Sell me a moment...

The birds are still singing in the trees, even as the crickets raise their voices to call forth the night. Our birds sing all day, till the sun sets. Some even sing at night, though it is said to be bad luck if you hear those.

The sun is about to set now. I see it low in the trees over there, its light making dancing shadows on the ground. I should be untying the cows now if I’m to get home before it’s too dark, but I would rather sit here a little longer. There are only three of them today. The birds and the crickets sound so much better than the crying children at home. The car and boda boda sounds from the nearby road are not so harsh here. And the air here is free from the chocking smell of smoke and animals and human beings all packed in a small space. Here the air smells of mango flowers.

It has been warm all day; comfortable warm, not the kind that makes you want to drink water all the time. It is still warm though the sun is setting.  The mosquitoes are not biting yet.

It’s at times like this that I don’t envy those girls with their school uniforms and heavy school bags, walking towards home, walking towards a brighter future.
Who is certain of the future anyway?
The only thing certain is the here and now, the song of the birds, the warmth of the evening air, the dance of the sunlight on the leaves on the ground, the heady mango fragrance…

In the future all these could be gone. In the future their parents could die and they could be sent off to live with that uncle they hardly know, tending cows all day.
Like me.

Maybe in the future I will be able to go back to school. I do not see how that could happen, but neither did I see myself being robbed of my parents when I was barely able to take care of myself. So maybe it can happen.

Maybe in the future, one of these two boys will actually notice me sitting on this culvert edge as they walk by on their way from football. They pass the group of school-girls who giggle embarrassingly at their presence. The boys walk like they own the world. Maybe they do, with their low riding shorts, tshirt sleeves ripped off to expose bulging muscles…

Maybe…

But wishful thinking won’t get the cows home and uncle is not likely to be in a good mood this evening-the month is halfway gone-so I best get a move on.

Surely there must be a way to package this moment-the warmth of the air, the bird-cricket harmony, the dancing sunlight, the mango fragrance-and sell it for a fortune. That, right there, might just be my ticket out of this downward spiral into nothingness.

My Knight in Battered Armour

He comes to me, bloody, battered and worn
Helmet askew; once-proud plume a sagging mop.
His visor is missing, lost to the barb that was meant for his eyes
The dent on his breastplate speaks of broken ribs, bruised heart.

No shield in sight, shattered sword in limp hand.
Of the lancet he had carried, no sign.
A jagged shaft preceeds his advance,
The spear tip peeking out the back of his thigh.

The identifying colours, chipped away in places

to show the rusting plate underneath,
are obscured by the layers of dirt, grime and gore
Of countless battles fought.

Shoulders sagging from the weight of pointless death
witnessed, some by his very own hand.
Feet dragging, exhausted beyond telling-
Of marching and running and dancing the dance of death.

He stands before me, unable to meet my eyes

Afraid of what he might read there-in
For every knight knows every princess dreams
Of her very own knight in shining armour

But I stretch out my arms clad in tattered gown
And hold his broken body against my own scars

For I know that every wound and dent, every discolouration

Speaks of battles fought…and WON!