Not used to having an audience, I noticed that when I chanced to have one, terror struck me. I would become totally tongue tied. Or the opposite-start to blabber to no end like one possessed. The later brought with it exaggeration. A pathetic stream of believable stories which infact, only happened in my mind.
My family is known for it wealth of individuals with more that a dozen words up their palates. I swore to spend my life fighting this. I didn’t want to be one of those people who always have something to say ;opinions or otherwise. I wanted to be one of those mysterious people who only said a word when it was very necessary, and a wise word at that. The kind of person who won’t force stories into any year pointed towards them. I would follow the advice of listening before I spoke, and not turning every conversation into a war with words. Competition for the highest pitched. I would be silent.Cool. The problem with not being very out spoken is that people begin to look at you and say, ‘That one’s got steamed carrot between his ears.’
The next stage they ignore you kabisa, eventually the only talking you do is in your head.
I had reached that point and apart from very few times,I was in my comfort zone.I didn’t want to talk, didn’t have to talk. In my mind, the fear of inflicting pain on an unwilling recipient resided no more. But a man needs to maintain his ego, and this with words out of his mouth. My uncle, in an act of sympathy explained to people that I had yet to find my audience .He being a talker with a following.
The train was not due for another whole hour. I went to the station all the same to wait, as my business in town was finished, and really I hate walking round and round the crowded city anyway.
I saw a boy engrossed deep in a book.I walked towards the bench where he sat. From the cover, I saw thee title of the book he was reading-Montgomery’s children- A bulkier copy than one I knew.
I had read this book. Not twice like one does for a love story ,not thrice like for one with a complicate plot,but five times! Five times for a favourite book. I knew every line by heart.Unlike other books like -East of Eden- which I had read and discussed with my reading club,this one I had never shared the thrill I had had reading the classic. The boy smiled at me and I smiled back as I sat myself next to him.
There was a book in my bag-Poems from East Africa-I retrieved it, and realised, this was no time for poetry. I read poems in the morning train to give my mind a zing .I had the Wednesday paper, a Patel text book , and my Bible. I couldn’t read the Bible here. What wwoould people think? Self righteous he?The text book I wooould read at night, and the paper I had read my interest pages.
‘Have you ever thouth you could fly?’ I asked.
The boy didn’t look up.
‘I can,and I fly all the time. Not exactly like Norman ,um, in the book you are reading, in my mind. If I close my eyes, I can see myself soar high, and about fire having taste, I agree kabisa! Don’t fire have tongues? I really liked reading about Josephine. ’
The boy had turned to look at me,and his eye brows rose.
‘You know, the girl with one arm. She is the ideal woman.’
He was now chewing his nails in that annoying way my students do when they don’t have an answer to a question in the Chemistry lessons.
‘And the language, it’s just, super, brilliant…’
On I went. Excited to be able to share this ,this great deal of energy that had swelled up in me, every time I read the last page of that book, and which had now risen to a level I never experienced, as I voiced the story. I wasn’t pausing, just a short mad intake of breath and off I’d be with the story. I was gesturing ,standing then sitting to emphasise points. The boy raised his hand to mid level and signed. From my compulsory basic sign language I had taken during my teaching training, I knew it meant train. Train? Oh, The train had pulled into the station and I had not even heard the whistle. The boy opened his leather brief case and as dropped in his book,I saw that the were actually two of them. Inside Montgomery’s Children was a slim copy of-Simu ya kifo-.He stood up to go and waved to me. Then turned to walk towards a slender woman who was coming towards him. I looked on as the gestured and made signs with their hands and fingers and made big expressions of their faces. Interesting. I thought.
I stood up to board the train. Then it hit me.
The boy was mute.
Deaf too? Deaf and mute?
Had I found my audience?
