Here. Now. He tends to the flock that his late father left behind. Just yesterday, they had been sitting at the corner of the street counting the cars as they passed by. In silence, they had spoken so many things; the kind of things a father going on a forever journey says to his son. Like the dry brown petals falling from the acacia tree, his thoughts fly in the air. “He should have told me he was not coming back”
Here. Now. He sits in the rocking chair as mourners gather. He holds the doctor’s postmortem report. “Ectopic pregnancy”, the word resounds in his mind several times. He is too lazy to google it. For years,actually, four years since they were married. They had tried for a child. Now, the child had come, years when they had almost given up hope. But now she is gone, alongside with the child they had both prayed for. The child he will never get to see; or touch. And his lovely Miranda, just a memory on the photographs in the album.
Here. Now. It is in the strong winds that blow, the winds of the Great Victoria lake. It is in the random stranger who smiles down upon a beggar child on a dark corner of the ghettos of Kampala. It is in the rain that falls on a dusty day. It is in the eyes of the rabid dog that frantically barks at a stranger. It is in us. Here. Now.
Yes, and if fire flies randomly flew out of an anthill on the Savannah, it would not matter that his word cut deep like a newly opened razor blade. Her skin was thick, like the walls of the Egyptian pyramids.
She walked like she had violins playing in her feet, her spring sure like the voice of the diviner who told her she would never see happiness. But his voice is what disturbed her most. That even in her show of macho strength, she was hurt by what could have been.