Thirty years ago the hilarity in Sophia’s voice checked abruptly. She paused as we spoke on the phone. In the background I heard a muffled conversation with someone with a male voice.
Then, with a barely audible sighe, as if turning back to speak to me, and in a slow, deliberate cadence she said,
– I don’t want you to ever contact me again!
She hung up the phone.
I was dumbfounded!
But for 3 decades I have respected her wish.
However with the advent of the Internet, every few years I have engaged in some cyber stalking. I learned that she has had an illustrious career in architecture and the design of big public works. I also knew that she lived somewhere in the greater Tell Aviv area.
I found out that she had a partner. That they had two daughters. I was unsure if she ever had been, or still was married, because in her professional career she uses her maiden surname.
And now!! in the aftermath of her stunning outreach! How should I reply?
Should I tell her that I love her? That I miss her? Of course not.
Yes, her short two lined communiqué, certainly had hissed over my being like a spray of aerosol through the flicker of a candle.
But love? longing? No.. that would be bullshit.
So how should I reply? With soppy sentimentalism, full of platitudes. No…
I would just reply with a simple story. Maybe it would speak to her sense of nostalgia, and hint at what could’ve been, had events been otherwise, in our case, had a war not intervened.
My dearest Sophia,
The old-timers of Lusaka tell of the days when they were young, back in the 50s and 60s, when they would cut away from work early on the Friday of a long mid year weekend, to be able to leave the flat leafy Jacaranda shaded suburbs of the city by 3 o’clock.
Heading out towards Angola on the Great West road, they would deviate to the Northwest at Mumbwa, the shabby dishevelled little town which did, and still does, served as the administrative center for the countries western province.
If they drove at elevated speeds, as young men are want to do, when spurred on by alcohol and a sparse and sympathetic police presence, four hours later, just after it was dark, they would be at the Lubungu pontoon.
On the flat open ground adjacent to the pontoon, they would set up camp for the night in the light cast by the headlights of the vehicles until the kerosene Primus lamps could be lit.
The next morning, as they woke to the clink of the kettle being heated on the wood fire prepared by the servant who invariably was in attendance, they would slowly extricate themselves from their blankets. Still dressed in their khaki shorts and with the coarse cotton fabric of their short-sleeved bush shirts roughened by their slumber, they would nurse their hangovers. Then, just as slowly, they would lace up their leather ‘veldskoen’ shoes, and wander over to warm themselves with their hands spread open towards the heat of the fire.
In the pre-dawn gloom and with their coffee mugs now clasped in their palms as a substitute for the warmth of the fire, they could wander over to check out the focus of their visit. There before them, Spreading North East and South West, with broad lazy twists and loops, like the long swaddling sashes used by the African women to strap their babies to their backs, they could see how the Kafue river wended its wide way, tucked broadly into the opulent lushness of its banks.
Soon their hangovers would be assuaged by the sweetness of their African coffee, into which they would dunked and sucked the big thick ‘Ouma’ rusk biscuits.
When the mixed dregs of their beverage and rusks had been flicked onto the dry grass, and the mugs given to the servant to clean, they would call to the pontoon crew.
After some haggling as to the ‘incentive’ price needed to have an early start, six young men, all from the area of Chief Kasempa, would saunter across from their nearby huts.
As the crew slowly spread themselves out evenly along the up-stream edge of the pontoon’s hulking platform, they would still be hugging themselves and rubbing the exposed bareness of their arms to ward off the chill of the air as it seeped down to cover the river with a cloak of early morning stillness.
Once in position, the men would slide the slots cut in their wooden mallets onto the draw cable, whose shallow parabolic arc, together with that of the thicker, higher anchor cable, disappeared across into the low fog which, in winter, invariably forms over the waters of the river.
As the pressure on their mallets gripped the cable, in chanted unison, their heaves, like those of travail, would slowly edge the hulk of the pontoon, and its burdens, like some prehistoric beast through the swaddling mists on the broad surface of the river.
Reaching the far bank, it would not take long for the crimson orb of the sun at the eastern edge of the enormous sky to begin to unfurl and dissolve the mists as it heralded a new day.
Once across the young men would be outside the boundary of the National Park. Now they could head a tad further, as the road edged north towards the next pontoon, over the Lunga, and on to Kasempa. They could cut back to meet the river further upstream, or simply camp on the far side where they would launch the boats using the pontoon beach head as a ramp.
Either way, here on its clear and eddying currents, the young men would spend the next few days, largely unaware of the hindsight that would in six decades, allow them to realize that they had been in one of the Gardens of Eden.
Six decades later, the winds of time and change would have blown away the youth of these men. Those gusts of change would be of such significance that, just as the gusts of August scatters the leaves of the gracious spreading Jacaranda’s, the old timers too, would mostly have been scattered far from that Garden of Eden.
Uncannily it was at a wedding on the other side of the world where, like an ancient mariner, one of those old timers, recognizing my accent, had tugged at my sleeve. He would not let me go until he had finished his tankard of beer, and told me of those halcyon days when as a young boy, he had fished in Eden.
As I listened to his tale, I wondered if I should tell him that despite it all, not all of Paradise had been lost..
Should I tell him that now, sixty years later, just as it was still confined within the flat sprawl of his mind, the streets of his memories are still adorned with the leafy crowns of the Jacarandas. That some of those same trees, with six more decades of growth, now arch across the roads like the buttressed ceilings of a cathedral.
Should I tell him that only a month before, I had camped for the night on the south bank of the pontoon, where, sheltered from the chill of the air in my sleeping bag, I had lain awake listening to the clink of the kettle.
Should I relate that, in the brief dimness that precedes an African dawn, I had lain listening to nature’s symphony, as it had sounded here for millions of years, unspoiled by man…the snort of an impala, the bark of a baboon, the wild bray of a Hadeda Ibis taking flight, the drawn-out plaintive bugleing of a flock of trumpeter hornbills. Or maybe it was The last call of a Scops Owl before it would hide away for the day from the mobbing of other birds.
And the most beautiful of them all, the Heuglin’s Robin, in the same thicket as that of the old mans memory, with its call rising, rising, rising, to crest in a crescendo as climactic as any passion, long since dissipated by the decades of his exile. I knew that crescendo was a sound and a song which, must still linger in his nostalgia, as surely must the rusted hulk of the pontoon.
Should I relate that it is the same hulk, unchanged except for a pair of crank-start 1-pant engines.
And that it still plies its slow deliberate ways, across the waters of Eden.
Your – Gideon.
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