In the Rotaract Club of Matopos we have members with different talents, one of those talents is story writing,here are two short stories from our very own Peter Zowa,
A belly full of dreams
The air has a tinge of silver. The constant dripping
can be heard on the zinc roofing as a full moon peers from the window. Another
missions trip. Another day filled with heart wrenching stories. My shoulders
are sagged and I slump onto the modestly comfortable bed. My wife is tired but
the smile on her face is warming. She draws near, smiling, reminding me of the
little girl full of hope from early in the morning. This is her story she says:
On these plains of an African village, comfort is a
myth and opulence for the gods. Poverty is what the people have become used to.
No hope and only a future that leads them back to the infertile lands that are
barely capable of sustaining crops as it is. But comes this one little girl
after the visiting volunteers have given out a few sacks of meal that would be
the difference between an empty belly and a night full of dreams. The little
girl is obviously malnourished but the smile she wears looks alien; like it
does not belong to such a pathetic looking being. But she smiles on and rushes
to the front were tugs at the skirt of my wife.
"Hey. Hey." she says, "when I grow up
I'm gonna be a pilot." This is rare. Such dreams in this deprived village.
"That's nice," my wife says. She really
doesn't know how to respond. "You know why?" the little girl asks.
"Because I'm gonna grow big and strong. My grandma says if I eat all the
food on my plate and don't waste any I'll grow big. Now I'm gonna have food
tonight and I'm not gonna waste any because you gave grandma food to cook for
me."
The thought process is staggering. My wife stumbles
under its weight and only manages to smile. How dreams are connected to the belly.
The simplest form of kindest, just giving away food for a little while, being
able to inspire such a dream...
As my wife tells this story I feel my own thoughts
wander to a distant land. To my own dreams. I'm still tired but my heart is
revitalized. I'll do it again tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. After all,
that is the magic of humanity: to have one dream give birth to another.
Hope
She sits huddled up, in the dark corner of a room
only illuminated by a dying candle. Her eyes; big, black and dull, are staring
at a makeshift bed that has been the scene to most of her horrors. Her face is
pale and her scantily dressed small frame shivers as she hears footsteps
approaching. In her little mind she reminiscences times past—happier times.
These are her source of comfort as well as the hard pillow that she now
clutches. That is her comfort, but like the candle in her room, it is dying
fast. At a distance she can hear shrieks of terror and groans of pleasure,
paradoxically from the same habitation. She shudders, closing her eyes and
wishing it away. The pain is all too real for her. As the tears stream from her
face she can feel the rhythm of her heart changing; from a soft lub-dub to the
ferocity of an Olympic athlete. These past two nights the boogeyman did not
come. Could it be that because every time she had heard the footsteps she
closed her eyes real tight, concentrated hard and wished him away?
Whatever the reason, it had spelt a temporal
reprieve for her. The dying lights cast long shadows on the dirty wall. Its colour is indescribable, the
stench within the confines of its wall unbearable. Nonetheless, this is what
has become to her a 'home', one that she gratefully shares with a few rats. She
spends most hours of her day within these walls, mostly on her back. The pain
in her limbs and organs is excruciating but numb compared to the damage done to
her little heart. She can feel the hollowness and darkness creeping within but
she continues to fight it. She still needs to believe, even in the craziest of
fantasies like freedom. A horrifying scream permeates through her deliberations
and sends her heart racing. Her chest tightens and she struggles for breath.
She closes her eyes again and makes another wish. This seems to have a calming
effect on her. It has been long since she saw the sun and bathed in its radiant
beauty. The days of the calendar have ceased to have any significant meaning and the nights
have been especially longer. Yet in the midst of her darkness she still holds
on to her ray of hope- that one day, if she believes and does not give up, she
will be free.
A new set of footsteps approach. They seem to be
getting louder but the voices more muffled. Again her heart rages into a
violent storm. Quickly she begins her ritual. This is followed by the sound of
keys rustling in the key-hole. A long shadow enters and approaches. The
boogeyman has finally come. With her eyes closed she weeps, if ever she is
going to be free it will not be tonight.
PLEASE SPARE A THOUGHT AND A PRAYER FOR THE VICTIMS
OF HUMAN TRAFFICKING!!!!!!!
