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| Another ten minutes - The Fly and the Lion |
| Posted on 16/08/05 at 07:14 by NGONGE |
There are occasions and events in ones life that one always remembers. Most such events are extremely trivial or, with hindsight, are not as big as they seemed the first time.
The other day, while watching a game of football with a friend, he suddenly remembered a game he played when he was eight years of age. He told me that at one occasion in that game, he was one-on-one with the keeper and should have scored the winning goal but in his excitement, he stood on the ball and tripped. Hes been replaying that scene in his mind ever since. He knows it is pointless to weep for such a trivial thing but he cannot get over his annoyance and distress.
I laughed at my friend and accused him of being a lunatic. But, on my way home after the game, I started daydreaming about my childhood and lamenting the many failures and disappointments I had. As a three year old, I remember trying to insert a matchstick into my baby brothers penis. I regretted not having the required hand-eye coordination back then. I still do, even though I realise how damaging such an act would have been and knowing that I would not attempt it as an adult. For a three year old though, not being able to complete such a task was very frustrating. The logic behind it has long been proven wrong but the frustration lingers on. In the name of painting a fuller picture and disproving my complete uselessness, I have to note here that my brother was a very twitchy baby.
My brother grew up to be a nice chap that I really, with time, also grew to like. This always made me regret the matchstick incident and the damage I could have caused. However, my guilt did not remove my frustration at failing to insert that matchstick there. It really seemed like a simple task and even today I still cant understand why I could not manage it. Only people that tried to stick a thread into a tiny needle can understand the reason for my frustration. Then again, the thread and needle comparison is not really an accurate one. Some people suck the thread before attempting to stick it in the needle! Some people suck the needle.
I can at least rationalise the enduring irritation with the matchstick incident. I did not manage to complete the task I set myself and it was bound to annoy me. What I cant rationalise or even explain is the event that took place on my first week at school.
The first few days at school went smoothly and I had no trouble with anyone. Well, apart from the female teacher that slapped me for winking at her. However, the rest of my first week at school was fine. Id get the bus in the morning to school and take it back in the afternoon. The first four days were fine. Id get on the bus and choose a seat at random. I had yet to make any friends at school and was still too young to realise the importance and prestige of the back seats.
On my fifth day at school, on the bus heading home, I decided to go and sit on the back seat. I was six years of age, very slim and exceptionally brave. As I took my seat in the back and proceeded to blow mist clouds at the windows, a couple of older boys came over and asked me to move. I thought it was unfair of them to ask me to move; after all, I got there first. This seat was mine. They threatened to beat me up and I threatened to fight back. They both laughed at me and started roughing me up. I was only six years old. These two boys must have been at least six and three quarters. They were taller and bigger than me. But I fought back and bit one of them so hard I made him cry. I also somehow managed to kick the other one between the legs. They left me alone. I was sat there looking very proud and exchanging glances with all the awed children on the front. They all had their heads turned back and were looking at me as though I was some sort of superhero.
The following week, on the way home from school, I got on the bus and took my hard earned seat in the back. The two boys returned. I was ready to fight them again. But, this time, they had a bigger boy with them. He said he was eight years of age but he really looked fourteen. That boy, and the two other boys, beat me up that day. I bravely tried to fight back but as the slaps and punches kept on landing on my face and body, I decided its safer to curl into a ball and hide as much of my face and body as possible. This did not stop them from hitting me. In fact, they seemed to enjoy the game of trying to find a chink in my armour and penetrate it with a kick, a punch and a slap. I had to give in to these thugs, so I started crying very loudly. They left me alone.
When I got off the bus and was walking home, I was still crying. My father, who happened to leave work early that day, was also coming home. He noticed that I was crying and asked me what the matter was. I told him about the boys. He asked me why did I not fight back. I told him that fighting back is what got me into this mess in the first place and that I was never ever going to fight back again. He lost his temper and gave me a long lecture about the benefits of fighting back.
As we walked into the house, my mother saw that I was still crying. She had a go at my father for making me cry. He told her that it was not his fault and explained my fight with the boys. My mother gave me a hug and told me to stay away from those bad boys. She told me that fighting was not nice and that I should avoid it as much as I can. I told her that my father told me to fight back but she said that I should ignore him.
My father was not happy with the advice I was getting from his wife. He told her that he did not want to raise a sissy and that he already had daughters. My mother asked him to leave me alone. Her words were calm and polite but the look on her eyes told him all he needed to know. He graciously allowed her to win that battle. However, he was not done yet.
Later that same day, my father told me that he was going shopping and asked if I wanted to go with him. He said that I could even sit on the front seat. I always loved to sit on the front seat. Sometimes he even let me sit on his lap and pretend to drive. He didnt that day. Instead, he restarted his lecture about fighting back.
My father was an only child. His father passed away when he was four. My deaf grandmother brought him up. He told me that he experienced life the hard way and wanted to teach me some of the things he had learnt along the way. He said that his mother taught him to fight back and never let the bad people win. I told him that those boys were bigger than me and that there were many of them too. He said size did not matter and that I also could fight them one at a time. He told me the story of the fly and the lion.
One day, allegedly, a fly was sleeping under the shade of a big tree on a hot summer afternoon. A huge lion waddled along and came to sit under the shade of that same tree. The lion almost sat on the sleeping fly. Fortunately, the fly was a light sleeper and sensed that something was wrong. It opened its eyes to see the lions massive frame descending on her. With a speed that only flies, bees and wasps seem to have, she jumped out of the way and started flying about the air in frustration. This lion had no right to take her place. He might be the king of beasts and also bigger than her, but he had no right to take her place in such a way. He also almost crushed her in his selfish haste to occupy other creatures spaces. The fly knew that she was no match for this great big lion but also knew she had no choice but to fight back. She started buzzing and buzzing around the lions face. She called him names as she did so and kept on kicking him on the face. Her tiny feet caused the lion no harm. Still, the fly carried on kicking him. The lion tried to lash out with its tongue but the wily fly managed to dodge it. The lion tried to scare her by moving its ears, but the fly still kept on kicking him. The lion yawned and bared its massive teeth to scare her but the fly was almost suicidal and carried on kicking the huge beast. The poor lion finally gave in and waddled off to look for another place to sleep. The fly won the fight.
That was the story my father told me about fighting back. Ive never forgotten it and would always buzz whenever I fought back. In the days that followed, I caught every single one of those three boys and had several fights with each. They all finally succumbed to my fly technique, as did many others in the years that followed.
Still, even though I eventually got my revenge on all those guys, the fact that I cried loudly on that bus when they beat me still irks me and I cannot find a way to rationalise it. I would happily swap this with a missed goal after a one-on-one with some eight-year-old goalkeeper.
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