A Hault From The Sky

Tick tack. Tick tack. The hour hand of grandma’s old pocket watch hit a slow pace and said 9pm. The night has come to a gradual close. The skies full of serene darkness, lowering its gaze on the earth with the friendly help of the stabbing eyes of the bright moon. Fireflies parading anxiously in the tall grasses, searching for a mate that recognises their beeping light. The cold wind kissing the tender skin with chills of comfort as I sit outside yearning for the precious vocals of the nightingale. A nightingale lost in Africa.

At the far distance, there is a fire burning in the field with 4 men chattering in circle about what seems to be an engaging conversation. A lie. The truth. A hearsay. Or a lousy affirmation only drunks with 9 kids, whose heights from afar are close to been described as human staircase, would give. Two little girls with an impossible excitement, screaming as if to say “make way, convoy coming” can be heard running nearby wearing just pants to go deliver an errand. Wearing pants in a cold wind. A sight only seen in days of sheer excitement.

A light from a window caught my eye, a family about to have dinner. Maybe its the lust for food or the beauty of family dinner that coaxed my legs, its hard to say. I walked with an ambitious gait of a diplomat, stood few meters from the window and smiled as the sight infront of me brought a soothing touch to my senses. The table was neatly placed underneath a colourful table cover that made the plates, tumblers, jugs, flower vase and cutleries stand at ease with a picturesque appeal. A mother in a lovely native dress made from old fabric moves the meal from a nearby room, probably the kitchen, to the dinning. Every movement she places, to and fro, is acompanied by a nocturnal smile. The father replies back with a gesture that looks 80% a smirk rather than a smile. All because his left ear is been entertained by a silver plated radio set he bought 2 evenings ago. Three children hungry to be served an evening meal. An anxiety creeps into their taste buds, ready to do ample justice to what mother spent her entire evening hour preparing. She seems pleased at this sight.

A horn suddenly dusts my reflex, making me jerk up a bit. Then reality dawns helplessly on me. Grandma is waiting to give her grandson a butter hug. Warm. A 52 minutes walk into the dark, empty road beckons me. Wish I was one of those kids running towards their errand with just pants on screaming excitedly “make way, convoy coming.” How wonderful life would have been, if that was the case.

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