The man usually sits on the ground, talking and rocking. A waitress comes out of the cafe behind the green wall and brings him a white chair. Sometimes he sits on the ground against the chain link fence by the cafe at the south end of the school. Yesterday he sat on a kerbstone, by the school gate. He has ragged trousers with the calf torn. He has broken sandals and the remains of a jacket. He has a stick. He talks to himself. He has no other.
The village looks after him.
Today he sits at the back of the Double J cafe where a stainless steel platter of food can be had for six thousand shillings. Rice, beans, stir fried spinach, fish or beef, sauces, and a soda. There is a pale lime green perimeter wall against which some gentlemen visitors to the cafe relieve themselves, their essential selves invisible to the patrons of the cafe.
There is a pit into which the rubbish is thrown and which is burned from time to time.
Two dogs forage in the pit even though it is filled with smoke. One dog hauls out a carcass and chews at it.
The man is brought a little food in a black plastic bag. He talks to the world inside himself.
Two women dressed in the clothes of the kitchen bring out a large bowl, carried between them, and dump it in the pit.
The dogs rush forward, noses twitching. One descends into the pit. The dogs are confident yellow dogs, white tail tips and white boots. One is a little darker and slightly brindled. They salvage remains from the soup. Smoke curls from the pit.
The village looks after the man who talks, and the dogs. The dogs and the man belong to the village.
The man sits and the invisible forces that carry his spirit talk back to him.
A motorbike buzzes by. The trees sway in the wind. Chickens parade the road and verge. The sun emerges from morning cloud. Tiny brown birds build nests in the cacti.
Western music plays: what goes up must come down. It's blood, sweat and tears.
No comments:
Post a Comment