The Sunday News
Ndumiso Ncube
WE could hardly see a thing five steps ahead of us. Huge dark clouds covered the sky. We had no option but to keep moving so we could not miss the 3.30am bus. The tall mopane trees by the pathway verges guided us to the bus stop. So scary, the atmosphere was exacerbated by the prevailing wind that swayed trees resulting in ghostlike and uncompromising noises. For a moment, it was like I was watching one of those horror movies with my 3D TV glasses.
It’s quite weakening to see someone you look up to, I mean your hero, being in the same atrocious position as you. Taking a glance at my father who led the way was pouring fuel to the fire that had just been lit. His face had turned numb. Another look at my aunt and her two daughters Sibahle and Gugu who were escorting us worsened the atmosphere. They too were scared to bits like the “cheese boy” I who had his first rural visit.
We were so unfortunate to be walked to the station by females only, as my uncle; Sibahle’s dad was in Joburg where he works. My calculations started adding up from those few stances. So what they have been discussing all this time is in indeed true, with a forcible grin I got baffled. Each time I accompanied Sibahle and Gugu to fetch water by the borehole site, their chats always wandered around ghosts and tokoloshi stories around the area. I thought they were making them up just to instil fear in me like school kids would about aliens and transformers.
Time does not move when in horrific situations but rather flies in terrific ones. I wished the world had a remote control so I would fast-track the unpleasant moment. That was just hoping for a camel to go through the needle eye. The walk to the bus stop progressed, now at a bit faster pace. As we strode, abruptly an object the height of an average man stood in front of us. We all stopped, fear suddenly gripped me.
My father swiftly pulled out his torch which he had switched off in a bid to save the battery and lit it straight to the face of the object. Contrary to my then pessimistic expectation of hearing an evil laugh breaking out, I was calmed down by the realisation that it was a mute tree trunk that had its branches cut off for firewood, probably by some villagers.
Bravery, though in bits started kicking in as I comforted myself that no such things as spooks exist and fairytales about them are there just to prevent kids from playing in the dark. After all, everything is just psychological. Villagers from my cousin’s epics who claim to have seen the so- called spooks had probably bumped into some trunks like this very same one and mistakenly concluded, adding up on the fantasies.
When things go wrong, people tend to start pointing fingers at one another. If it wasn’t for so and so, things would have gone this or that way is every coward and failure’s hymn. Truly, I do not condemn such as I believe blame has to be shifted to where it belongs. My father, well knowing that Tjihanga was a nightmare insisted we board a bus to and fro so he would cherish his olden growing up memories. Really, how could one leave the comfort of a Range Rover-Vogue for tattered and dilapidated AVM bus seats just to quench the thought of bygone experiences? It’s weird how these old chaps sometimes think.
The moment one thinks a colour is white, they convince them that it’s black. No wonder my mum and my three siblings had refused to come with us. Surely, had we not left the Vogue, we were not going to face that predicament. We were going to wake up when the sun had risen with no rush and panic of missing any bus. I could not come out in the open to complain and blame him, I just sipped my tea and trailed behind.
Life at that moment had thrown lemons at me. I had to either make lemonade or grape juice so I would leave the world wondering how I had made it. So unfortunate, no grape juice could come out of that as I am neither superman nor any of the nowadays prophets to perform such a miracle. I flew with the rhythm. After demystifying the trunk issue, we soldiered on. Roosters had started their daily croaking therapy.
After 20 minutes of such a heart-troubling journey, a white reflective billboard appeared. We had finally got to Magiya bus stop and I couldn’t wait to be rescued from the dilemma. We waited and listened attentively for any traffic sound. Just before our patience could run out, music to our ears was what we could hear. The rattling diesel engine sound grew louder. Spot and headlights on full blast instantly drove away our anxiety. “It’s the bus!”, shouted Sibahle.
My father and I crossed to the other side of the road where the bus door would be when it reached us. Before the golden moment, there was a sudden black-out. The bus had disappeared into thin air and there was dead silence. We all froze. I said a silent salvation prayer. Still in astonishment of where the bus had gone to, a bicycle passed by. To our surprise, it had no rider; it moved on its own. We all ran and stood behind my father. Within two minutes the cycle was back again, now with the rider. He stopped it right in front of us. “SALIBONANI”, he greeted with a hoarse voice. Sparks of fire popped out as he opened his mouth. We all kept quiet fearing what would follow. He stood and demandingly waited for response. “Ye-ee-bo”, aunt mumbled with a truncated voice. “HA-HA-HAHA, you are scared? I too was a freak before I died”, he sarcastically laughed his lungs out and nodding his head uncontrollable. “Go away! We did not kill you. We owe you nothing, bloody spook.” With bubbling anger my father broke out taking a step forward. So defenceless, the spook cycled away. About eight metres from where we stood, he and his bike turned into a huge flame and climbed up a tree where he disappeared.
The real bus came a while after when we had even stopped wishing for it to come. Believe it or not, spooks exist. What puzzles me even to date is whether people who die choose to become ghosts or it’s inevitable if one is destined to be.
