Dont go back

Don’t go back

I walked cautiously towards the rusty white wire gate; it was nestled neatly between the two familiar old Mwanga trees. The air was still and the sun scorching. Everywhere tiny, almost invisible insects floated about in countless numbers, moving in erratic and ever changing directions like a tiny galaxy of stars glistening in the open space. Large pipes that I knew personally, protruded from the back of the derelict tobacco barns all around the compound before me, bits of irrigation pipe and broken farm machinery scattered about like spoilt children scatter and abandon their expensive toys. Some of the ten ochre red tobacco barns still stood straight and strong, others dismantled for their precious red bricks. Kakis weed poking out of the foundations where the mighty curing houses once sat and excreting a rich and pungent smell. I walked on without dwelling on the true condition of the old and homely barns where I used to run about as a small boy pulling at the sleeves of my ever busy parents or playing with the workers children.

Beyond the barns, down a short unmaintained and mistreated road, lay the lands, vast, even and unfulfilled. Not even the mere shadow of the former glory was apparent, an unutilised provider. Luscious weeds grow from every inch of her fertile body to block from sight the trees that have germinated and begun to reclaim the lands that they once possessed. The roads that criss-crossed through the lands were washed down into treacherously rough corrugations and ditches that were laden with large stones. Only the vaguest inkling of familiarity lay in the personality of this once prolific land.

As I stand and look over an old and fond memory from the top of the abused road, I am acutely aware of how futile this attempt at consoling my grief has been. But I don’t want to leave yet; I need to visit my closest and most personal memory. The house in which I was born, Is the house that symbolises my childhood years and the place that harboured the foundations of my current personality and brought to life with its supportive hands my love of agriculture and conservation.

Was it the nauseating shade of yellow it has been badly covered in? Or the abstract and distressingly familiar twisted old farm trucks and chassis that lay in a messy pile of rust behind the kitchen? It was probably both, probably all of it. I did not want to venture closer, for to see the detailed state in which this priceless family home sat, would banish from my soul the faith I have in the goodness of other humans, and in turn, awaken a sad realisation that I lack incentive to have faith. It was better to stand back.

The memory I have of this former home evokes as warm a feeling as can be felt. My first memories were of this place, the warm summer air blowing through the enormous ancient mountain acacias while the whole family sat on the lush green lawn, birds sung, plants flowered and life thrived amongst the love of the people who lived here. The bright white paint on the walls and royal green roof, the clean windows and flowing white curtains, chairs arranged neatly on the veranda and the laughs of my parents and visiting friends still resonated with vigour through my mind.

And here it lay before my eyes in a state of desperation, unmaintained, uncared for, misused, and worst of all, defaced with a sickly shade of unnatural yellow that already pealed from the walls on every corner. No birds sung and no Plants flowered; only the wind blew through the unchanged and unappreciated mountain acacias. No laughter or love had been here for a long time.

I turned and walked from that place for it was a place that I no longer knew. It was just one of thousands of similar and equally depressing places that unfortunately litter this beautiful country. It was a mistake to visit. The old memories were much sweeter and joyous, and this new perspective from ten years after the incident brought only pain and melancholy and the realisation that what I had pictured for the past ten years had only been total fallacy, I had envisioned a well maintained and organised place, just as it had always been with people meandering around the grounds, if not working then talking and laughing with someone who was, it used to run with the precision of clockwork and the ease of a hot knife cutting butter, now it did nothing. So what was it for? Why did we have to leave? Could anyone give me an explanation? I know these are questions I should not ask, nor questions that should be answered.

And so I vowed to myself, that from that point onward in my young life, I will never go back there, for it brought only hard reminders of the beautiful lives that once lived amongst these old deserted buildings. I will leave the memories to decay with this decrepit place, take with me only the essence of goodness that once resided here but was replaced by jealousy and hatred.

It’s time to move on from here to a new place, a place that could support the love and enthusiasm that I know I can provide. And from my laborious but passionate work I will create a place of equal tranquillity to the former glory of our old farm. I will make a place that can provide a comfortable life and a hopeful and peaceful eternity, so that some day, when I have a son, he would never have to repeat what I just did.