Man_Cycle

In the famous words of my favorite author; when you make a man ashamed, you make him dangerous, then goes on to add that you can never kick a knife into the neck of a bull, then say, I'm going to pull it out just slowly not to cause a scene. No, there's always blood, there's always going to be a mess. Proverbs and wise sayings dictate our lives in our land, and a conversation without one is incomplete, so for starts.

I was at my horologist's place a couple of days ago since my wristwatch has recently been acting, wasting time ever late. The last time I checked, it was three minutes late, which is unacceptable. So I visited him to catch up with time. He's been in the business for a long time, and you can tell with all his tools and the precision with which he works.

Along Luthuli avenue, his small blue desk seats, a perfect height, long enough for him to hide his skillful arts from the world but at the same time short enough for him to peep at the souls passing by chasing time. Behind it stands his three-legged stool and a hanger on the wall where he rests his goat skin-like jacket. He has a unique style. It’s just the age, an old and faint shadow that seems to hide it, always looking like someone who had been handsome and popular some decades ago. 

On his chest rests a piece of the lens, perfectly fitting his left eye socket, with a half frame and one arm running on the left ear. Picking your watch with one hand as the other keeps shifting between fixing the watch and adjusting the lens while the other eye remains closed like some ninja trying to hit a long-distance target with an arrow.

He's invariably amazed seeing me on my bike and never forgets to hone out a big scar on his elbow, too big that it always strikes me that maybe it had been optimistic of finishing him off, but now it's just stuck there with regrets of unfinished business. We all love scars, they tell our stories as our stories are the tellers of us, and if I was to title his, it would be something to do with painful miracles.

When I got there, he was just seated alone, which is very unusual. There’s something with old age. It’s hard to find them alone in our land, always busy spitting some wisdom. I parked my bike just a step from his desk and sat beside him handing him over my watch as I explained in half breathe half sentences, still panting from a long ride on the shimmering road from the midday sun.  He smiled bitterly but without malice. 

He always gives me that different smile when I'm on my bike, poised and sympathetic like he had seen tomorrow and the days after but didn't want to brag about it. Like there's something he's running from, maybe afraid of. Some shoes he once fitted and knows all the corner and their pinching that now he's excellent at peeking at things without saying a word.

He eventually broke the silence after cracking the problem with the watch, and now all he had to do was spit some wise words as he did his magic. He had been a cyclist some time back and would have been until now commuting from Roysambu to the CBD daily before he saw his exit, a bitter one. I guess he was too sore that he's never genuinely happy after or never smiling making it hard to tell if he even believes in the existence of such a thing as happiness or let alone in the capacity of mere emotions that can cause it.

He got the scar from an accident that he luckily got away from after a motorbike ran him over, luckily breaking just a couple of ribs, and the scar that lives there constantly reminds him of the brief peep in the dark unknown shadows of death. But that's not all.

He jokingly mentioned how dangerous cycling is to a man, especially to what defines a man, you lose it, you lose your voice, young man. I was smiling until I noticed his stone-cold face as I quickly ran my mouth about how nowadays, we have padded cycling shorts, which protect you from the impact of the road. He sluggishly pointed well for you.

I was married some years back with a small family and I used to cycle to save more for them, as I was still young and full of energy, but things started going south after some time. I started losing my voice in the bedroom, at the start, I thought maybe it was stress or illness, so I never paid attention to it. With time even clearing the throat to scintillate a conversation had become an issue, and that's when the alarm became too loud.

My wife had started acting, and a couple of times, she had accused me of cheating. She was now on top of the world, deep inside my ears, with how I no longer wanted her because I had women all over. I got worried, not of her fuss, but of my voice. So I paid a visit to a doctor-friend in the city. By now, I couldn't get my voice high, and If I did, it would be just some seconds. So I got ashamed.

I learned that my bike was the cause of my sinking glory.

He now spoke slowly and louder, every word piercing more and plunging into the core of my mind. I couldn't help but think of myself, staring at my bike leaning by the municipal trash bin a step away.

I was sinking, young man. In serious times, once they have rolled in, they hang over you like nimbus clouds, So what use was looking back at the shore where I started? My physician recommended some pills to me. Things started getting better in the bedroom, hiding it from my wife during the entire period and I don't regret that my goal was to get my voice back high and last longer in my bedroom. I'm sure you understand that no one cares whether the cat is black or white as long as it catches the mouse, At least I thought.

Things got back OK, but on the surface. Deep down, I was hurting, this was a clean cheat, a ticking time bomb but as a man, when you have your powers back, and you've already tasted how bad it can be without them you know which side to stick to, so I enjoyed my wife's new gained respect and my voice. 

Things got heated one evening when I came back to find my wife cold, seated at the door, and with that, you know, it was about to go down. The kids were already asleep. I had a boy and a girl. 

Just after taking off my boots to take a breather, she dropped the pills on the table. I had mistakenly left them in my jacket for laundry so I stood there, mouth wide open, trying to remember why she was right, and why I had been given that chance.

When you are used to searching and trying, you learn to pay attention to doors, when they are open and when closed, with her was a door I saw shutting on my face. I don't think I could even explain myself. Should I tell her where it all began, or just the "why" I had the pills, was she even in the mood to listen? I think I slept seated on the couch and walked to work from Roysambu the following day, I wasn't even thinking straight.

She left with the kids, and I was down and depressed for some months, in a desert, a place without expectations. I had lots of calls from friends and relatives looking for an explanation, but I gave none but to my wife, she deserved to know the truth, which I doubt she ever believed, but I was okay, for she let me get close to my kids after a couple of years with her trying to win me back but it's not that easy, she humiliated the most fragile self I had, it's had to let that go.

Whenever I see a cyclist, I'm always in pain, but I've seen the new safety measures, and I love them if they are helping, but you should take care, young man. I lost my voice and a family. I know you are wondering if the voice is a must, but let me tell you, in our culture, they say for as long as the bed makes a noise at night, the family is okay; you can try your best; I tried mine, he finished as he handed me back my now upto-time watch.

I had the longest ride back to my place, desperately panicky with lots of questions, overthinking as I felt strange pains in my privates, feeling like the seat was making me lose my voice too, trying to think of any possible stimulation to taste if it was still there, have I been cautious enough? I should go for a check since I had spent more time on the bike than on the bed to ensure I still had my voice.

It is good to learn from experience, especially from others, when you share the stories of others, their pain becomes yours too and so you know what happened and there's no need to see it, feel it for yourself in your memory so that it belongs to you and feel fully responsible for it, No. Is the voice necessary for a functioning family? that for as long as the bed shakes at night, the family is at peace. Well, I wonder every single time I get on my bike.