The Kettle

Once upon a time a rich man looking for the meaning of life decided that several experts in different professions should set up an experiment in order to observe a man for a period of time through a one way mirror. He thought this would help him find the answer.

During this period, the man, who had agreed to be observed, filled the kettle and switched it on.

"What is happening now?" said the rich man.

"He is meeting the physical needs of his body through replenishment," said the biologist.

"He is reasserting old habits so that he feels more at home," said the psychologist.

"The electricity is causing energy to be transferred to the water molecules, which means they are gaining kinetic energy and heat energy," said the physicist.

"The man is escaping the problems of his mind by ignoring the silence and distracting himself," said the philosopher.

Confused by the abundance of answers, the rich man went into the room and asked the man being observed, "What is happening now?"

"I'm making a cup of tea," said the man. "Would you like one?"

3ww The Old Man Sleeps

They were going to sedate the pathetic old man, and they had the cheek to think themselves righteous in their cowardice.

3ww The Robber

His preparation had been haphazard and now his breathing laboured as he ran through the streets, breathing the noxious fumes and fleeing for his freedom.

Mysterious Glimmer 3ww

He ignored the mysterious glimmer, and instead took the fatal and well trodden path of the impartial man.

Themba's Story

My life is full of stories.

Stories full of sadness and longing, stories of redemption and salvation, stories of forgiveness and hopelessness, healing and wonder.

But this story is a story of violence.

It used to happen when I was five. It makes me shudder to think of it, let alone tell it again.

I have lived in rough areas for almost my entire life. I have lived near bars and pubs, heard the screams and shouts of anger and hurt at night. I have felt terror before sleep, and I have known mindless violence for no reason.

It was when I lived a bit further out that it happened though. One of my chores was to go and buy bread each morning. Lots of children hate chores, but this one chore made me hate bread.

I used to step out of the house to walk to the shop, and as I walked I would notice a trail on the ground. I remember the first time I saw it. I was quite excited – I didn’t know it was blood. I followed it eagerly, a dark trail of brown drips, wondering what could leave such a trail. The first time it led to a house, and I dared not enter there. But I soon saw a similar trail again, and once, it didn’t lead to a house. Instead, it led to a man. Covered in blood and contorted into the strange shape that the agony of death brings to a person, hands clutching, desperate for something his now unseeing eyes must have hoped was there. I don’t know how many times I saw a body when I went to get bread in the morning when I was five years old. I don’t know how often blood spattered the way there. I know only that it wasn’t good. That it isn’t right for children to see this. It cries out of me that it cannot be so.

I use this story of violence and sadness as a springboard. A motivation to see my country and this world changed. A world where violence is no longer present is, I believe, possible, and I strive for it each day. I wonder, would you strive with me?

 

 

 

Based on a true story.

Sipho's Peace

Scurrying across the room in fear. Footsteps booming overhead, legs churning for his very existence, skittering over the slippery surface of the wooden floor to the hole in the wall.
"He got away again!" cried the child,
"We'll get him next time," called the woman in the room next door.
I hate rats thought the child. He was 9, and an orphan. Small for his age, but growing rapidly now he was eating properly. In the township it used to be that he was lucky to get one meal a day. At least here he ate three times a day and was able to go to school every day. Before he had to look after his little sisters with his older brother. Now, they were all safely in their new home. Victoria, the mother of the house, looked after them. She fed them, cleaned for them and gave them hugs when they were upset. She was also great at fixing things and when his toys were broken Victoria would patiently sit with him and help him put it right.
"Sipho!" His name brought him back to the now, "Why have you stopped sweeping?"
"Sorry Auntie Victoria, I was thinking."
"Oh. What were you thinking about?"
"How it was before." There was a pause. Victoria looked around the door before looking down and then meeting his eyes.
"Do you miss it?"
"No," said Sipho, "but I miss my mother. She used to hug me and her smile made my tummy go funny. I knew I had been good when she smiled. I miss her so much."
Sipho was determined not to cry. Talking about his mother always made him feel upset, but he did not want Victoria to feel bad. He could see she knew he was upset.
"I am sorry Sipho. I am sorry she is not here, but right now it is time to sweep."
With those words the moment passed, the sadness that sometimes crept upon him was swept away like the dust he brushed into a pile on the floor ready to be put into a dustpan and thrown away. But Sipho knew his sadness could not go away. He knew it would return, like a new layer of dust would cover the wooden floor in a few days and it would be his turn to clear it up again. But for now, he could enjoy a bit of peace as he swept. A bit of peace for a little while.

A story based on my experiences with Project Gateway in South Africa