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CRAZY (Gambia 2005) |
| Written by stephen west | |
| Sunday, 17 August 2008 | |
I had been aware of him for quite some time. "The Wandering Jewel" I had named him because his eyes burned like molten amber. I used to see him walking, always walking. Perpetual motion along the highway, often barefoot, but with speed and a purpose known only to himself. His legs always eager to overtake each other, body taught, wired, his arms sprung akimbo, head thrust forward, and, under a heavy brow, the burning eyes that saw nothing but perceived everything, or maybe vice versa. Sometimes neat and tidy, obviously someone looks after him sometimes. Yet often in rags, the pockets of his trousers stuffed with rubbish collected from the roadside, his wrists decorated with string, tape and nylon bags. "The Wandering Jewel". In local parlance, "a mad somebody", "a crazy person". Billy Bungalow, (nothing upstairs!). Although I had seen him around for some time I had only ever observed him from a distance. Only the eyes registered. The rest of him a vaguer image of lunacy. But that all changed last year. I was sitting in my car waiting for something or somebody - I don't remember - and was suddenly aware of a presence, a being, a body to my left. So I expected the usual overture to begging. "Hello my boss", "Hello my friend", Hello big man", one of those phrases which always precedes, "I just want you to help me...." A gnarled and muscular hand appeared on my sill. The body behind it bent at the waist, and I found myself looking directly into those deep, brown, flaming eyes. And he said, "Don't be afraid". I put my hand on his and said, "I'm not afraid." and he cocked his head as if to view me from a different perspective, as if to indicate that I had surprised him when his intention had been to surprise me. I offered him a cigarette which he accepted. I proffered my Zippo and lit it for him. He said, "Pipe" and was gone. Twenty minutes later, on Pipeline Road, my exhaust pipe fell off.
I soon saw him again on his urgent and seemingly aimless travels, I pulled over. We exchanged greetings and I gave him a few coins. He said "Thank you" which is not an oft used phrase in beggarland, and then he said "Paper" and went on his way like a greyhound up that road which leads to only he knows where, and only he knows what or why. An hour later I am having a coffee, and bump into the new editor of the "Observer" who greets me with, "Harmattan, we want another column from you in the paper, come and see us soon please." Three minutes later Bojang calls my mobile. "Can you make weekly contribution to the new magazine I am starting?". The next time I pulled up by "The Wandering Jewel" I offered nothing. He just looked at me and said "Wire". That week a simple test indicated that the electrics in my restaurant were a fire hazard, and had to be replaced. "Tape" he said next time we met and, within hours, a street vendor supplied me with a Salifa Keita cassette that I have been after for months. Pipe, paper, wire and tape are all subject to his obsessive roadside harvest. Yes. There is a rational explanation. "Word Association." And I am sure that "The Wandering Jewel" is a happy and a contented soul. I doubt if he would hurt a fly and there is no torment or anguish in any of his behaviour. So while I have to fix my car, worry over 2000 words to submit every week, care about my music, and repair my electrics, this man merely has to walk around and collect a few bits of litter. He has a friend who dashes him a few coins or a cigarette every now and then, and I am quite sure I am not the only person who gives to him. So who is the crazy one? I have to fear that one day he will throw the word "Fortune" at me. After several nerve-racking hours I will discover whether I am going to spend one, or make one. Life is never predictable. Is it? Even when you think you are saneCopyright 2008 stephen west |
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