Scarred

As I stand in the capacity packed stadium, I can only make out a few dots on the podium. These people with their chanting and screaming, I cannot hear a thing! Not to mention the vuvuzelas and horns blaring every other time, to what effect I have no idea. I think to myself that this is a waste of time. I still don’t know what attracts such hordes of people for a whole day, ironic really because I was one of the flies circling the carcass. My consolation was that I was not engaged in any way; no quarry would have me, no office would see me.

Do not judge me just yet, I am not illiterate. Far from it really, in theory I am an intellectual. One of the few big words that help me sleep at night. I am a proud 8-4-4 system product… on second thought; pride did not feature in it. Fruits of my almost two decade search for the elusive keys to a better life were bitter lemons. Lemonade? That is a luxury that people with options have; they have water, they have a blender and sugar to taste. I have lemons, straight from the tree no sugar coating. In lemon contexts, they were as sweet as it gets (read bitter). However, I digress from my train of thought let me stay on course.

Yes, I have read the text books from primary to secondary school, cover to cover. Rural boy with urban ambitions my teachers said. I was never sure if it was sarcastic or well meaning, but I chose to be optimistic about it. I did my best given the resources at hand. I was admitted to a local university for a degree course in nutrition. Life was looking up I thought, I was a few steps away from grabbing my keys from the global rack and opening the door to my better life. Life had worked itself out beautifully. It was a bright future, glimmering in the light… I could taste it, I could feel it. Then it was snatched.

I climbed down from the lorry that I was on top of and joined the crowd below. I started manoeuvring through the sweaty people in red, orange, blue, green campaign t-shirts screaming and chanting. I felt a hand in my pockets, I smiled. Better luck next time, poor guy. I had nothing there to be robbed. I smiled and shoved a few more people. I stopped to look at the podium; the dots had visible colours now. The colours mirrored the crowd in proportion, funny thing. Representative sample I would call them in Geography. My heart sunk and revolted to my moving through the crowd, I stood and watched the crowd and towards the podium. The PA was audible now.

I had an odd feeling of déjà vu; the adrenaline charged crowds that swayed to every word from the PA, the aggressive voice coming from it, the many colours, the huge crowds, the adrenaline coursing my veins by association, the feeling of euphoria and invincibility. It was the feeling I loved at first and hated in its wake. It was the feeling that was a preamble to snatching my dream. I felt a bit of disgust at the people on the podium. I thought to myself that in as much as I did not see their faces, I could guess who they were. Looking for endorsements to go live large and be back in five years to get some more endorsement. They came and played the piper tune, and we followed.

The last time they came, I was caught up in the mood. I remember the debates that spewed fire literally. I remember the disagreements that made me retaliate with stones. I gave as much as I received, I was angered. I felt wronged and I felt that I had to express myself. I felt that I would accomplish more with blunt pangas and stones. At first, I thought the idea was to intimidate but push came to shove and I was caught up. Where dialogue failed, blood and violence did. I was an aggressor and the aggrieved. I displaced people from their homes and others did the same to my family. In the end, nobody won. Worse still, nobody knew for sure why we fought; except the people at the podium.

That is how I dropped out of campus, my dreams went up in smoke and aspirations were strewn across the dusty terrain like all our clothes and belongings… broken and stepped on. I looked back towards the lorry. Not this time around; I was bitten once and this time, I was painfully shy. I started going back, and felt a hand in my pockets again. I caught it this time and looked at the young lad who looked petrified. I felt sad for him; this was not a crime of impunity but for desperation. I let go of his hand and walked away. I felt sad for him, for me and as I turned around to see the crowd again, I felt sad for the generation standing at the bottom of the podium.