[For Doreen Benjamin] What was I doing? I was cleaning the microwave tray from excess milk. Why? Well, because the milk boiled over. But I wasn’t crying; no one was. At least they weren’t anymore. But let me explain; You see, this spilled milk was over two weeks in the making. It was yet another turn in a series of unfortunate events which led me to that moment of taking that simple step, with my sister casually looking on opening the little door to the microwave, peering in, and then throwing my head back to look to the heavens in a proverbial “OHHH Jesus Please… (take the wheel)” Which prompted my sister to abandoned me after her initial sharing in the groan of frustration. But why two weeks? The fact is that this spilled milk could be traced back and blamed solely on one thing, and one thing alone… Pneumonia. Mm hm. That foulness that collects on the lungs and that is of no benefit to the world or humankind whatsoever. This ‘P’ word is to blame for my moment of woe. But allow me to divulge a titbit of backstory. Had my Grandmother not contracted Pneumonia, I, or any of my other family members, would not have been at my Uncle’s flat to begin with to aid in the matriarch’s recovery, after she’d spent a tiresome long-weekend in hospital. Not a slight thing by any means; waking up and not knowing where you are with no one familiar around; this coming after a hazy and delirious few days, involving a backache inducing overnight vigil (by said Uncle) and a somewhat unconscious ride in an ambulance. So there I was, making a round of coffee for several of us. My uncle meanwhile, had stolen himself away from ironing some of his Sunday best shirts, and was now attempting to turn on the geyser. We wanted to give Granny a relaxing bath earlier, but my uncle’s attempt to reprogram the geyser’s timer had only succeeded in making it fail to come on at all. So there he stood, behind me in the kitchen, leaning precariously on a small wooden stool to reach the geyser’s control panel. Then he asks me, over his shoulder, to run inside and switch off the iron. And so I did. Low and behold the iron was there in the back room, huffing and puffing away like it was dying of thirst. And so, that jog to the room, unplugging the iron, and making the return journey had cost me a minute, and one could not pass by Gran’s room without checking in (costing me several more precious seconds). The consequences of which were evident at the opening of the microwave. SO, you see, had Pneumonia not struck down my Gran, she would not be recovering at my Uncle’s place, he would not have been stretching to reach the control panel (during a session of earnest ironing) and I would not have been there to make some cups of coffee that required milk at an above-than-ambient temperature… Hence, no milk would’ve spilled. As it is, or was, many prayers were said before the milk boiled over, and many since (from around the globe mind you). The old Lady (I shan’t reveal her age… ladies take issue with these sort of things) is on the mend, stubborn as always, craving ice cream and Ginger beer whilst smuggling sugar replacement sachets for her afternoon tea. Although it must be said she was preparing herself for her date with Jesus whilst curled up on a gurney a week prior (I would be too mind you), but she has not sung her last song just yet… and she does love to sing. Thanks to Jesus for taking the wheel, healing a loved old lady… a family can draw nearer. And so, Pneumonia and spilled milk aside, there are some deep positives to this tale: beauty that runs deeper than tired legs, battered lungs and a tray of medication . . . but runs through heart and mind and soul, witnessed in moments and memories - a soothing bath, combing of hair, or sharing a warm meal at a table a half a century old. An old lady fell And a family rallied around her, to share in this fragile and mysterious thing we cling onto, holding on so dearly, when its most flagrant. --- God Bless you all.
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A night in Gabarone about a year ago As my now good friend Jonathan pointed out, the lighting was all wrong… it lacked that certain moody ambiance reserved for romantic occasions – despite this not being a romantic occasion. You see, sometimes you just need that option, a certain warmth or glow, even if it’s just “available”. But again, we weren’t here to embrace any quixotic inclinations, despite the unmistakeable buzz of imminent wedding celebrations dancing in the evening air… but still, even the décor was wrong – note to the wise: don’t use dark wood with a light floor tile; it elicits a rather cold black and white tone. Nevertheless, there we sat supporting of a friend of ours who just so happened to be the in-house/restaurant entertainment. The night was decidedly nippy in Gaborone, conveniently inspiring a variety of impulses involving tapping your feet to the beat, patting of the knee and bobbing of the head, even if just to stay warm. Yeah, it was that kind of night, when dancing was also convenient. We knew the music would be good, the food; well, considering we were only there for dessert the margin for error seemed reduced; add a cappuccino and you start to slip into the flow of things pretty easily. Now it must be said that I am known in some circles as a lover of coffee, and was once called a connoisseur of ice cream, so when you tick those two boxes on the menu and throw in some good company; well let’s just say it’s really hard to go wrong from there. But that’s all relative. You see, it’s easy to allow the inconveniences to get the better of you, whether it’s the dust, the heat – which actually wasn’t that bad this time around, generally speaking, I’m really liking this autumn thing – or the flat spider (of unknown species) which scurried across the floor when I dropped my bags in the room where I’d be sleeping… these are just things. Okay I’ll admit, the spider took some getting used to, but I’ve seen worse, waaay worse. You see, when it comes to Africa (more specifically rural Africa), you’ll see things – good and bad (the "bad" aids in heightening the good)– that may send tremors down to your core, forcing a re-evaluation of the way you partake in this thing called life. Everyone needs this kind of meaningful ‘intervention’ every now and then. As another new friend, Lily, jokingly put it whilst in her pyjamas, listening to some sound advice “Hang on, I’m listening… this is a life moment here…” – I don’t feel like explaining the context right now. So what does this have to do with listening to good music and dancing in your chair and laughing with friends and family? Well, “life moments” happens all the time, and often, when we’re not paying attention. I know what you’re thinking. It’s natural; there will be so many moments of subtle splendour to make a fuss over, so if you miss one, you’re probably not missing much, right? Truth is, as I embark on another journey (this one through the pages of a book – something which I haven’t done in a while, I am ashamed to say that), a lesson I’ve just learned again, yes again, is that when you glance back over your life, you only really remember certain highlights, never the whole picture – that’s just the way it is… so it behooves us to make even the simplest moments count, and count again, so that in our flashes of reflection our life’s tapestry, in and amongst the boring bits, the brighter strands will leap out even more. By the way - this month my blog turned 2 years old. Thanks for visiting and your continued support! I thought of posting this video/song simply because its cool, but as so often happens, it does tie in well with a broader message and theme permeating in South Africa today, Madiba has been laid to a much deserved rest, but a huge part of his legacy remains within us - a part he fought and was prepared to die for: FREEDOM. Additionally, mandela always said that music and Dancing put him at peace with the world... The 'free' sung about in this video (by Rudimental featuring Emeli Sande) is complete in its openness - its the freedom we yearn for but so seldom exercise. We have been liberated, so don't live like you're still oppressed... it all starts in the mind. An African Myth A poem by Steven Benjamin From humble hills A heart starts to beat Walking begins From humble teachings Breaking a branch “Troublemaker” is born A mind grows No boundaries found, but what he sees. A man of blood and bone, and of the earth. A tormented land, thirsty Quenched, only with the blood of its own people. Within the division, He grows He is armed The land knows his name Shackles now, and resolve In the dungeons kept Land and frigid sea, between His blood, from youth, and love Reformed in the cold of night and blinding heat of day Behind high walls and in rocky quarries A brotherhood is sealed. And through the wire and the stone, his voice grows His spirit remains. But the body withers His name is known Bullets fly, bodies fall A nation walks to the edge The bloodied hand of the Abyss beckons The gates open with the chant of the people for the cage must be unlocked The man steps forth The world takes a breath. One last brother falls The Abyss steps closer... But, the boundaries seen are broken, My heart beats as yours To kill you, is to kill me His heart beats For his people, and rampant land. Peace He broke a branch once Perhaps from an Olive tree And extended his hand gracefully, To his fearful enemy ... - Years pass That fearful day nears When the land will reclaim a man The people will cry tears to soak the once bloodied ground And the heavens will cry too An old man’s heart stops beating... And the world stops, for a moment. He is sent back His body taken, Back into those humble hills - This is the story of a boy, a man, a husband, a father, a Chief, a lawyer, a leader, a soldier, a freedom fighter, a prisoner, a peacemaker, a reconciler, a liberator, a president, a humanitarian, a King, a legend, a hero, an icon… the father of a democratic nation, the son of an African land... the closest incarnation of that ancient African myth, where all hope, is in but one, an incorruptible one. Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela 1918 - 2013 ... [God Bless all, 2013 is marks the first full year of publication of this blog, here's to a waaay bigger 2014. I'll be a little preoccupied in this end of year festivities and travels. Be safe, be blessed, hug your family and friends, and keep on reading and writing. thanks to all my first time visitors as well as dedicated loyalists, Cheers - I take my proverbial hat off to you!] My first post back, and I must say there really is such a thing as "car-lag", the car version of jetlag... Anyway here's something random I wrote whilst on my travels with family and friends, along with some of what I've seen recently: Just like a drop of water or small splinter overwhelms an ant, so could one equate life defining events we experience and later describe as “pivotal” in our lives… it thusly inspired one grey haired man to exclaim, with pointed finger, “It’s all relative”. When you think back on your life you may well recognize several or more “way-points” which greatly influenced the evolution of you. Some of those points will be bright with achievement, or dark with sorrow or failure even, but the ones in between are a little more subtle - in and amongst all the boring bits. They come and go and sometimes pass us by due to untimely distraction or stubbornness on our part, when we’re so set in our ways. They may be shocking and surprising; the modern day ‘intervention’ coming to mind, or they may come in the form of a soft whisper, if we’re attentive enough to lend a spiritual ear. To some who are willing to see, to look past the obvious, morsels of treasure could well be found. In great detective stories they talk about ‘knowing what to look for’ – and the same could be said in the case of ‘life moments’ or just life in general… if you’re in that place where you’re either looking for change, affirmation of something or a blunt tap to steer you in the right direction. If you’re looking for it, whatever it may be, you’ll see it, nestling within simple conversation, or the words unspoken. Sometimes, it’s an event itself – maybe not even happening to you, perhaps you’re only an observer, learning from the lessons of others… As a writer, it’s easy to observe, but getting involved and allowing myself to be moved by the things I see and people I meet are essential, fundamental. Our evolution and growth depend on it. It doesn’t always come easily, because sometimes we can be too settled, distracted, or maybe we’re afraid of change or comfortable in our ways that we just tend to get in our own way… Anyway, a great story inevitably surrounds a great character (insert yourself here), overcoming, achieving, and most of all, living. You may not always get what you want, but in becoming the best character, you must first overcome... to be forged. Special Mention: Also: Congrats to Tebs and Bontle... simply beautiful! Yes people, this was a two wedding hit and run trip! (*All pics in this post taken by me... - And I thank you!*) A piece about time; the way we wear it, the sands of it over generations... but mostly this is just a quick look at sentiment, the past, and contributing to a tradition within a humble legacy. - By Steven Benjamin Two hands on my wrist, pointing to the past... Ever had that one something that sets you apart from all others? - A small detail about yourself that only you and a few loved ones know about. Something that’s practically inherent; and it can be anything – concealed or in plain sight. Perhaps you were born with different color eyes – a trait you share with your grandmother. Or maybe you have your great-granddad’s pocket knife, which was passed down through the generations to you. In my family I’m privileged to say we have a few things, but only one which comes to mind daily – something that ties me to my Dad, and his father – because I’m reminded of it whenever I perform the seemingly mundane task. It’s an unspoken tradition; one that could well have come about purely by accident, because by all accounts, all the men in my family have no idea who started it or why. What I speak of is the small idiosyncrasy shared by all the Benjamin men – we all wear our watches with the time-face on the inside of our wrists. This occurrence is rarer than you may think. I started doing it because that’s the way my father (God rest him) wore his. I then noticed the same thing with my uncle’s, which is when I learned that they had got it from their father and uncles (God rest them all, apart from my uncles of course). The origins nevertheless, remain unknown. Perhaps it’s too early to call it a family tradition since I wasn’t goaded into doing it – now though, wearing my watch the other way (the normal way) feels wrong and uncomfortable. I would feel proud though if I saw my future son (God will probably bless me with daughters once I’m eventually married) wearing his watch the same way… I suppose beyond my Granddad, my earlier ancestors probably wore those timepieces in specialized lapel pockets with the elegant hanging chain, as appose to the comparatively garish wrist watch. Either that or they were too poor to afford one. Anyway, traditions have to start somewhere, right? All in all, this bears no practical value or fashion sense, and has even proven to be problematic at certain times, especially when lifting things, but the sentimental significance far outweighs any would-be inconvenience. It’s a secretive tie to my family, something that distinguishes me as a proud Benjamin man and part of the humble legacy we forge and share. So, with no known origin (though it was most likely work related, to protect the watch - I have heard of many such incidences, even some military men favor it), the simple act exists, certainly in my mind, enhancing family ties. It’s an unspoken tradition, and a quiet link to my past, present and promising future. God Bless! --->>> *NOTE*: I will be away for the next week and a half, hiking the Fish River Canyon. So be blessed in my absence! And send a few prayers my way, I'll need it. Look out for my updates about the hike - if I survive that is... <<<--- |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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