Test of Faith

            I’ve always wanted my pet mean. I crave a “beast” for a pet. A heavy beast, with paws of steel. A grounded animal with the personality of a vile deity. I want a pet that doesn’t bark; a bullish animal that only bites, and growls, and breathes in your ear like a devil when it corners you, putting the fear of death in you, making you beg. I want a pet that doesn’t take prisoners; that knows not how to take prisoners. I want a pet that thinks, wrongly, that it’s a god. I want him rancorous, and cold, and imposing, and threatening…all in one package. That’s the kind of pet I want to take for a walk, or go jogging with – a pet with ego problems. Such a pet, I guess, would bring a different feel to the streets; a different vibe. That’s what I want. So much for the shy pets you see around that almost piss and trip over themselves in panic, stepping out of your way on street sidewalks when you walk past them. They drive me nuts, these shy, designer pets. Funny thing is: they always size you up with the corner of their eye when you pass. That’s because stepping out of your way is not something they like to do, but they do it anyway because they believe that that’s their place in the food chain. They do it because they have no fiber to stand up to you.

I like that word. Fiber. Sounds like a herb. It’s what inspired this post.

            Whenever am free I play soccer. Soccer warms my soul; it’s beautiful. It is the most fun you can have without taking your clothes off. [A few weeks ago] am changing into my soccer gear in readiness for a practice game. Am waiting to go in to kick some ball, you know, the works. This guy we play with (he likes to stay in the shadows, so let’s call him SG, Soccer Guy) – someone who I didn’t know reads this blog - throws a soccer boot at me. I turn and say something about his grandmother. I say she’s a whore. Everyone laughs. He laughs too, which I find very weird, deceiving even. I continue to tie my laces but I keep him in sight with the corner of my eye just in case he decides to send a brick next to come meet my skull. He doesn’t do that. Turns out he’s not from the stone age, that era in history when humans decided that a stone could solve all their problems. He changes the topic but I’m still wary. Am still alert (Note: Never let your guard down. Never let someone's cool deceive you. Street survival 101). Later, when he comes up to me, he says,

“I really like Turuphosa.”

“Who’s Turuphosa?” I ask.

“What the hell! Your blog!!!” Am caught napping there. It’s amazing, though, how this guy talks about a blog as though it were someone. And not just anybody but someone he likes. I thought he had been thinking about that earlier statement I made about his grandmother (who, just now, I thought was called Turuphosa when he mentioned the name). I thought he was trying to make me know that he likes her a lot despite what I had said. It’s a noble thing, I think - to stand up for your peeps like that. Thing is, though (and this could just be purely coincidental), that the last group (or generation) of people that I heard use the name Turuphosa is now old – the grannies generation. It’s a name with one step out the door, a name on pension and black and white photos. And the fact that I’ve never talked anything blog-related with SG here threw me off-balance even further…but I came back just in time to salvage myself.

“Oh, am sorry! I thought you were referring to a person, you know, from the way you said it. I also didn’t know you read that blog,”

“Yeah, I do; stuff get around. And I love the blog. I passed it on to a friend and he loves it too,” I nod, “…but let me tell you one thing: if you keep writing like that, am afraid you’re going be weeded out.”

“ How do you mean?”

“How do I mean? There’s fear all over your writing,”

“Wait, did you say fear? Where’s this headed?”

“Yes, fear! Each time I read any new piece you write I’m reminded of an old story - the story of the hen that refuses to take its chances,"

"Hehehe...What is it about the hen?" 

"Well, the said hen's sustenance is getting lean. She knows there’s more food for her out there somewhere but she refuses to venture out of her familiar territory because of fear. Nothing grounded; just a gut feeling that a wild cat could hop out of the next thicket and snatch her, and make a meal out of her. She starves and dies in the end - a victim of her own fear." He pauses momentarily. "Now that's a nasty existence. It's a fate you do not want to befall your writing. Get out of your shell!”

What!? I wanted to tell him to go to hell. I wanted to ask him to hug some cactus plant for me.

“What do you have in mind? What do you suppose I should write about?” I ask instead.

“The unfamiliar. Take a plunge into the unknown…”

“Like what exactly?”

“Something you struggle to understand. Like something psychic. Or even death…I don’t know. Anything! At least prove that you have the fiber to write about something that will challenge you, something that pushes your sticks.”

Stony silence. This guy walks into my backyard and wants to teach me how to run my show? How arrogant! I spit. No I don’t.

“Your point is taken…but that blog stays the way it is. It was set up for the mundane only. Nothing psychic goes in there. No death stories…unless we (sorry I) amend the law. And am the law.” Did you see that half-diplomatic-half-Hitler stunt I pulled there – the politics (hehehe)? It was my ego speaking now because SG had thought I was a sissy. I had to trip him. I had to wield my sword. SG is someone you want to annoy, if you can afford it. He is one of those people you want call late in the night when you’re sure they’re asleep and when he picks up you say, “Oops! Sorry Oliver, I thought I dialed Olivia. Sorr…” and you hung up before they hurl something unprintable at you.

         I thought about the encounter later, though – more soberly, more relaxed. Now was like a loosening of the knots of ego and pride, more like a woman taking off her girdle after the party is over. I realized that there was something potent in what SG said - something born out of how he relates with text. I imagine he is a guy who picks a piece of writing and brings it to his eye level, and engages it while staring straight into its eye. I imagine he looks between the words. It becomes an eye-to-eye engagement – close and intimate. He crowds its space. He smells it (for fear and all..hehehe). There are few people with that keenness of sight. He has that dockyard philosopher’s sense of what makes the ordinary man tick, I think, and the finely tuned ear of a frustrated rock star who knows what makes men dance. He is a rare breed.

         That’s why I called Chad and told her I wanted to come ride a horse over the weekend. She was surprised of course. Well, Chad is a friend of mine whose family, she told me, owns a few horses on a ranch. She’s a horse lover. She tells horse jokes (you can already imagine what character am talking about here, can’t you?) She’s surprised that am asking, because she’s always asked me to come but I’ve always made excuses. Now, out of the blues, I call. She thinks am pulling her leg. “I don’t pull legs,” I tell her, “I only pull surprises...when I can afford it”. She’s convinced now. I’ve touched her(or maybe confused her), I can tell. It's the dansani touch, which is more like to be touched with the tip of an assegai – the Zulu spear. She says game.

            Sunday at 3 pm I pitch up. It’s a huge ranch. Stacks of hay are strewn all over the open field. A few horses are grazing. And along the edge of the fence are planted pine trees in such perfect spacing and order that smoothly and gently carry the eye along. Chad’s been waiting. There are a few of her friends here too. After we get introduced, she summons the horses – two of them; more than two would be stubborn to manage, she says. So she lets the rest graze. Fine animals; that’s what they are. You can see their muscles sticking out. She places her hand on the fir of the first horse and rubs her (the horse) gently. She closes her eyes in bliss; she loves it.

“She is Teressa…” Chad says, patting her. Teressa, for a horse. Cool name, huh? A pure breed Tennessee Walker. She’s 7 years old. That’s adult for a horse.

           Teressa has a mild temperament, we are told. She is more accepting of strangers. We can ride her. The other horse – Toby – whom we are told is Teressa’s son is a bit naughty. He has a lot of the infantile teenage tricks in his bag. You can tell that he derives great pleasure in working Chad up and, I swear, if you look closely you see something the equivalent of a smile on his face at those moments. Chad would be trying to get him still so she can mount him. He’d pretend to cooperate and then, without warning, he’d bolt out, galloping across the ranch, kicking the air, reveling in the moment, Chad after him yelling and cursing.

“He’ll pay for his bad behaviour!” Chad tells us at some point.

“How?” asks one of her friends – Andy. Someone stifles a laugh…but it leaks through the cracks. He can’t hold it. I think I know why he laughs. Let me digress here a bit, back to where it all starts. When we were introducing ourselves at the beginning – when we got here - we each said both names. Everyone did, at least till this guy’s turn came (the one who just sought to know how Toby was going to pay for his ill manners). He only introduced himself as Andy.

“What’s your second name, aye?” quipped someone, “We all said both names,”

“Greenbutt! Andy Greenbutt.”

“Oh cool!” he answered; the questioner did. He’s the same guy battling laughter just now. Seems he hasn’t gotten over that "Greenbutt" name. He must have a very imaginative mind, I think. Anyway, we learn later that Chad’s way of getting back at Toby is to have him take a bath – to tie him down and pour warm water on him, and scrub him. Toby has a laugh-worthy phobia for water. He reacts to bathwater like a lot of kids: as if it were acid, toxic anthrax, scalding oil. We laugh at him. Water scares daylights out of him in a way that you have to be present to appreciate.

           In the end, I drive back not having rode. That's because am a man of little faith. I had stood on the fringes and watched Chad do it, and it had then occurred to me that horse riding is a dangerous falling forward. Every gallop the horse takes is an arrested plunge, a collapse averted, a disaster braked. It's a holding-on and letting-go so much so that a horse-ride is more than just a sport. It's an act of faith, a leap into the unknown. It's a test of faith that I fail. Every gallop is a testimony of SG's genius. It proves him right, right?