His grip is steady when he shakes your hand. When he mildly affirms: "My name is McArthur Pratt," you do not doubt it. Before a dusty waif can, McArthur puts out his own hand, beseechingly. The child hands over his last remaining penny, bemusedly. In a flurry of limbs, swifter than the child's eyes, two pennies clatter in the bottom of his enamel tin. The child peers in. When he dares look up, McArthur is not there.
His peripheral vision is potent and detailed. If you ever ride in a bus next to McArthur, you will have that perpetual 'watched' sensation. When it is too much to handle and you turn to face him you will find McArthus is asleep. When you are certain he is asleep, he will gently inform you which Shakespearean line gave life to the title of the novel you are pretending to read. When you turn to say: "How did you ever?" - McArthur seems to be snoozing.
Varney Hardy, Frederick Collins II and Theophilus Seeton are some of McArthur's friends. They all grew up in Monrovia and they know what happens when a child soldier grows into an adult. McArthur is happy to confirm he is Liberian, he will show how you how the Senegalese bus company printed his ticket under the name 'Liberian Pratt'. McArthur and his friends know what it feels like to elect the first African female to be their leader. They hate litter, after she declared war on it. McArthur knows Africa is not an easy place place for those who dislike waste and those who hate to be herded onto public transport like a goat. He detests these things with equal fervour.
McArthur found there was no work in Liberia. He took a bus from Monrovia to Dakar - 1 174km, 3 days, in search of something better.. After Dakar did not work out for McArthur, he booked another bus ticket, right down the artery of the ear of Africa, Dakar to Accra - 2 139km, 6 days. Every time the bus braked, he would be flung into the stairwell. Swathes of dust billowed for 100hours, through the dishevelled exterior, right into McArthur's nose. He held screaming babies for their weary mothers and avoided conversation as he was assumed a local who could at least speak French. He couldn't. And, in all five countries the bus braked to a rattling halt, McArthur was flung into the dusty stairwell because that is the seat he was allocated on his ticket.
He knows resignation is the essential attribute to endure this place. He is more keenly aware, though, that resignation is also suicide. The day he stops striking his contrarian chord, will be his last. The power to grumble about the trivial - dust, litter, customer's rights, civility, noise pollution - is the power to know he has dignity.
McArthur knows Africa rests uneasily. There are big problems skulking through the land. There are, he realises, too many to be counted. When he does think about everything, a forceful and lifeless substance oozes from end to end. Arica has not spared McArthur her sorrows and wretchedness. But, right now, if he had two minutes with his president, UN, the AU, any Western turret of goodwill and assistance, or some other flighty deity, he would ask for a better bus seat.
His peripheral vision is potent and detailed. If you ever ride in a bus next to McArthur, you will have that perpetual 'watched' sensation. When it is too much to handle and you turn to face him you will find McArthus is asleep. When you are certain he is asleep, he will gently inform you which Shakespearean line gave life to the title of the novel you are pretending to read. When you turn to say: "How did you ever?" - McArthur seems to be snoozing.
Varney Hardy, Frederick Collins II and Theophilus Seeton are some of McArthur's friends. They all grew up in Monrovia and they know what happens when a child soldier grows into an adult. McArthur is happy to confirm he is Liberian, he will show how you how the Senegalese bus company printed his ticket under the name 'Liberian Pratt'. McArthur and his friends know what it feels like to elect the first African female to be their leader. They hate litter, after she declared war on it. McArthur knows Africa is not an easy place place for those who dislike waste and those who hate to be herded onto public transport like a goat. He detests these things with equal fervour.
McArthur found there was no work in Liberia. He took a bus from Monrovia to Dakar - 1 174km, 3 days, in search of something better.. After Dakar did not work out for McArthur, he booked another bus ticket, right down the artery of the ear of Africa, Dakar to Accra - 2 139km, 6 days. Every time the bus braked, he would be flung into the stairwell. Swathes of dust billowed for 100hours, through the dishevelled exterior, right into McArthur's nose. He held screaming babies for their weary mothers and avoided conversation as he was assumed a local who could at least speak French. He couldn't. And, in all five countries the bus braked to a rattling halt, McArthur was flung into the dusty stairwell because that is the seat he was allocated on his ticket.
He knows resignation is the essential attribute to endure this place. He is more keenly aware, though, that resignation is also suicide. The day he stops striking his contrarian chord, will be his last. The power to grumble about the trivial - dust, litter, customer's rights, civility, noise pollution - is the power to know he has dignity.
McArthur knows Africa rests uneasily. There are big problems skulking through the land. There are, he realises, too many to be counted. When he does think about everything, a forceful and lifeless substance oozes from end to end. Arica has not spared McArthur her sorrows and wretchedness. But, right now, if he had two minutes with his president, UN, the AU, any Western turret of goodwill and assistance, or some other flighty deity, he would ask for a better bus seat.
Stunning Sir.
ReplyDeleteBeauty, whimsy, heartbreak, practicality. Africa knows that these coalesce. But we are still learning. Trying to forge a better set of tools than our usual questions. Reaching beyond the fading edges of our understanding, to grasp at contradictions which you have so eloquently laid out here...
ReplyDeleteIn all their evolved glory, our human minds struggle with contradictions
PS Love ya
PPS, the commas are superlative in this one ;-)
ReplyDeleteYou have captured The essence of life inAfrica superb
ReplyDeleteYour. mum