Lockdown: Just maybe…(Day #8)

Eight days into lockdown, Baba is home every night ,he shares meals and childhood adventures with us. The fire is his eyes is reignited; lighting up his face. There is no reek of alcohol in his breath, no anger in his voice; and there is no disgust or fear in Mama’s. The void of silence and thick tension that use to consume us, is now filled with laughter ,and proximity.

It’s in the way he looks at Mama, with that stuporless glare of adoration and remorse. Contemplating and regreting his past actions. It’s in the way he humours my little sister’s million questions ,and the energy with which he feeds her curiousity, as if he is just discovering Fatherhood for the first time in his sobriety.

Maybe there is good to come off this lockdown, just maybe this will mark the end of absence, and emotional deadbeats will understand the impact of mere presence. Mhlambe this —enforced time with family and all those that matter—will provide rehabilitation, and we won’t have to lose anymore siblings and role models to the abuse of substances.

Maybe Baba will again feel more at home in this one room slum with us, than at the tavern pits with moral-less scavengers .

Maybe beyond this ,the good will outweigh the bad. And time spent caressed by the energy of those that value us , will help us gain a little bit of humanity, and we’ll look at responsibilty as another way of cultivating empathy .

Just maybe…. ©

Negligent…

“How they planned to keep that leaking relationship afloat beats me!”

With her guttural , resounding voice she begins .
In between long tokes of tobacco.

“Now that its submerging,they’re using the children as oars to row away on their single boats in spite of each other.”
©

Fiction.

Picture : Courtesy Of Chesterfield Sofas.

Just yesterday a very great friend asked me a question and i quote : “If there were no destinations and you could travel forever, what form of traveling would you take and to where?”
I said First Class Armchair traveling through a creative soul’s rich imagination ,exploring and sightseeing places beyond touch ,fuelled by the inspiration fanned smoulders of passion,the love for written arts and of course; the silencing of the nagging voice of scepticism . What there a better way to travel or place to travel to ??

Than through the path made of threaded words and within the minds and bodies of fictional characters that can take you as deep as the past and as far as the future , or the vivid narration that can dangle you just above the presence,with buoyant prophecy ; as if you were a superior being with the power of foreknowledge only without the ability of altering fate (and yes, the thrilling pleasures of suspense to constantly incite and intensify the anticipation ).
But then comes the most loathed and quite inevitable part of Armchair traveling for every avid reader . The Destination. Those little words often written in bold italics : “THE END” as if to forcefully yank you off the cockpit of fantasy. You dread turning the last page and wish for a sequel, however satisfying the resolution or denouement might have been . More so because you know that reality is impatiently waiting for you to digest and sober up from the stupor of the utopia . Panting like a tortured bull ready to pounce ,swollen and inflated with even more tragedies because every book you read makes you conscious of at least one more human error . The legendary Mark Twain was spot on when he said : “Books are for people who want to be somewhere else” .
My greatest respect to the fictionate sculptors for creating a place of refuge and refill .

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