THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: THE GREATEST LIFE LESSON
Written by Yandisa Krobani
Grandpa is an avid admirer of nature. Whilst neighbours are competing over who has the prettiest and smartest pavement on their yards, he has decorated his with various flowers. When entering his gate, one is greeted by the fragrance of sweet-smelling flowers surrounding the grass where the path for people and cars is. The whole yard is a marvel to behold and a genuine representation of a small paradise.
“Do things differently and you will see the results differently.”
It sounds clichéd but this is what he usually says to me whenever I ask him why he cannot just put pavement on his yard like most residents. But an exquisite yard is not the only thing Grandpa is known for in the neighbourhood of Campsight. Not far from his house which Grandma, with the assistance of Veronica, has turned into a home, he has a small garden. In it he plants mostly vegetables such as carrots, spinach, and cabbage. He also plants legumes such as peas, fruits such as tomatoes, and lastly carbohydrates such as potatoes. When his produces are ripe and suitable to be cooked for human consumption, he gives them to the maid Veronica, which he instructed me to call a helper rather than a maid.
“But Grandpa, why trouble yourself when you can buy these foods in various supermarkets?” I asked him.
“Linda, apart from being healthier, these produces save us a lot of money. And working in the garden keeps me fit. It is my method of exercising,” he replied.
When there is a surplus of the harvest, Grandpa gives it wholeheartedly to the community soup kitchen. This kind gesture has made him a popular old man in the neighbourhood of Campsight.
It was the holidays and, as usual; I visited my grandparents. Early in the morning I heard a knock at the door of my room and it was none other than Grandpa.
“Prepare yourself; we are going to town today,” he said, closing the door behind him.
It was no surprise really. Whenever he woke me up in the morning, I knew what it meant. We would go to town by a minibus taxi. It was a habit for him to wake up early in the morning when his car will not be in use.
“Grandpa, where is your car?”
I deliberately asked him the question to which I already knew the answer. He laughed calmly before answering. My unnecessary questions always amused him.
“It is in the garage.”
“Is it broken, or has it run out of fuel?”
“Neither. It is alright. I am just saving fuel and minimising the intensity of global warming. And, Linda, do you know we are exercising as we are walking this short distance?”
I nodded in agreement. Grandpa has a mannerism of turning everything into a lesson. His intellectual, learned responses silence me.
As we were on our way to the taxi rank, to my annoyance, he greeted everyone we came across. This is another reason I despised walking alongside him when I had to go someplace.
“Be weary of indifference towards your neighbours, Linda. They are the first people whose help you need when faced with danger.”
At a distance, I saw Father Khuzwayo in his pyjamas leaning on his front gate and looking outside the street. He was sipping tea as usual. I became reluctant for this meant it would take forever to arrive at the taxi rank. Father Khuzwayo is one of the closest friends of Grandpa and they will talk politics, the weather, and the indolent youth of today in their lengthy conversations. And they will be laughing warmly to jests only themselves can understand as adults.
At last, we arrived at the taxi rank. There were different kinds of activities happening, and everybody seemed occupied with something. There were the women seated next to their fruit and vegetable stalls, and some with buckets full of vetkoeks and muffins for the convenience of passengers who had had not time to breakfast at their places. There were men with crates in front of them laden with ten rands pirated DVDs. Energetic young men, shouting at the top of their voices, moved from one minibus to the next selling goods through the windows. Grandpa and I progressed towards the side where minibus taxis going to town were lined up. And alas, the line with other passengers seemed as long as the one during the first democratic election in South Africa in 1994 which Grandpa frequently talked about! My indignation exacerbated on witnessing that the line progressed slowly. And this was because the minibus taxis rotated that whilst others were going to town, others were returning to fetch the other passengers left behind. I shrugged, exasperated. Grandpa saw this and was quick to comment as usual.
“Patience, Linda. Patience. Make it one of your principles. Impatience is the reason most people are rotting in jail and others paralysed whilst breathing their last breaths on deathbeds.”
I nodded, once again appreciating the lesson that Grandpa was giving me.
Finally, our turn to board arrived after many tedious minutes of waiting. I boarded next to the driver whilst he joined the other passengers. Whenever I travelled to town on a minibus taxi with him sitting next to the driver was a duty he had assigned to me. As uncomfortable and overwhelming as it was, I obeyed this order. And to make matters worse, mathematics is my least favourite subject. I despise everything that has to do with numbers as a result. And it is a custom that whoever sits next to the driver counts the money paid by passengers and gives back change when needed.
“Linda, you must learn to place yourself in uncomfortable situations. You will think critically and be responsible from an early age.”
We travelled around town purchasing tools needed for gardening to replace the old and dilapidated ones, and some items such as a wool which Grandma needed for her knitting.
“Can you see how populated this town is, Linda?”
Oops… here comes another lesson!
“Yes, Grandpa,” I replied.
“Well, you will not believe me when I say a quarter of these people are here to buy things they do not need. Believe me, others could have planted at the comfort of their own homes. Needs and wants, Linda. Know the difference between them. The world would be a wonderful place if people stopped wasting resources buying stuff they do not need.”
Our next stop was the Chicken Lady where mouth-watering fried chicken and chips are sold. Their prices are affordable. I ordered two pieces of chicken, a mini loaf of bread and an orange juice. Grandpa ordered the same. We sat at a table as I indulged on the food. He did not touch his. “Needs and wants, Linda.” I recalled his words. And then it dawned on me that my dear grandpa had ordered his food so as to not make me feel bad. It was just junk food for him, and junk food was not a need. I finished mine and he asked for a take-away for his as we rose to go.
Just outside Chicken Lady, a hobo tried snatching the takeaway from him, but its contents merely fell. The hobo picked up the fried chicken, the bread and the chips hastily before running away. Grandpa picked up the juice and chased him. I rushed behind them flushed with humiliation. I cast a why-cannot-you-just-let-him-be look at Grandpa. He did not want to eat the food anyway.
“Do not worry, Linda. I just want to teach him a lesson he will never forget,” he responded as though he read what was on my mind. But I still did not understand his ‘wanting to teach a lesson’ to a hobo over mere fried chicken, bread, and chips. Grandpa can buy that any time but not the same can be said about a homeless person trying to have something inside his stomach to survive, although this was not the best of ways to do it.
The hobo was hell-bent on getting away and Grandpa showed no signs of quitting the chase either. So there I was, watched by the entire town as I ran behind them. There were many curious eyes watching us. Others were dying with laughter and looked puzzled as to how the old man had the strength to run so vigorously.
Nobody seemed willing to help him catch the hobo. Some feared the hobo might be dangerous but Grandpa taught me to never make assumptions about people based on their appearances. To use a cliché, he taught me to never judge a book by its cover. This had transpired after I had related a story to him of how, on seeing a dirty vagabond coming my way, I had changed direction. But on seeing how hurt and humiliated the vagabond seemed to be by my gesture, I felt bad. I had assumed he might rob or hit me based on his ‘unpleasant’ appearance, and the fact that he was homeless.
The chase was taking forever and the laughter by the spectators became louder, to my vexation. My chest was burning from the ceaseless running. But then something happened. Out of nowhere, a young man caught the hobo.
“You, rude boy! What have you done to the old man?” the young man asked of the hobo, enraged. Grandpa and I came towards them. The young man almost punched the hobo when Grandpa asked him to stop.
“Do not do that. I want to teach him a lesson he will never forget his whole life. But I want to do it my own way.”
A crowd immediately assembled in anticipation of ‘the lesson’ to be taught. The hobo trembled from fear. We all watched with zeal and curiosity, ready to witness the kind of lesson the hobo will be taught. But to our disappointment, Grandpa merely gave the hobo the juice on top of the chicken, the bread and chips he had snatched and only told him to ask the next time. People went about their businesses, disappointed. They had assumed the lesson would involve a beating. As we walked back to the minibus taxis, Grandpa explained the lesson to me.
“Linda, sometimes people do things they are not proud of because of their situations. The hobo knew it was wrong of him to snatch the food from me, but he was desperate. And it is not because I am making an excuse for his action though. We ought to show people kindness instead of judging them. If all people in this world were kind, the hobo would not have snatched the food from me. He would have asked politely knowing if he could not get it from me, he would get it from someone else.”
Out of all his lessons, this one about the hobo is the most eye-opening and amazing lesson Grandpa has ever taught me. It is my greatest life lesson.
PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3
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