“An hour with your beloved feels like a minute; a minute on a hot stove feels like an hour. Depending on what we do, space seems to narrow or expand, and time seems to slow down or accelerate. " The great man’s words kept disturbing my thoughts. I would have gladly traded my predicament for a literal minute on a hot stove—it seemed almost preferable. Between My oddly debilitating academic world, my messed up social life, and a dire financial situation I barely had enough time to observe the vicinity nor to worry about the —other— “diminutive” subjects. My mind raced nonetheless, from the two little rats that climbed down the electrical cables into my room at night to the dense population that I had to comb through to get home. I asked myself questions that didn’t have answers, and I tried motivating myself —all to no avail. Well, since time was already moving slowly, I might as well embrace it.
Deep breaths!
Five thousand six hundred and eight steps, that’s how familiar I was with the route. I had frequented it so many times, pacing quickly through the ten-minute walk, around five in the evening for over a year. While trying to walk slowly I noticed I walked with peculiar disorder, trumping from left to right as if I was walking on marbles. I didn’t walk much and my short stature, big head, and tiny legs didn’t help either. But, Between the people who never got sober and the little toddlers who were exploring their first week as bipedal mammals, my strange manner of walking was in the acceptable region. I tried to pay attention and mimic the other —obviously skilled walkers — to no avail. I ignored it because it can be ignored. I crossed carefully on my first T-junction making sure to check both sides of the road, twice, then again, I was starting to get weird looks when I finally concluded it was safe to cross. I danced to the loud music on the other side of the road, and when I crossed over, another loud song was playing. These streets seem to be an infinite string of loud music and people shouting to or at each other —lovingly or otherwise.
Madness!
The air was filled with low density smokes, the street vendors had started their fires and were beginning to roast the Mahutwane (chicken feet), (actual) chicken, and sausages some even went as far as roasting chicken skins and chicken unmentionables —that to me seemed like an unnecessary risk. No one was buying that; man was I wrong. Each vendor seemed to speak a different language and quite possibly was from a different nation. I never understood how communication was carried out during the transactions, but things were being sold so the system worked! Something about the fires and high-fat junk food reminded me of my obsession with amagwinya, I couldn’t wait for dawn to break so I can get me some.
Yum!
People seemed to be in their element—effortlessly occupying space in a world that bent to accommodate their laughter, their colorful hair, their shared cigarettes and bottles of beer. The boys with their locked braids leaned against walls, their laughter sharp and territorial. Girls with constellations of glitter on their cheeks floated past, their voices lilting in a language of inside jokes and unspoken alliances. Later in the cover of night, they’d pair off, mouths colliding in shadows, hands mapping territories I couldn’t name.
Focus!
I was almost day dreaming when the sound of sirens and the helicopter scratched through the air, it wasn’t unlikely I had witnessed similar incidents far too many times, and so had the people around me. They had stolen another car, the police and the security companies were trying to find it —same old same old. They were going to make the rounds well into the night. The helicopter shining its light on the streets while the police searched the area. They never found the cars. After they left, I would expect gunshots, probably the victors arguing over the car, strangely though no ambulance sirens are ever heard after the gunshots.
Bang!
I made my way through the streets, making sure to give the usual nod or say "eita-da!" to the people I passed. One or two of them would ask for two Rands, and I would give it to them whenever I had some to spare. It’d buy me a footnote in their memories, for when they eventually rob me. “That one,” they’d mutter , blades flickering in alley-dark, “let’s just take the wallet.” A bargain, really. I’d walk home lighter, grateful they left the spleen.
Phew!
Random thought: The rats. I am going to use all the engenuity I can master to trap them, not to kill. Just as a condescending gesture of showing intellectual superiority. Or maybe not—Victory tastes hollow when your opponent doesn’t even know they’re playing.
Sigh.
"Existence is futile" I heard myself say. Exactly as if it was a result of a subconscious calculation. A calculation that has taken 267 months 29 days 12 hours and some minutes. A calculation that has returned a different result before, and another different one before that. All well;
Momento mori!
I've figure it out. We are born. We die.
And yet, even as I whispered those words something in me rebelled against their finality. Perhaps it was the stubbornness of being human, this peculiar need to carve meaning out of chaos. Or maybe it was just vanity, the desire to leave behind more than footprints on cracked pavement or fleeting nods to strangers who’d forget my face by morning. Either way, the thought lingered with the smoke: What if existence isn’t about solving some grand cosmic equation? What if it’s simply about doing —walking crookedly but walking nonetheless, nodding at passersby, dancing briefly to loud music, eating amagwinya under dawn’s pale light?
Momento viveri!
I am born. I am going to make a difference.Only then, I will die.