A
Story is Told…
A story is told
of a peculiar people who lived in a village far removed from others. They lived
in the meadows right after the crossing of the great river; at the periphery of
the thick forest with the tall cypress trees. They did not resemble other
people. They did not do things like other people; neither did they eat like
other people. They were half the height of a normal man, with pointed ears and
rounded noses. Their hands were made to till the land, and that they did from
morning until the rising of the hot noon sun. They were vegans you see, and all
they ate was raw food, for they compared the heating of food to the pounding of
already sifted grain. Nay, the reason rested not on the lack of sophistication
in cookery or cutlery; quite the contrary. Their adeptness in technological
advancement could undoubtedly be witnessed in the architecture of their homes,
the wonder of the winding streets and the beauty of their sanctuary. They
called it the Halua, a place they
treated with deep reverence because they believed God’s feet rested there. The
curious thing about their hair was that it grew only about four inches in
length. They liked to leave it wild and free their hair, and so it would appear
beautifully bushy and curly for it was of easy texture. It felt like soft wool;
deep brown soft wool. Their complexion resembled that of the inside of a raw
bean seed with a touch of chocolate; smooth and fair, a slightly tanned pale.
Their eyes were hazel green.
A story is told of a peculiar people who
lived in a village far removed from others. Despite their separation from
civilization, so to speak, they conducted themselves in such a civility as was
idealistically desired in the modern
world. It could be seen in the courtesy they accorded each other in
conversation, to other pedestrians on the narrow streets, to their neighbors… It
could be seen in the cordial greetings, and the ‘you go first’ offerings. The
elderly were treated with respect; never was there a load they carried on their
own, neither was there a chance of anyone bumping into them on the road. These
people would finish their chores by noon’s sun, and thereafter they would take
the time to spend with each other, help that neighbor finish the house they
were struggling to, feed that child as the mother prepared yams for tomorrow’s
sale… They appeared selfless really. I grew suspicious of it; because where I
came from, almost nothing was offered for free, not even a warm greeting
sometimes. I stopped to apologize for accidentally bumping into an elderly
person. His brown curly hair was spotted with streaks of silver and the corners
of his eyes folded endearingly into rippled wrinkles as he looked up to me and
smiled, joking about almost falling over at his ripe age of 35. These people
live long, 135 years! I thought. And so I asked him how it felt to be 135
years. He chuckled at the outrageous number I spewed out; no one can live up to
135 years. That accounted for four generations. He hobbled along still
chuckling at what must have been the most ridiculous statement from this alien
giant with brown skin and braided hair. I watched him walk away. Senility can
be a bugger, I thought. I felt a slight tap on my waist and my attention was
drawn to my guide as he beckoned me to come along with him. I asked him about
the old man, about his age. He was one of the oldest in the village, respected
and treasured. A man of wisdom whose 35 years of life had been used to
enlighten and inspire others. Apparently, these people lived fast. And from
what I saw as I walked past the boulangeries, the groceries and the open
fields, they lived full as well. Full and fast… I asked my guide how old he
was. Twelve, he replied. Impossible.
A story is told of a peculiar people who
lived in a village far removed from others. A people whose reverence for their
maker made me feel ashamed. We got to the Halua.
It was a spectacular building made of pure white marble, with finishings of
gold and silver. It stood tall, beaming in the daylight sun. I shielded my eyes
as I arched my head to try and gaze at its beauty. The sanctuary was elevated
all round by a marvelously lengthy marble stairway engraved with precious
stones of ruby, emerald and sapphire which twinkled and danced to the sun’s
rays. Walking up the stairway was like walking on heaven’s rainbow. The door to
the Halua was high; about triple my
height. It was made of deep dark ebony with etchings of silver and unique
patterns made of the moon stone. The doors were always open, day and night,
since they believed in then importance of a full time communication with the
Father of lights; that is how they named their Creator. I was surprised when I
walked in and saw an altar filled with neat baskets filled with fruit or grain
or precious stones. They also believed in bringing forth offerings to the
Father of lights any day and any time of the week. It was almost an unspoken
norm for the villagers to bring forth a portion of the fruit of their labor
everyday; since they accorded the capability of their labor and the richness of
their warehouses to the Father’s providence. They considered it one of the ways
to honor Him. In the Halua, the music
that played was a fusion of water trickling from a brook at the centre of the
temple, birds chirping from the homes they had made at the edge of the outer-roof
and silence…a true escape from the world. I got in and the ambience immediately
calmed my thoughts and replaced them with a deep peace. I felt like I could
hear myself…hear God…sleep even. And I was not the only one who felt like this,
many villagers took their refuge in the Halua…
‘It is their bar,’ I thought. I could not help but think of the stark contrast
between the Halua and the churches
back home. The latter served mainly as an institution of religion that housed a
certain type of faith; it was more of an administrative centre than a home or a
place of refuge. Was this a schooled notion, a necessary ‘evil’, or was our
culture to blame for it?
A story is told of a peculiar people who
lived in a village far removed from others…
