The Passing of Time
By: The Kalahari Review
Tags: Otsile Sebele Seakeco, African Literature, South Africa, Fiction

The Passing of Time

It was a cloudy beautiful day after hot dry December weather. My frequent visits to hospital shortened after two weeks back home. I withdrew and took completely to myself with long walks many without direction or purpose which, despite the painful but touching sight of hope and fight in the eyes and smiles of countless people I exchanged respects with, I remained weak and at loss.

I faltered at the thought of having to cross the bridge on my way around the cricket pitch where St. Peters Primary School sits squarely on the edge of the road, a stretch from a cluster of shops connected to the local taxi rank. In determined fashion and out of fear of being spotted by one of my friends who in the event might have easily persuaded me to use the money I had for a joint enterprise, I opted for a different route.

The overcast gave the streets a different feel, everyone praised God for the lovely weather and in the same breath pardoned Him for the usual striking and unforgiving sun. I walked steadily taking to every main road, avoiding incomplete streets whose darkness solicit fear, take to moments of pleasure and have left many scarred for life.

I bought flavour, charcoal and foil instead of the two beers I’d budgeted for, when, at each corner mothers called to a Stikimens, Trouble or Mista, asking if anyone has seen their children while taxi’s sped passed and everyone preoccupied with their own takings gave routine the respect it deserves in De Fields, an old township at the Southern tip of Africa.

I continued straight with Smith Street along houses that stood upright with no sign of frailty or neglect. Many of their occupants transformed them from basic four room houses to sites of beauty which gave a strong presence to their surroundings despite the ailments that often supersede their high walls and beautiful gardens.

My walk thrust me among familiar faces whose generous concern called out or stopped me to ask after my sister’s well-being, which at particular junctures, helped suspend and divert my fear and attention away from stray dogs that expressed little to no interest in human activity except in its waste as they dug, tossed and sniffed for something edible to bite on.

It was in giving the same mild, well-rounded and vague response that I slowly came to believe that sister Mei, with all her kindness, generosity and big heartedness would be fine despite the rapid rate at which the opposite was true. I trembled at the thought of having to avoid another hospital visit when smells of dried blood, sticky floors and unwashed sheets suddenly shook through my body. I struggled against so many things that stood before me as fate that I was forced to take relief under a nearby tree.

I stood up slowly with little anticipation of where I was headed. I stretched my walk further down to Gaborone where sewage took course and lays itself comfortable in narrow streets, rubbish sites sit at every intersection and houses built on top of each other not only suggest the opposite to those I’d crossed in Smith Street but beget a story of their own. They, nonetheless, welcomed the evening’s cool wind and the afternoon’s buzz with great ease and spirit.

In approaching the street where I was supposed to take a left turn towards home, I came across an old man in pyjamas who called out to passers-by while he hit his dark brown stick against every fence, and where there was no such barrier, he scraped it in line with where the supposed fence ought to stand or hang. His voice grew intense and louder but with one look in his direction people continued on their way, out of curiosity and a bit of concern I drew nearer to him, contemplating on whether I should take heed of everyone’s response or pause to find out if the old man was okay.

“Hello Pa, is everything fine?” I asked. I picked up an uninviting smell from where I stood. “Hello son, thank you for stopping. I am doing well and you my boy?” “I am good Pa”, I replied earnestly. “I am on my way to see a prophet. I always watch his ministries on television with my grandchildren, they told me that he will be in town today, but nobody is willing to take me to him.” I remained silent trying to register whether it was a legitimate plea or if old age had gotten the better of him. He continued, “you must know him, he is followed and loved by many.”

The hope and faith behind his words dispelled the little bit of doubt I had about the old man’s sanity. I asked after his name, “Phiri” he said calmly. “I am Phiri Rramuhle”, he repeated. My eyes accidently met his when he tripped over a rock next to the pavement, and in trying to get him back up, I could not escape their enthusiasm and a face that was still, despite the obvious years it could recall with its contours, writ of life like an infant’s.

I helped him up and as I was about to reach out to his stick and get hold of his right hand, loud screams from upfront and suddenly from all over, stunned us. It was the shrilling voice of a child that stood opposite from where the old man was still laying that gave us the rude awakening.

She was trying to alert us to a car whose driver had lost control, and which was headed towards us in great speed. Before I knew it, the car was a few seconds away. Struck by shock and moved by instinct, I managed to quickly throw myself clear of its way and while at it, heard the most terrifying sound and most painful cry I have ever heard to date. The car’s impact on the old man was loud enough to draw everyone’s immediate attention on to the street.

Moments later, I lay still next to the road with people’s shouting, yells and cries echoing in the background. All the people I had seen walk passed the old man were now beside him screaming for help while others quickly discussed how to get hold of his family. I struggled towards them in disbelief with a bruised elbow and a slightly injured knee. It was just upon reaching the crowd that I realised that I was again, thrust, between taking heed of everyone’s call or moving in the opposite direction.

I gave it some thought when I remembered that I had left home to forget about another possible hospital visit, sister Mei’s pending recovery and the unending struggles life at the Southern tip of Africa presents us with, only to be confronted with Mr. Rramuhle’s untimely and undeserving death. I dusted and gathered myself after taking the nearest corner haphazardly.

It was upon the third or fourth house in the next street that I wondered if there was a threshold for what one was to witness and possibly encounter in De Fields. I said a silent prayer and forced back a tear when it also occurred to me that, my earlier judgement of the people I had seen ignore and walk past the old man was somewhat misplaced.

What I believed to have been plain mean and cold, was in fact a telling reflection of how a peoples’ misfortunes, troubles and the constant demand to stomach one’s lot can and does, potentially harden you against your most tender and sensitive impulse.

Night had slowly settled in when I returned home to visitors whose presence only meant one thing and a stillness that every family knows so well. My friends, porched in front of our house wore different expressions and welcomed me at once with searching and compassionate eyes. I took to their embrace with the hope that what had betrayed me as fate would not translate into an unending process of mourning that began and followed me long before the event of such a dreadful day.