When I was a little boy, Rongai was
nothing more than a series of quarries and river beds. Every rainy season, the
one road that led to my dad’s newly constructed house would turn into a raging
river complete with jagged rocked rapids.
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| A normal school day |
Since my father, in all his wisdom, had
chosen a Mini Cooper over an inflatable raft,
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| Ideal vehicle |
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| What my father got |
We were forced to use alternative
routes.
Normally, alternative routes are those
that take us slightly from our comfort zones. A pothole here, an unexpected
bump there, sometimes a stray dog tired of living might walk in front of your
car…you know, the usual; but not this
alternative route. If you’ve been following the story, at this time Rongai is
made up of riverbeds and quarries, and so since the riverbed is now a bona fide
I-will-drown-the-heck-out-of-you river, the next best, and only option is the
quarry. Thinking about it, the quarry wasn’t such a bad idea, if we had a
monster truck; but a Mini Cooper, that’s like…(be as creative as you can)
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| Next door neighbour using alternative routes... Damn show-offs! |
So due to our car’s limited abilities in
doing practically anything, going into the quarry was out of the question (and
most of the time the damn thing was filled by brown murky waters of doom
anyway) the only thing left to do was go around it. Problem solved. Well not
really.
The quarry was conveniently surrounded
by bush and boulders leaving a path wide enough for a small car and maybe a
monkey. What made it worse was the soil on this path was a well concocted mix
of black cotton and clay, and so when it rained, our trusty Mini’s traction was
reduced to that of a mountain goat on skates.
Every time my father would use this
route, mum would be seated shotgun and I would be at the back. From my seat I
would jump over to the left window (I was small enough to jump around in a Mini
Cooper) scan the bush and boulders, then jump over to the right and see the
quarry which to my simple mind was the equivalent of the Grand Canyon. My mind
would slowly do the math, slowly taking in all the factors, no escape to the
left, death inducing drop to the right, slippery road, all this could only mean
one thing
As if on cue, my brain would send my
body into an adrenaline filled fit of panic and my poor parents would have to
deal with the possibility of death by driving into a quarry, or spending life
in prison trying to silence me. I’m sure on many such occasions Mum would place
her loving hand over my fathers and gently squeeze it and look into his eyes,
eyes that would tell him, `Don’t do it hun, it’s not worth it.’ And he would
let go of the door handle and drive on, all the while as I jump up and down in
a panic fit screaming, `WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE!!! WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!’
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| Noooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!! |
Thankfully, we never did.
When we got home I would quiet down,
spend the next few minutes trying to catch my breath and dad would announce
with a smile, ‘We are home.’ Never mind a few minutes back he had wanted to
kill me, or drive off the cliff just to make it all go away. He would look back
at me, and I would stare back, then he would turn off the engine and pull up
the handbrake, and that moment would be my favorite part of our journey home.
The metal cogs scraping against each
other as the handbrake lever went up meant that I was home, I was safe. So
every time I felt like life was going a bit too fast, may be a race in the
neighborhood or when dad would drive too fast on our way to shags I would secretly pull an imaginary
handbrake lever and seek comfort in it. It kind of became my thing, that and
imaginary friends, then I grew up.
When you grow up into what I had become,
an icon of rebellion, a pirate ship sailing the seas fighting the corporate
slave ships, a freelancer, a Ras, at one point you will lose yourself in the
hype and try to catch up with the standards set by the people, the fans. Life
then becomes a race, a race to prove a point, to show the world that it is
possible to swim against the current, to stick it to the man, your life becomes
defined by your identity until one day you realize you are going too fast, in
the wrong direction.
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| Pictured: That guy |
And so what happens next is only
natural, slow down, step on the brakes, then once you stop, pull up the
handbrake.
Life only makes sense when you stop and
look around, find out where you are and where you are headed to. Heck, look
back from where you've come from for most of the time not only will you find
where you are headed to, but you will remember a story that will help you
understand your life much better.
I pulled that lever, but not only to
stop and observe, then drive again; no I know I suck as a driver. This time I’m
getting out of the car and into the back seat, and just like old times, I am no
longer doing the driving, for the comfort and security is there at the back
seat, the one place we grownups never
look.
Thanks dad.
**BONUS**
So I cut my locks... Yes, I look good. You can now refer to me as The Artist Formerly Known As Ras Mengesha. NO, not Mengesha, but The Artist Formerly Known As Ras Mengesha. Yes, its one name, like A Tribe Called Quest...or (you said it) A Pimp Named Sleek Back.
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| Pictured: The Artist Formerly Known As Ras Mengesha (without the dreads) |
