Friday, 16 June 2017 14:25

Rising consciousness

Sometimes sitting on top of molehill is no help at all. Particularly, if what you look for is not anywhere nearby, not even at the last ends of farm you reside at. Sometimes spending time seated on top of the molehill brings misery than the serenity it is said to bring. It was not the first time she had seated there, and by the looks of reality surrounding her, it didn’t seem like it would be her last. Staring, thinking misery and picking her nose all day. How long has it been going on, she thought. It had been long. Four to five years. She had witnessed many changes whilst seated there. And why that molehill could just washed away with heavy storms, Mrs Chabalala was used to the lament. The daughter behaved as someone who had no hopes of seeing finer things in life, that’s what she and the rest of her clique always said. And every time they’d receive a chance to seat together, they’d discuss her. Funny how the last summer she had caught them discussing her along with marriage. Marriage. Imagine. She thought about that seated on the molehill that her mother prayed for to be destroyed. She had had nightmares about the molehill, once it had washed away along with her.                                                                                                                          
“There must be something wrong with this space.” She murmured to herself. Of course there had to be something. She sat there for thirty minutes figuring what could be wrong. And she figured, smiled, and moved from her special seat and walked home.

Mrs Chabalala glared at her daughter as she opened the wooden-made gate. “Good afternoon people.” Said Rorisang, greeting her mother and companions as well who just moaned and watched her get inside mud hut. Mrs Chabalala shook her head with lament. “Oh my daughter. What more can I do for her?”          

“There is nothing you can do. Some children builds houses for their parents after school, and  yours just sits around the whole day. Is there anything useful she can do? Shame.” Said the woman whose own children crammed her house with grandchildren. She clapped her hands once and continued talking. “My friend, all you have to do is to discipline her, after all she is still your child who deserves some hiding. No, no. How about you stop with food, perhaps she’ll go out there and get a job and husband.”
Mrs Chabalala thought of her friends’ advice, shook her head and kept mum.

Later on Rorisang walked out from the hut and women’s attention went to her, staggered. One thought, their prayers had been answered, and the other bowed down and ululated. “Rorisang, what are you doing?” Mrs Chabalala stood as if she never seated. Rorisang stood there with her bags. For the first time in years she had a grin that reminded Mrs Chabalala of her husband. Her only child’s eyes lit. They had hope, she thought. Still she walked close to her daughter and accused her of madness. “Rorisang, these bags. Are you mad?” Her face expression said all, she understood little of why her daughter carried bags.    “Mama,” She sighed and continued. “has it occurred to you that I am leaving because you and your friends. I never liked them. Ever since I returned from University all you do is talk about me.”                                                              

“Ah, my child, why do you accuse me of such thing? I  raised you, I am your mother,” Mrs Chabalala protested.                                                                             

Rorisang shook her head, still, she glowed with happiness. A day ago she would have rowed with her mother over the lies. Or just walked away without a word. She remained there standing. Obviously she had changed. Grown. Within just few hours.                                                                                                                          
The women protested also. They had never gossiped about Rorisang, so they claimed. And unworried Rorisang observed their faces, and those women were a thing she wished not to turned, she wished for more, just as other young villagers as herself had become.                                                                                      
“Have you doubted mother?” She talked to her mother.
“Um, ladies…” Mrs Chabalala’s friends got up and two of them watched them as they walked pass the gate. “What do you mean?”  
“It has been four years. You’ve watched me eat your food non-stop, sleep and do nothing. Visibly, you have been worried. And when you are worried, I worry too.”                                                                                                                                  
“Are you saying you’re leaving…because of me?”    
“Leaving? No. Let’s just say I am journeying.”                                                          

“Pardon.” She understood well what Rorisang meant, she hoped perhaps she would give the reply she sought.    
“It is all well, mother. I don’t blame you for worrying about me. You had every right to talk about my failures…even with them. I don’t blame you, and I don’t blame  myself either.”                                                                                                  
“Why are you leaving me alone? You are my only child. The only reminder I have of your father. Please, stay with me.”    
“No. I don’t want to turn out to be just nobody. I have to become something useful. Look at me now. Do you recognise that once upon a time teenage girl who loved economics and politics? The one who wanted to raise her voice to people out there. Do you see that girl who followed on country’s budget each and every year?”                                                                                                                

“Does it matter? You are still my child.”    
“You must know that your child wants to change that habit of sitting on the molehill the whole day by doing something she loves.” She said and looked at her weeping mother. When Mrs Chabalala thought, she was all to blame for her daughter’s four year unemployment, Rorisang thought that it all it had stopped because she had stopped as well. The economic currency had not changed at all-it  bounced from a serious deflation to critical but stable. The expected development in various sectors had not yet been fulfilled. The same corruption government. Same egotistical opposition parties. And the same ruling party executive committee. Most importantly people’s programmed consciousness.                    

She could change that, she thought. As she walked out of her home journeying to the core of her dreams, she looked back to witness Mrs Chabalala with hands on her head. She thought, would her mother’s companions stop visiting since she’d be away or keep on coming to be updated by her life. She wouldn’t know. What she knew was even when she returned back home, that little worn out molehill, would be the last thing she’d rest on.            
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