Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Goodbye my love
GOODBYE MY LOVE
Patrick Achitabwino
A thousand miles will tear us apart. We don’t know when we will meet again in a free world where love can be left to fly with its wings unsinged. The world is cruel Clara; we have seen the ugly face of it. Documentations have been written of innocent people leaving everything behind and get caged in tents in across-the-border countries as a result of war. People leave their impoverished countries and take the risks of staying in foreign lands illegally all just in a pursuit for economic survival. They are all refugees in one way or another. There is another worst and cruel type of refugeeing status the world is yet to document: leaving the land of your ancestors for a far away country where love can flourish.
The moment this bus ignites, whisking you away from my eyesight, hammering a distance inch by inch, I will be almost dead. Why me? Why you? Why us? Why has God closed his eyes on us? As I will be waving you goodbye I can see no tomorrow, for tomorrow I die, as my life without you is as well as dead. This moment then I have nothing to fear but unburden my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, painfully, how others have played god over our love life. What we have experienced, oh, dear Clara, I pray that this bus doesn’t leave soon, has terrified angels, tormented our souls, and even destroyed the essence of humanity in us.
“I have a passport,” I told you the day we hatched our plan. “I will find some ganyu in town, keep any coin that passes through my hands till I raise enough money for transport to Joburg. There I will find you and secure a job, then we will live happily forever.
I saw a spring of tears cascading down your cheeks. Your heart must have been submerged in a torrent of tears. You held me firmly on your chest, the pounding power of your heart beating my ribs. We have lived a life without a choice. This darkest moment had to come and the hand of the clock has finally struck the dot of the hour. I have to say goodbye to you through the window of a bus.
Cry no more Clara, I can never forget you. By the grave of my grandmother I solemnly swear that you will always be on my mind. Since the first day that you flitted my eyes I have been seeing you not just as a living and breathing Clara Yakaya, but as the Clara of my dreams; not as an object of love but the reincarnation of love itself. I swear Clara, or even if it has to mean that I die so that you live, I am ready to take such a privilege with great honour and pleasure, in total reverence to your unparalleled love and beauty.
How love begins Clara, how love begins, you can’t tell. Do you remember that the first time we crossed paths was at the Shoprite? I recall that somebody snatched your bag. I heard you yelling for help, then like a threatened snake ready to bite I chased the bag-snatcher, knocked him down with a left as he was attempting to cross the highway then rescue your bag.
“Thank you very much,” you told me as you were fishing out some banknotes from the rescued handbag. I said no. I said I did not rescue your bag to be paid; I did it just to help. Actually, I recall having said: “sister, no, thanks.”
You see, I couldn’t recognise you that other day we met. When you yelled my name: Patrick Sache, I shook. I stopped then you sped into my embrace like an arrow. When you invited me for lunch I just said in my heart that praised be God. Honestly, I didn’t have a coin for lunch. I followed you blindly to the restaurant like a lamb led to the slaughter.
I was nervous as we were seated. You stepped your foot on mine and I looked you in the eyes, oh, it was as if they were seeing me deep in the heart. When I stretched my open hand towards you, you caressed the palm with your hand and that did send me crazy. Crazy, I really mean crazy.
“Your boyfriend must be the luckiest man born of a woman,” I admired.
I nearly shed tears when you told me that your heart had been torn apart twice with promises of broken love. Firstly, your father had wanted you to marry his friend’s son as a means of strengthening their business interests. That never worked out.
“I think it was all for money. I hate money. I hate rich people. They think money is equal to love,” you startled me. I looked at you; the angelic touch of your hand sending my soul into paradise then wondered how could guys afford to lose such a beauty.
Honestly, I don’t know what forces pulled our lips closer to each other; we kissed.
“I think I am in love with you,” you said.
Oh, dear me, an icy chill then run through my spine, a sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me; a consuming curiosity pervaded my soul; and then sinking on the chair I remained for some time, I think, breathless and motionless, my eyes fixed at your beaming countenance. Something in your eyes told me that you and me were for real, that you would never leave me no matter the circumstances. The touch of your hand made a silent vow with mine that you would catch me whenever I fall.
Disaster was looming, Clara, disaster. One weekend we were waiting for a minibus at the stage, tyres of a poshy Mercedes benz screeched to a halt. I saw you shivering as your father bullied out of the vehicle. The strong muscled figure faced me in the eye and in no time his meaty hand gave me a strong warning with a thunderous slap.
“Dad, he is just a friend,” you screamed as he was shovelling you into his car.
Your father was not yet through with me. Two weeks later I bumped shoulders with him in the corridors of our offices. I coiled like a threatened millipede. He was just shouting, I can hardly recall what he said.
I paid the price the week that followed. I received a letter that the company was undergoing a restructuring process such that my services as a messenger were no longer needed. You saw the letter Clara, we actually could see the silent anger of your father beneath every word in the letter. Poor though I was born, that was the moment I learnt the arrogance of the rich.
Sometimes when I sit I ask myself, how did your father know where I stay. Remember the time you quarrelled with your father then escaped to my house? Your father came to my house with an impi of police personnel, knocking the termites-ravaged door open then forcefully pulled you out into the car.
“My daughter cannot live in this toilet,” he shouted.
I never told you this. That was the time I asked myself whether we the poor and the rich are children of the same God. Are the rich children of a larger God and we the poor of a lesser God?
Anyway, finally we had a chance to meet. We agreed that you will go to South Africa. We talked to your uncle who stays there. He actually said that when two hearts merge into one, no one should have the power to separate them. Thank God that my terminal benefits were enough to buy you a bus ticket and a few food stuff to keep you alive on the tiresome journey. I don’t know how your father will react the moment he notices that you are nowhere to be seen.
Go in peace my Clara. I have made a resolution; I will go to the tobacco plantations and become a tenant until I raise enough to enable me travel to Joburg. We will meet Clara, shed tears no more, all this pain is temporal. Remember that it is only when it is dark enough that you can see brightening stars…
How time flies my dear. See, the driver has rolled the engine, the tyres are jealously slowly and slowly robbing you off my sight. Of course from my sight you will be gone but in my mind you will always remain. Goodbye my love, until we meet again, I remain yours, Patrick Sache.
Patrick Achitabwino
A thousand miles will tear us apart. We don’t know when we will meet again in a free world where love can be left to fly with its wings unsinged. The world is cruel Clara; we have seen the ugly face of it. Documentations have been written of innocent people leaving everything behind and get caged in tents in across-the-border countries as a result of war. People leave their impoverished countries and take the risks of staying in foreign lands illegally all just in a pursuit for economic survival. They are all refugees in one way or another. There is another worst and cruel type of refugeeing status the world is yet to document: leaving the land of your ancestors for a far away country where love can flourish.
The moment this bus ignites, whisking you away from my eyesight, hammering a distance inch by inch, I will be almost dead. Why me? Why you? Why us? Why has God closed his eyes on us? As I will be waving you goodbye I can see no tomorrow, for tomorrow I die, as my life without you is as well as dead. This moment then I have nothing to fear but unburden my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, painfully, how others have played god over our love life. What we have experienced, oh, dear Clara, I pray that this bus doesn’t leave soon, has terrified angels, tormented our souls, and even destroyed the essence of humanity in us.
“I have a passport,” I told you the day we hatched our plan. “I will find some ganyu in town, keep any coin that passes through my hands till I raise enough money for transport to Joburg. There I will find you and secure a job, then we will live happily forever.
I saw a spring of tears cascading down your cheeks. Your heart must have been submerged in a torrent of tears. You held me firmly on your chest, the pounding power of your heart beating my ribs. We have lived a life without a choice. This darkest moment had to come and the hand of the clock has finally struck the dot of the hour. I have to say goodbye to you through the window of a bus.
Cry no more Clara, I can never forget you. By the grave of my grandmother I solemnly swear that you will always be on my mind. Since the first day that you flitted my eyes I have been seeing you not just as a living and breathing Clara Yakaya, but as the Clara of my dreams; not as an object of love but the reincarnation of love itself. I swear Clara, or even if it has to mean that I die so that you live, I am ready to take such a privilege with great honour and pleasure, in total reverence to your unparalleled love and beauty.
How love begins Clara, how love begins, you can’t tell. Do you remember that the first time we crossed paths was at the Shoprite? I recall that somebody snatched your bag. I heard you yelling for help, then like a threatened snake ready to bite I chased the bag-snatcher, knocked him down with a left as he was attempting to cross the highway then rescue your bag.
“Thank you very much,” you told me as you were fishing out some banknotes from the rescued handbag. I said no. I said I did not rescue your bag to be paid; I did it just to help. Actually, I recall having said: “sister, no, thanks.”
You see, I couldn’t recognise you that other day we met. When you yelled my name: Patrick Sache, I shook. I stopped then you sped into my embrace like an arrow. When you invited me for lunch I just said in my heart that praised be God. Honestly, I didn’t have a coin for lunch. I followed you blindly to the restaurant like a lamb led to the slaughter.
I was nervous as we were seated. You stepped your foot on mine and I looked you in the eyes, oh, it was as if they were seeing me deep in the heart. When I stretched my open hand towards you, you caressed the palm with your hand and that did send me crazy. Crazy, I really mean crazy.
“Your boyfriend must be the luckiest man born of a woman,” I admired.
I nearly shed tears when you told me that your heart had been torn apart twice with promises of broken love. Firstly, your father had wanted you to marry his friend’s son as a means of strengthening their business interests. That never worked out.
“I think it was all for money. I hate money. I hate rich people. They think money is equal to love,” you startled me. I looked at you; the angelic touch of your hand sending my soul into paradise then wondered how could guys afford to lose such a beauty.
Honestly, I don’t know what forces pulled our lips closer to each other; we kissed.
“I think I am in love with you,” you said.
Oh, dear me, an icy chill then run through my spine, a sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me; a consuming curiosity pervaded my soul; and then sinking on the chair I remained for some time, I think, breathless and motionless, my eyes fixed at your beaming countenance. Something in your eyes told me that you and me were for real, that you would never leave me no matter the circumstances. The touch of your hand made a silent vow with mine that you would catch me whenever I fall.
Disaster was looming, Clara, disaster. One weekend we were waiting for a minibus at the stage, tyres of a poshy Mercedes benz screeched to a halt. I saw you shivering as your father bullied out of the vehicle. The strong muscled figure faced me in the eye and in no time his meaty hand gave me a strong warning with a thunderous slap.
“Dad, he is just a friend,” you screamed as he was shovelling you into his car.
Your father was not yet through with me. Two weeks later I bumped shoulders with him in the corridors of our offices. I coiled like a threatened millipede. He was just shouting, I can hardly recall what he said.
I paid the price the week that followed. I received a letter that the company was undergoing a restructuring process such that my services as a messenger were no longer needed. You saw the letter Clara, we actually could see the silent anger of your father beneath every word in the letter. Poor though I was born, that was the moment I learnt the arrogance of the rich.
Sometimes when I sit I ask myself, how did your father know where I stay. Remember the time you quarrelled with your father then escaped to my house? Your father came to my house with an impi of police personnel, knocking the termites-ravaged door open then forcefully pulled you out into the car.
“My daughter cannot live in this toilet,” he shouted.
I never told you this. That was the time I asked myself whether we the poor and the rich are children of the same God. Are the rich children of a larger God and we the poor of a lesser God?
Anyway, finally we had a chance to meet. We agreed that you will go to South Africa. We talked to your uncle who stays there. He actually said that when two hearts merge into one, no one should have the power to separate them. Thank God that my terminal benefits were enough to buy you a bus ticket and a few food stuff to keep you alive on the tiresome journey. I don’t know how your father will react the moment he notices that you are nowhere to be seen.
Go in peace my Clara. I have made a resolution; I will go to the tobacco plantations and become a tenant until I raise enough to enable me travel to Joburg. We will meet Clara, shed tears no more, all this pain is temporal. Remember that it is only when it is dark enough that you can see brightening stars…
How time flies my dear. See, the driver has rolled the engine, the tyres are jealously slowly and slowly robbing you off my sight. Of course from my sight you will be gone but in my mind you will always remain. Goodbye my love, until we meet again, I remain yours, Patrick Sache.
