minds, it seemed. I dared for a moment not ask why the meeting was called for, but the silence that had permeated the room taunted me to speak. I knew Rick and Coco had voices tamed for singing, great vocalists. I, on the other hand, had not much of a voice to sing, save to talk-a lot at times. Nonetheless, I had a few tricks up my sleeves, or rather up my fingers with the guitar. So perhaps we had gathered to make some impromptu music. Coco soon pulled the cable, the tense feel was swept away . She had apparently arranged for this meeting. with the usual million dollar smile on her face, and a commanding yet mollifying voice, she took charge of the moment. She broke the ice. It was all clear when she uttered a few lines, 'I requested us to get together and have a little talk. We have something in common. We have all lost a great part of us.' Coco had lost her papa early on in life, Rick and I had suffered the same loss about a month ago.
For an instance, the scene changed-and that so abruptly. It seemed we had embarked on a whole new train. Where bright smiles stood, now rested creeses of a somber mood. Eyes begun to water up, and the once glowing cheeks were now lined by tear marks.  I dared not let any tear row down mine, for 'men don't cry' ,or so I thought. Well, I managed to maintain dry cheeks, yet the drooping somehow got my nose running. Efforts were made to abate the new scene. We somehow managed to swallow down the drip,and wipe away our tears, yet eyes still remained injected.
Coco's dad had had gastric cancer. He had sought medical services for quite a while before he was diagnosed with the dreaded malady. He demised soon after. Coco didn't put us in a dirge, nor did she gloss over her ablity to handle such a blow.
Rick's dad on the other hand had come down with prostate cancer. His life was quickly waning. The once strong manly frame was losing hold. Strength was sapped from him as in the heat of summer. All efforts to stay the scourge in his body proved futile. He lived just long enough to see his young lad reach 6th year of medical school.
On one Monday even time, after my daily rut of activity on the hospital ward, I received news that dad had just been rushed into theater. An exploratory lap'. Every patients dread. At dawn, at the first glimmer of light, a friend and I drove to the hospital. A few biopsy samples were obtained during the surgical procedure. I took the samples to the pathology laboratory. My medical erudition flooded my mind with many a postulation of a possible cause of his ailment. A portion of the 'ileocecal junction' (part of the small bowel) had been resected ,in addition to another sample from the stomach. I awaited the results for a gruesome fortnight, perhaps like Noah when he sent out the dove to survey the depth of the flood waters. During this period, it seemed his body was beginning to put up a fight against the offending insult, dad was starting to regain vigor. Mom, at his bedside was ever so tearful. Tears of apprehension interlaced with tears of hope for a better day.
The pathology results were in. I dared not venture to conjecture on the possibilities, for my mind somehow, like a campus  needle that always pointed northward, always ventured on the terrain of a worst case scenario. An acquaintance sent me the results. I quickly rushed to the report conclusion. It was normal tissue-no malignancy. Whew, a sigh of relief. I could now reduce my differentials to amenable conditions. However, much to my dismay, I was sent another report, which had, apparently, been left out mistakenly. Like a constant dripping on a rainy day, every statement I read was suggestive of a horrendous outcome. I felt like I held in my hands my dads sentence after trial. Gastric malignancy-widespread! And there was no court of appeal. The evidence could not be refuted. There was no amnesty. I recoiled, wondering whether it was appropriate to shade a tear, or somehow intellectualize away the diagnosis. In my coat, not of many colours, of plainest white, I strolled through the corridors,waded down staircases with my chin held high. I feared a low face or stoop would let loose the cords that held firmly the Pandora's box of tears.
I could not bare to tell him the lab report , so I carefully folded them and gave them to mom. I retorted, "all will be well." It was easy to clerk patients and spill out the diagnosis to them, of course in the kindliest way possible. Yet there was not an easy way to spell it out to the old man who lay before me. Paleness had begun to gather around his face, yet he spoke in tones accompanied by a faith so latched on to life, so incomparable to mine.
Dad was discharged. Had he found a balm so potent? He was scheduled for another date, about two fortnights away, for further examination and possible course of action . I had braced myself. Thoughts of a good outcome were entertained.
I needed some time to recuperate ,and what better to do so than heading out into the great outdoors. All packed up and ready for the voyage, a team of youths ventured out for a three day's  campout in the outskirts of a nearby town. Just what the doctor ordered!  The beautiful scenes of nature were a balm to my wearied soul. The site was complete with a hot spring-replete with ' A healing touch-a healing stream'. My lads and I couldn't let go of the opportunity to take a brisk bathe in it after a long day's hike in the open lands and thickets. How sweet it was for friends to be together, at peace. We prayed, worked and played, we laughed and we loved. As we were coming to the end of our little errand, a dark cloud hung over us. Rick's dad who had long been in hospital died. A sad turn indeed. our condolences ran out to him, yet the pain was felt deepest by him. We soon  returned to campus,   but like a quake that that could rip through the Richter scales or seismograph's measure, before his appointed date, dad passed away. Just about a day after Rick's dad. A dual tragedy. The curtains had dropped on both. Silence stilled the moment. Wreaths were laid, the dust settled, yet heavy hearts we bore still.
Now in the room, in the silence of the time, Coco wobbled her hands into her hand bag. She reached out for a lovely leather-back pocket sized book. A bible. She read a few verses from holy writ. Comforting words. In a turn of events, the air was soon permeated with a sweet fragrance as we found solace in each others company. Calamity is the sternest thing that may come our way, yet sometimes, in its trails may be found cords that weave lessons so precious in our lives.

Before I hang my stethoscope

Before I hang my stethoscope

Results were in, fingers were crossed (not literally though), hearts  raced with a pace unmatched, the pound was wrenching,sounds were hushed ,visual fields were suddenly reduced to tunnel vision ,yet acuity was returned,perhaps to keep all distruction out of sight. The moment of truth had come. Like the last penalty kip to be taken at the world cup finals, all 'earth' seemed to stand still,in awful silence, as if to have a glimpse of the moment before rolling by. The long awaited last  preclinical year results were in. In a turn of a second , everything that had taken  on a grayscale took on a new sheen. 'Clear pass' ,this statement bore great significance to every student. Somehow,all the sleepless nights, the headaches of meeting deadlines,the gruesome task of digesting and regurgitating information was embodied in this rather plain inscription. Climacteric? Definitely!  It mattered little,nontheless, if it had a prelude of  ' silent'-a bare pass,credit,merit or the appraised distinction. In the excitement, the frenzy, no one cared about the grade of the pass, perhaps until all had returned to baseline normalcy,and the dust had settled.
The great divide,the ravine had been crossed with success. Wreaths of victory were ours for the taking. A few were maimed along the way,some were relegated,and our hearts would go out to them in tenderest pity. We dared not jest, deride or look with scorn at their estate, for all things,whatsoever they be, do happen in the stream of time for a reason. And who dares to insult reason! I have fed my eyes on a passage in holy writ that reads thus,' And we know that all things work together for the good to those who love God...'* We would hung as it were,our harps by the banks and cease to sing the songs of the homeland when met with one who would have enlisted in our joys,yet chance allowed him not the privilege. Our only consolation was the rolling of time. The remedy of time, non can comprehend. There is balm in the passage of time, we had come to learn. Scars it may return, but a balm nontheless.
The stethoscope, few understand it's significance. Many associate it with the practice of medicine and it's technicalities ,and rightly so. Yet one who has ventured through the rigorous training of medical school will understand that it goes beyond the practice, the diagnoses, or indeed the heart beat. It is a relic with ethos , a gourd of the experiences one has had, it is a symbol of the fraternity. All wrapped up in a 'leathery' black casing,or in silvery dull gray or indeed any other form,elegant or simple,decorated or plain, the stethoscope, a quintessential gift fit for a servant of the land, a servant of the common and nobbleman. It encapsulates the art and science to be found in medicine.
With the joys slowly abating,I begun to realize I ,like my corhorts, had just entered new enchanted territory. Things were about to take a new turn. That which we had to imagine to be real, we now had to imagine it was feinged. Patients were discussed,thought of,as cases to loose their individuality ,perhaps to save us the misery of attachement. Dummies did not cry or flinch in pain, blood was as good as your imagination would take you. Every aim at canulation was a straight hit, never to miss a vessel, no precious fluid wasted, no ounce of blood lost. A torniquet could be left tied with no risk of injury. There was no mistake too grave, no misshap fetal. But not so in the emergency unit, on the wards, in the treatment room or the theatre bed.
Like soldiers who with excitement  receive their armoury and with a sudden gust of bravery rush for the attack and soon realise the perils involved, we saw life in a different light. At first we walked the corridors with 'steths' hanging round our necks, or cartridged somewhere as a bodily appendage where one need not ask whether or not you were part of the 'nobility'. Seniors would often have theirs tucked away somewhere as if to conceal their identity. Once in a while , it would be exposed to perform the ritual of patient examination, afterwhich it was back in the marsupial pouch. I saw this to be strange. Who would want to hide the very thing that sets one apart from all others?
somehow, the steth,togetehr with the white court seemed to have a force of attraction that I just didn't understand. Walking in the isles, in between bays, patients would glare at me, as if to whisper in tones heard only by my heart. "Doctor!doctor! the calls would ring out. I would often rush to look for one, for it took me quite some time to realise  I was the 'doctor' . Yet my fears prevented me from engaging to close. I witnessed my consultants and other senior stuff perform resuscitaions, but I dared not be the last person the patient saw before his/her demise. Soon It dawned on me that others trusted me more than my mind could comprehend, more than my self confidence could allow.
Soon I realise  my fear to fail would probably see more people helpless than my failure after an attempt. I took my apprenticeship seriously. At least to my best of ability.  Like my colleagues ,I was an ardent student. A disciple of the forerunners , as it were. We followed through the daily rut. With our hairs on end at every turn, we were on the receiving end of another's  labile mood.
At first, we were all engrossed in trying to find the book fitting case. One who found a classical case of meningitis, syphilis, down syndrome, Steven Johnson syndrome, or typhoid or the endless list of syndromes somehow felt the tinge of cloud 9.  We would often grunt in discontentment when a patient was discharged before the case was presented to the class or consultant. Our desire to learn seemed to overshadow our sympathies. We could barely recall the names of the patients, yet seldom would we forget their ailment. Had we suddenly lost sight of our high calling? Had we become seered?
When faced with death, we interlectualised it,we explained the cause so as find reason to accept it's occurence. Nothing was to be left to the grip of chance. When helping a mother bring forth new life, we wore straight faces,and only smiled to show the mother all was well. If the first breathes turned to paleness, we did the ritual of lifesaving. If death ensued, we closed the case, and in learnt acts of simpathy, we counseled the patient. The irony ,so disconnected from the patient yet so intricately close.
The beauty of the ward, seeing one who was at the edge, ready to ebb away in utter nothingness,  to remain no more in the land of the living, leave the bay with a dance of victory. Death evaded, perhaps to meet with it another day. Everytime one gets his/her hands and, upon consent of the patient, places them on the patients body, something happens that only the doctor and patient may understand.  The patient feels the hands as messengers of hope, an assurance of life without ills. The doctor gently awaits communication through the palms perhaps what his eyes fail to see, the hands will feel, providing a little more information about the one who holds him in high esteem. What the hands fail to appreciate, the aided ear is implored. The stethoscope is placed upon the expectant patient. The body seems to writhe in malady, yet a rythym audible enough to help put the pieces together.
There was always a temptation to think  I knew everything. I always had an answer to a patient's qerry. But I learnt that I always needed the hand of another, the ear of a colleague, the thought of a senior or peer. But one needed to know his tool and use it wisely, before it is hung . Hung around the neck.

A perfect silhoette

Work is the duty no man should shun.

Another day had just ended. A long day it was. With oil stained calloused palms, and drenching sweat from his perspiring body.  His Visage almost telling a tale of toil. He was a little too late for the last bus home after working on his last batch of consignment  in the garage. He had to find his way home in the dread of the night. The street lights gave him courage for every other step. Soon, however the street lights halted ,as if to say, " Fare thee well lone stranger, this far we have come,beyond this ,we dare not give any man an escort, this escapade you must trade alone ". With steady steps, Sam trod the gruesome road home. It was a chilly night, yet one might mistake his appearance for one who fired the coal engines. His fear of getting lost in the maze had long dissipated, for he had mastered the art of navigating the streets without map or campus. His only fear or perhaps the greatest was his wild imagination. It brought terrors unfathomable, every shade bore the semblance of a foe poised for an attack, lurking danger. His racing heart was almost audible within earshot. The darkness was as piercing as ever, almost palpable too. Often, he had to take detours and long cuts in a bid to avoid the thugs that roamed the night quarters. With a sigh of relief, home was in sight. Much of the neighborhood had retired to bed, lights were out, with the exception of one house, his. No sooner had he touched the handle of the door than it swung open. To his amazement ,his littlest sister had kept vigil for his return. She had spent much of the time close to the door way, periodically peeping through the window, hoping to spot the 'prodigal son' in the hazy distance. Her hopes were consummated upon his appearance. She gave him a long warm cuddly hug despite his oily mess and uncouthed apparel. A perfect silhouette of love. Perhaps it was the thought of her and a few other siblings and a single parent that kept him on his toes. He dared not see any of them relegated to mendicancy.
Sam was a graduate from the state university. He was not the top of his class but he sure had some brains to get him through in life. He was not a mechanical engineer or any type of engineer as one may presume.  He was a graduate from medical school. His lot was that of saving lives-he welcomed those that ventured to enter the land of the living and  passionately tried to detain those who were ready to leave the confines of life. Blood and bodily fluids were his stains.
While awaiting postage to his hospital of residence (internship ) he sought to engage in a trade he had garnered some skill in. He had somehow risen to position of 'man' of the house in a family of what some may term a 'meager' family. But this didn't get him down, for he had learnt what really mattered in life. Contentment was his drive, yet it never thwarted his great ambitions in life.
Every day brought new challenges for Sam, but he seldom let this get in his way. His face was as radiant as usual, a warm calmly face, and and inviting smile were his adornment. A resonance from a well knit home, not much to call their own, save each other.
Sam* name changed

Makin' memories

Life's fondest moments seldom come all wrapped up in golden foils.
They come in form of a loving mama or papa, a brother or sister, a friend or spouse. Simply put, those closest to us. Others  come in form of 'anonymous ' persons, that without intention or premonition to become part of our lives ,somehow manage to get close enough to make a day or two or perhaps more, worth a million dimes. Simply put, our unintentional acquaintances.
Planned or unplanned, times spent with those that matter to us, makes all the difference. Conversations seem like an eternity of bliss, of course an audit of this may reveal a lack or meticulous flow. There is often interludes of flight of ideas,tangentiality, sometimes grandiosity. But all this makes it rather interesting.
All buckled up and ready for a road trip, a pal and I set out into the western horizon off into the setting of the sun.The plan was to go fishing really, and game viewing ,but I guess it was partially a road trip too.
With the gas peddle on a steady cruise, windows lowered open for a catch of the cool breeze, we veered smoothly on a road leading anywhere but the city. A whirling southeastern wind suddenly gathered momentum, passed over a heap of sand and hurled it into the cubby. In a twinkling of an eye, we had a sand bath. We managed to escape it's fury, but we still had more than tale tale signs all over. The mood was far from damped, perhaps brought in an elation-with a bit of teasing and laughter.
The scene along the highway was awesome. Large green carpeted farms, complete with aerial irrigation paved the horizon as far as the eye could see.  One could in fancy touch the ends of the earth with a stretch of a hand. Picture perfect.
In our high spirits, we bypassed our destination. But I guess it was all part of the plan.
We finally arrived. After a little dusting of the sand we gathered along our way, we made our way into a lovely outskated game park. Away from the hustle and bustle of city life, it almost gave one a 'mental massage'.
Fishing time came. We got ourselves some fishing lines and some dug up worms and we were all ready for a great catch. Without spoiling the fun, I must admit, I caught zero, while my pal caught one. I have ,in previous occasions ,tried fishing, but every time the best I got at it was catching some weeds or simply having my bait snuggled away. But since this time I had put the bait, I do declare participation in the catch of the single fish. We kept it on the banks of the dam to pass through the phases of algor, rigor and livor mortis (medical terms used as signs in stages of death ) . Had we known this would be our only catch, we would have gone no further in our quest, so I guess ignorance is bliss.
In a surprising turn of events, an old fella ,grandpa-aged Indian origin man drew close to our self proclaimed fishing spot. But before he could have a chat with us, he begun taking pictures of us, and before we knew it, he was asking us to change poses . We didn't mind, in fact we felt a little important, complete with paparazzi.  Too bad we never got to see him again for our lovely shots-moments captured in time, framed in space.
As it begun to dawn on us that we had no further luck for a catch, we decided to head out for a game view-lions in particular. Just before we left, however, my colleague decided to do something ,fishy, fish CPR. I objected as the fish had been out of water for more than half an hour. But she would not hear a single word I said. She then screamed as if to prove me wrong,'it's alive!' I blushed . "No, its not possible, it's dead. It's got algor and rigor mortis ". She insisted, so I dared her put it back in the water . She did, and it floated. Just like dead fish do, my point exactly. But my stance was soon swept from the ground as the fish begun to gasp-it was alive. Soon, like waves of electricity running through its cold blooded body, it begun to fan it's fins. An escape from death! Soon it gathered enough strength to wade away. We nicknamed it 'Lazarus'.
There wasn't much highlight from the lion view as I had previously seen them on a number of occasions in different locations. But since this was a first for my pal, whatever was exciting to my pal somehow  got me excited too. It's not rocket science, no arithmetic equation could figure that out too. The frenzy was infectious. Well, all emotions were mutual except the fear. And then came the highlight of the tour, my pal got a 'pee-laden, fire in the hole' situation. One of the male lions apparently fired a jet of urine ,a perfectly normal ritual for these guys, meant for marking out their territory. Simply put 'I'm the boss, and this right here is my turf' . A way to wade off marauders, I guess we happened to fit the description. Thankfully, the pee missed my friend by an inch, so she survived the raid, of course with a lightning speed dash.  But it was hilarious-at least we both laughed about it. I guess not out of kilter!
Well, time was soon winding faster than anticipated. We had to take leave. This time prepared for any capricious whirling of the wind. The curtains closed. Another day was added to history's unpenned annals. To be told and retold only orally.
Of course, pleasurable moments need not amount to a road trip, whether that be a misnomer or not. It can be while singing a hymn at a church service in a pew, while washing dishes with someone, while hiking, backpacking, outdoor camping, group studying, or at a meal, tabled or not. Savour such moments, lest they get severed.

A place called home...

The view of earth from outer space is breathtaking,reminiscent of its genesis,a time when it was woven together,birthed into existence. A perfect Montage  for life.
It spun on its axis in an endless dance, perhaps a dance of life.  Like the heart that beats for an eternity else it dies,so our little place called home wabbles around. It ,too ,winds an imaginary track. It runs a course never ending. No one is pursuing,yet it must go on circling,at least for dear life's sake. Any cessation in its motion would be deleterious.
The scene soon takes on a new hue. The contrast is immense. Take one look and you are greeted with beautiful scenes. The sky is blue and clear,seas too,with waves thrusting gentle ripples across . Rains come to water the thirsty land,and as if in response to a resurrection call,an army enumerable in number rises from beneath. Creatures ,minute in size yet ginormous in number are waken from their temporary burial in the dust of the earth. They take to flight,and in their array,they seem to obliterate the rays of the sun. Colour soon beqearths the once singletoned miliue. Vegetation carpets the ground.
Little children noise abroad their happy estate.  Families are in one accord, complete with heydays. Neighborhoods are a safe and friendly haven for play and rest,and work too. Just what the doctor ordered.
Take another turn and the air teams with a choking odour . The once friendly army of creatures turns on the valuable crop. Man's sunstainace is at the mercy of their saw toothed jaws.  They creep and hop,and fly too. Before them is a garden of eden,while their reer reels in agony,as if a deathly scourge had swept through.  The rippling seas rise as if in defiance of nature's law, and hurl a flood doom onto the land,wreaking havoc in a moment's breath.
The rains ,the usual heralds of life,suddenly seem to fall in unwonted vengence. All this leaves man in a derg.
The caprice of man's insatiable desires leads him to wage war for nothing but pride, a wreath of  glory. Time and effort are expended to devise or create arsenals of mass destruction. Family ties are sawn asunder,the cords by which society is  bound are dashed to the ground. I recall hearing a little child in a motion picture giving a rather thought provoking answer to a qerry from her mom. Her mom asked,"Hey,what do you wanna become when you're all grown up?" The reply came in sweatest melody, "I wanna be a patient" in amazement,her mom curled up and asked,"Why?"  She replied,"That way,dad (who happened to be a medical doctor and  seldom had time to be at home) can spend more time with me,since he spends more time with patients" . This almost brought a tear to her now heart broken mom. It seems tears are the order of the day ,as if a way to Mollify oneself from the the pains of life.
Behind every dark corner,a gang of delinquents lie in wait to ambush an unsuspecting wayfairer. A homeless or perhaps a runaway child sobs in want for warmth and comfort of family,not in word but in deed. A young beautiful lady,or two gathers courage ,a misnomer indeed, to brave the inauspicious nightly cold,and the terrors that lurk ,in a bid to trade her body at the stock market of her own making. She sales cheap,perhaps with good reason-to bring home a loaf of bread  to her starved little 'angel' , to be the mother she had never once had herself. And this at great cost,for so little a wage.
In constant apprehension of what may befall,man wreathes in anguish ,sometimes,too great a cross to bear it seems.  Sometimes,our greatest fear is not death itself,but a life of pain and misery. One would call for death to his aid for relief . For in death,there is sweet repose,for both friend and foe,pauper and affluent. For there is no awareness of anything that ensues under the sun.
I guess we live in a world of stack contrast,a beautiful terrible situation.
What happened to the dream of a better day,can we still hope for one?I guess we can still hope, it's our lot to have this hope amid the wiles.