Jo'Burg Days: Humpty Dumpty
A Congolese youth had been set a task to write a 500 word story around the phrase ‘the door slammed shut’. Barbara Durlacher, who was trying to help him, decided that it might be an encouragement if she did the same.
To read more of Barbara’s stories and articles please click on http://www.openwriting.com/archives/joburg_days/ See alos her splendid photographs by clicking on our Gallery.
As he climbed onto the wall the full force of the wind hit him. It pummelled him and blew his coat backwards and whipped his hair into his eyes until they stung. But gradually colours and shapes became clearer as his body steadied against the constant buffeting. Unconsciously he flexed his hands, feeling for a handhold, but there was nothing to grasp. Instead he hung grimly onto the lapels of his jacket in an effort not to lose his balance.
‘Oh God,’ he moaned under his breath, ‘how could she be so cruel? Why did she say such things? Didn’t she realise how much her criticism would hurt? Surely she knows me well enough to have learnt how sensitive I am about my writing and how I dread criticism? I’ve always stressed how insecure I feel about the opinions I put on paper, and mentioned in every conversation that I fear harsh words and arguments.’
‘Father’s cruelty and constant beatings have left me with so little self-confidence that the tiniest hint of disapproval is sufficient to make me doubt myself completely. And yet here she is, telling me that she thinks it’s all just a pose on my part; a pose to get sympathy and preferential treatment from other better writers and a ploy to break into the market on a “sympathy” vote and not real merit. But it’s not true, it’s not, it’s NOT....’
‘I really am a good writer and I’ll prove it to her somehow even if it takes me the rest of my life.’
With that, swinging in a fierce blast of wind spiralling up the winding stairs, the door slammed shut, and he made the final dramatic gesture of his life and stepped into space, his eyes staring wildly as a fierce scream broke from his mouth – ‘I’ll prove it to her, I will, I will’.
Brushing hay, straw and stray clods of earth from his clothes, he picked himself up off the stable floor and, ambled down the hill to meet his crippled sister. She’d laboriously pushed herself along the muddy tow-path in her lop-sided wheel-chair from the icy cold bed-sit she currently lived in and was hot and thirsty and longing for a long cold drink.
‘Everything all right, dear?’ she asked, seemingly oblivious to his more-than-usually dishevelled appearance as she waved to him from the rise in the path.
‘Yes, I’m absolutely fine,’ he nodded.
‘Let’s eat, I want a hamburger, and I expect you’d like a snack. ‘Although,’ he added, as an afterthought, ‘You shouldn’t eat too much considering your huge size! But you need to keep your strength up, if you insist on living alone.’
‘I like living alone, and I’d hate living with you. You’re such a liar and always make such a drama out of everything. I could never share the same space with you. Being alone is the most sensible solution. So, no more bickering, you’re still my little brother and you know I’ll always love you.’
