The Dark Side - Tempest
This is Chapter Two of “The Dark Side” | If this is your first time here, please see Chapter One - Origins
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Chapter Two -Tempest
Linderman: There comes a time when a man has to ask himself whether he wants a life of happiness or a life of meaning.
Nathan: I’d like to have both.
Linderman: Can’t be done. Two very different paths. To be truly happy, a man must live absolutely in the present, no thought of what’s gone before and no thought of what lies ahead.
I was happy once. A long time ago…
I closed my eyes as I imagined the years flying back, a flickering montage of darkness and sorrow slowly and gradually giving way to a brilliant radiance that threatened to blind my hindsight. A smile flickered across my face, subtly revealing the beauty of the memories unseen.
Running across the acres and acres of Bugoloobi flats playland, pushing an old car tyre at insane speeds using two sticks stuck inside the tyre. This makeshift car was made thus: The sticks were stuck on opposite sides of the tyre, where the tube should be. The inside was greased with soft rotten bananas (matooke) to reduce friction between the stick and tyre. The rider would grab one end of each stick in one hand and push the tyre along and gradually increase speed until you reached Mach 2. Occasionally, the bananas would dry up after running too long and the sticks would jam, and at roughly one million miles an hour, one of two things would happen; the rider would be flipped high over the tyre for a few meters and land very unceremoniously on the butt, if lucky. Or, the sticks would jam straight into the aforementioned rider’s kwashiorkor ridden belly and knock the wind right out of said rider.
Playing “Mummy and Daddy” and being selected to be Daddy for once, after months of waiting to “grow up”.
Sledding along very steep slopes on old cut off jerrycans, headlong into oncoming traffic. Playing dool, ssonko and kwepena with the local lads and the village belles.
Harassing the global enterprise of Mr. Mehta, of the Lugazi sugar factory fame.
We liked Mehta for three things; one, he provided us with an endless supply of sugarcane, which we of course borrowed without his permission. Two, he gave us endless hours of fun and adrenaline, running away from his panga wielding minions who threatened to skin us alive if they ever laid their fingers on our scraggly bow legs. And three, his horses.
My goodness, his horses.
We would trek for miles and miles through rough thick bushes, sparse savannah grassland and semi-forests just to go to his farm and see the wonder that was his horses. We would lie low on the ground, hidden deep inside insect- and possibly snake-infested bushes, munching grass-stalks, punching each other and making silly faces as we waited for the horses to be led close to where we were.
And then they would come, and for all of six hours, we would just watch, enthralled by the beauty and magnificence of the creatures, and we would ache just to be able to touch the heavenly creatures. Of course, inevitably, our stay always ended in only one way; one of us would get too excited and stray from under the cover of the bushes, we would be discovered, and a shout would go out: a call to arms by the stable-hands. Our applause worthy get-aways would see us cover miles of rough terrain at no less than forty miles an hour. I’m sure every single time, we broke world records for one hundred meters, hurdles, high jump and long distance.
Everyday, we would each arrive home pale as sheets, and for dark Acholi kids, that is saying a lot. Pale, not from fear, but from all sorts of stuff we’d been playing in. Of course, our parents would spoil all the fun by summarily dispatching us for a thorough scrubbing and maybe a beating or two.
We loved it. I loved it. I lived absolutely in the present, with no regard for the morrow.
Linderman: But a life with meaning, a man is condemned to wallow in the past and obsess about the future.
I think a lot about what could have been, what went wrong and where the road to a bright starry future ended for the dreamy eyed boy I once was. I think, perhaps erringly so, that it started, and ended, with my father.
I loved my father, we were the best of friends those beautiful times when we were together, just the two of us. He was so proud of me, despite all the burden and pain that was part of my existential package. He would show me off to his friends, his little genius. Six consecutive years of primary schooling across three different schools, I faltered from the number one position in class only once. And that was because I had changed schools in the middle of third term and I slipped to the lowly fifth position in the End of Year Exams in P5. I cried myself to sleep that night when I saw the dissappointed look on his face.
One day, he came back home and there was this shine in his eyes. He never told me the details but I was reliably informed the next day that I would start coaching for P3 while studying my P2. And that’s how I did two classes in one year and was still at the very top of both classes. I have never seen a prouder father. He bought me a watch.
I cherished those days, when he would come over while I was reading a book and teach me a new word. Like the time in P1 when he told me how to read “Europe” and then proceeded to give an in depth exposition on the white man and his ideologies. His audience of one listened with rapt attention.
My father was my hero. And I wanted to be just like him. I could be just like him if I tried hard enough. My future revolved around my father, what he wanted me to do, what he expected me to do. To make my father proud and happy was my dream, because he made me proud and happy. I could be the man he wanted me to be. No, I would be the man he wanted me to be.
Mohinder Suresh: We all imagine ourselves the agents of our destiny, capable of determining our own fate. But have we truly any choice in when we rise, or when we fall,or does a force larger than ourselves bid us our direction?
I believe, in a way, I was the architect of my own demise.
You see, she was my friend.
I used to play with her younger nephews. They were the inseparable company I kept, the group of potbellied kids we once were, and we were the terror of the neighborhood. And we loved it. I would go to their home for lunch, seeing as my dear father couldn’t cook to save a life.
I can still taste the mandazis she used to prepare. Soft juicy succulent things that we would crave for hours on end. Our taste was not the typically indiscriminating pre-adolescence taste that all boys have, the one that allows them to eat anything and everything as long as stocks lasted. No, the neighbourhood agreed with us, and people would line up just to get a taste of the mandazis. Somehow there would be a lot more men than women, and I believe it had less to do with the eating habits of bachelors and more to do with the coy smile that drew them to the stand in droves.
That smile.
She took me home once, it was very late and her brothers were being punished for some obscure reason that made sense only to the adults. I walked with her happily, laughing along at her silly jokes and making faces at the men who stopped to say hello. I wanted the journey to last forever because she was tonnes of fun. Too soon, our house appeared, and the door opened on the first knock. My dad, towering in the door-way started to look down at the place where my mud-caked face usually was, ready to riot. Instead, his scowl turned into something I can never describe to this day.
She left home three hours later, leaving a blushing grown up father in her wake. She became more frequent after that, finding all sorts of excuses to come home, cooking food for us, doing our laundry, teaching me how to read complicated words in the bible like “paralyzed”. I was happy. Free decent food and a break from doing my own nefariously dirty laundry? Who wouldn’t be?
The wedding, of course, came as a total surprise to me, but nonetheless, it was okay in my books. My father looked so happy and so young, having shaved his beard for the big day. I’d never seen him without beards. He looked eerily like me, or was it the other way round? I don’t think I tasted the wedding cake, because I was running around playing with anyone I could find and staining my kaunda suit with Schweppes Pineapple and popcorn oil. I saw most of the wedding on tape a few months later. They looked so beautiful, and I knew we were going to be so happy, a perfect family.
Mohinder Suresh: When confronted by our worst nightmares, the choices are few; fight or flight. We hope to find the strength to stand against our fears but sometimes, despite ourselves, we run. What if the nightmare gives chase? Where can we hide then?
I huddled in the corner, eyes shut tight, praying with all the strength I had in me. As the door slammed shut and he rolled up his sleeves, cane in hand, I knew that once again, for the millionth time, my prayers would go answered.
When he finally got tired, he left the room, and I crawled into my bed, my twelve year old butt stinging like no man’s business. I couldn’t even cry. What difference would it make? My pleas of innocence fell on deaf ears. She said I had done it, and that was enough. What use would crying do me now? In the living room, my three year old baby step-sister wailed pitiously, and her mother shushed her and lulled her to sleep. I fell into an uneasy sleep, eyes sore, lips quivering and vowing I would be on my best behaviour from this day on.
I drowned myself in my electronics, I made helicopters that were just about to take off, I made toy cars from wire that were the envy of all the kids in the neighbourhood, because unlike theirs which they had to push around using sticks as steering wheels, mine ran on batteries and a motor. My genius garnered me my own clan of worshipers. I would always be He-Man, I got the red towel in superman. I made the biggest and highest flying kites, and in all this, I was always first in class.
And still the whips descended, day after day. The cold indifferent look in his eyes were enough to make me run away to the compound and talk to my pet rabbits. They were sold one at a time, and I had no say in the matter.
But I still loved him.
He was my father and I still wanted to make him the proudest dad ever. I did not touch alcohol for my entire life, except for the past three years, when I take a little wine now and then. Even now, his legacy and my love for him still has a hold on me. I have never stepped inside any kind of disco club. I was a model student in school, not that anyone took notice. I was liked by the teachers, liked by the students, featured on the school news at some point, for reasons I will keep to myself. I loved school, I loved studying. It would make my father so proud.
But every single term, I never wanted to go back home during the holidays. I was always the last person to leave the school on the last day, watching wistfully as parents would come and pick up their loved ones, knowing that if I didn’t get my luggage to the gate and hail a taxi to begin the grueling journey back home, I would have to spend the night illegally in school. I cherished Term-X, when in S4 to S6, we would officially stay back in school during holidays, pretending to be studying, yet spend the days whiling away the hours playing Super Mario on a Game Boy.
Deep inside, the loneliness was unbearable.
There is no worse feeling. One day, it got so bad that I wrote a letter to my father, and told him I was tired of everything, of my life, of our life, of the way he treated me. I wanted him to love me, to appreciate me, to tell me that he loved me, or if that was asking for too much, at least show it. In a moment of madness, I posted it…
Home was my nightmare. The abuses, the scorn, the beatings, the look in her eyes everytime I asked her for something. The look in his eyes every time I pleaded my innocence. And the dejection and rejection I felt every time my grades slipped.
I loved it when they would both leave the house and we would be left alone. All day, my siblings and I, plus the maid, who was a few years older than me, would play like the children we were. I had nothing to fear. I loved my siblings. Although they were her children, I loved them to pieces, even when they used her undying love for them against me in a dark moment of innocent selfishness, we still had the time of our lives. I remember the long hours spent trying to “decode” DSTV using an old calculator and a soldering iron, the screams of joy when we would see a full face for a split second. I remember making a robot that we called Nigel, after seeing far too many episodes of Godzilla.
But then, every day, they would both return, and my siblings would run to their arms, joy in their faces as they each recieved a sweet. I would sit still, and very quietly mumble a “welcome back” before their eyes landed on the broken porcelain cup…
Where did it go wrong? Where did I go wrong? Was I not a good son? Did I not try my best, did I not love him? These questions plague me now, like they did then, like they have always done. To this day, I ask: Was there something I could have done to change everything?
Hiro: Maybe I’m not the hero I thought I was.
Ando: Hiro, every hero is on a journey to find his place in the world. But it’s a journey. You don’t start at the end. Otherwise, they can’t make a movie about it later.
Hiro: What if I’m on the wrong path? What if I was supposed to save those people?
Ando: You can bend time and space. Maybe when you can do it better, you can come back here and fix things.
Hiro: Like a do-over?
Ando: Exactly.
Hiro: A do-over. I like that.
I wish.
Too many days have passed, too many dark months, even darker years, of asking myself these questions over and over again. Who am I? Why did and why does this stuff happen to me. Why does my past, and my present make me so angry? Is there nothing I can do to change this? Can I not escape it?
“You can run far, you can take your small precautions. But have you really gotten away? Can you ever escape? Or is it the truth that you did not have the strength or cunning to hide from destiny? That the world is not small. You are. And, fate can find you anywhere.” – Mohinder Suresh, Heroes.
May 14th, 2008 at 2:41 pm
Socks or what????
May 14th, 2008 at 3:13 pm
I’d been wondering why you were taking forever to write……….. All I can say is, it was more than worth the wait. I’m so profoundly moved and feel like something has stirred in my soul. Something I wasn’t even aware was there…… My heart weeps for the boy that was and the man that is but I know that you now have a strength that many only dream of. *wiping tear from eye* I am truly truly blown away
May 14th, 2008 at 4:31 pm
Before I read, where the hell have you been??
*now off to read
May 14th, 2008 at 4:49 pm
*Drawn.How could I not be?
Resonating truths that strike far too near home for comfort.
I like the way you become that little boy; in thought and writing.
The transformation is complete, convincing.
It leaves me with the simple question: are you writing your own auutobiography?
May 14th, 2008 at 4:51 pm
*autobiography
Under useless info: Heroes rocks!
May 14th, 2008 at 5:21 pm
Bonjour toute le monde.
@cheri, lol, enjoy it while it lasts, people were sleeping…
@dara, welcome, I’m glad you loved the piece. And thank you.
@princess dear, my apologies for being away, corporate dragons and economic strife in my fiefdom would not allow me a moment’s peace.
@ everyone, sorry it took so long, but I’m exploring method writing, don’t know if it actually exists, but I borrowed a leaf from method acting.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Method_Acting
It takes me a while to get into this “phase” to write from the inner depths of my being.
Lol, hard to seperate fact from fiction, no?
May 14th, 2008 at 5:29 pm
And yep! Heroes rocks. I just love Mohinder’s intro and outro voice overs. Awesomeness.
May 14th, 2008 at 6:07 pm
“…hard to separate fact from fiction,no?”
*Ooo, you’re good. You’re very good.
[I'll take that as a YES]
May 14th, 2008 at 6:11 pm
au contraire, cherie. It’s neither a yes nor a no.
May 14th, 2008 at 6:14 pm
Well?
Yes?
or
No?
May 14th, 2008 at 6:15 pm
Two parts remain, my impatient friend. Revealed, the truth shall be.
May 14th, 2008 at 6:33 pm
You’re no fun!
Especially if it takes you a couple of weeks to come up with each chapter!
May 14th, 2008 at 6:52 pm
LOL. would you settle for shallow and quick then?
May 14th, 2008 at 7:15 pm
Eh! that’s a dubious choice of words, young man! LOL.
*You could try posting your every-day posts every so often though.
A little of your usual humour, if you please?
Where’d TE get off to anyway?
May 14th, 2008 at 7:21 pm
Indeed, I realised the connotations after I hit submit, but I’m a man of my word. lol, even if it conjures all sorts of vivid imagery.
TE’s off weaving magic spells, guiding young Artorius on his more gallant quests.
We’ll look into those everyday posts.
May 14th, 2008 at 7:39 pm
A man of your word?
*I have evidence to the contrary!
May 14th, 2008 at 8:06 pm
*ahem, indeed you do, princess dear. BUT. Patience.
May 14th, 2008 at 10:57 pm
[...] The Dark Side [...]
May 15th, 2008 at 9:26 am
I agree with Princess, u should do a bit more of the ’shallow’ everyday posts for those of us who are hopelessly addicted to ur blog and the occasional good luck. And yes, heroes is the greatest! Tell TE he has a duty to his blogren, they have to come first………
May 15th, 2008 at 9:27 am
sori, laugh not luck *ooops!*
May 15th, 2008 at 10:01 am
Just informed TE. His usual silly grin was his only reply. In the meantime, we’ll do our best to revert to “shallow and quick” as often as we can.
Forth Eorlingas!!
err… sorry, got a little carried away.
May 15th, 2008 at 10:41 am
A fitting continuation of the last post - and I have no complaints about how long it took to come. Stuff like this should be taken in measured doses, not sloshed out every day.
Painfully beautiful.
May 17th, 2008 at 12:26 pm
*silence*
May 30th, 2008 at 4:56 pm
That piece takes me back, and aback
June 27th, 2008 at 6:12 pm
[...] youth ministry will fail
July 16th, 2008 at 12:00 am
Silk wedding Flowers…
Does ayone remember promise rings? Well they’ve made a comeback, mostly with the teen generation. They symbolize commitment, especially for couples too young to get married. They can also symbolize an unbreakable friendship bond. A gift of these and…
July 26th, 2008 at 12:44 am
Jcpenney Coupons Free Shipping…
So whats stopping you from buying a gift or taking your loved one out to dinner more often? Surely not the price. Theres loads of discount coupons on the net for all the major retail stores and restaurants….
September 10th, 2008 at 2:25 am
engraved promise rings…
A new common trend is for couples to exchange matching promise rings. These make for a fashionable and romantic gesture….
May 21st, 2009 at 6:37 pm
a mixture of true life and fiction then?
…what ever this new style of writing is, its really good!
i cant say i feel the boys pain, but its touching…hes desire to please and be loved and accepted portrays his naive simplistic pure youthful state of mind in such reaistic detail!
unfortunatly those are the kind of people who get mentaly fuckd by this merciless world of ours.
props!
u got good stuff here!