When I try to remember, it was in December

Moses Moreroa : Author, Social Media Specialist,
Language Editor and Transformational Speaker

When I try to remember, it was in December when the sun boldly gave birth to lovely yet burning rays. An eventful day it was.

Albeit struggling to see as far as I wanted to, I saw people flocking to some place I did not know. Like swallow birds yet careless, they moved in the same direction, pushing against one another.

Making an extremely frustrating noise, struggling to run as fast as they wanted, through a thoroughfare around a shopping complex built of ancient stones, they decided to barge into Hill Street, bringing a motorway to a complete halt.

Motorists were amazed as people passed through a red traffic light which blinked heavily, signalling “Danger! Danger! Danger! Danger!” But that fell in the eyes of furious young and old folk who tangled through the street.

When I looked up the buildings, a saw a very tall building, which looked so sacred. It was written “The Anglican Cathedral of St Michael and St George.”

As it was my first time in Grahamstown, I could not just watch while everybody hurried in the same direction. I followed them. There were hundreds of people in front of me.

As I ran, I took two rides at a time - one was to go where everybody else was going and another journey was mental, wondering why the rest of the town was wandering.

To my surprise, we ran past the church.  I was like an athlete approaching the finishing line, I accelerated and pushed through the people because passing the church clearly showed that we were running away from something dangerous.

At least being vertically challenged worked to my advantage. It was easy to sneak in and out of their armpits and curves and tall legs.

The running did not show any sign of coming to a stop. I wanted to give up. The idea that we were either running away from something dangerous kept me going.

As we crossed to the next street, I only saw signs of no entry drawn on a cracked tarred road. My fear of the unknown got the better of me. I wanted to know the name of the street in case I get lost. Now being vertically challenged became a challenge. I could not see what was on the sides.

Out of the blue, the crowd started shouting with excitement. You could have heard my sigh of relief. At that time I did not feel my heartbeat. My chest was burning. A heartburn, perhaps, because it all happened after I had lunch.

There was a loud sound as the noise from the people cooled down. It was either a saxophone or a guitar, or maybe a keyboard if not a flat old-style drum. Okay, I admit, I got confused.

Maybe it was a train signalling danger because normally a cracked tar road is found next to a train track. At least, that’s what I saw happening to most of the tarred road in the Limpopo Province.

The crowd completely came to a stop, with a sudden silence. But I was still far, deep in the crowd.

I pushed heavily through the crowd.

I pushed hastily.

I pushed even keenly as I heard music playing.

I could not push further as the horde started moving slowly, dancing to a soft, heart-warming beat. When I looked around, to my surprise, there were only shoes in front of me. Some had boots on, others sandals and sneakers. As I lifted my chin, there was a fat, thick leg in front of me. I realised that while pushing forward, I must have hit a very fat man’s thigh as he was dancing.

The best option was to stand up and join the dance floor.

An hour later, people were tired while some had enough of the music. I managed to push through to the front.

Like someone who just saw the sun and moon kissing, my eyes got fixed at his smile. He was a charismatic, joyful black man who sang with passion.

His voice was soft and tender. He was a short man with a lovely haircut, sort of an s-curl.

From all of his songs, he praised God. The first song thanked God for his life. I don’t remember the second and third songs. The fourth one, which was the closing act, talked about how Jesus restored the vision of a man born blind.

As I paid attention, I overheard people next to me talking. One said: “He is such a gospel great. A soulful singer!”

The other said: “I wish he could see how people appreciate his talent, quite impressive.”

Since he bragged about his good-looking hairstyle and his wife’s traditional dress, I quickly erased the idea that he was blind. I wondered why the ladies said if only he could see.

As they started packing their band, a young, active boy who looked like the singer, especially the nose, came with a walking cane and gave the man.

While looking around, I saw the band’s contact details and saved them on my phone.

It was about 19h38 when I left for the hostel. Everyone along the way seemed to be a thug. Most of them had sneakers and hats on.

I stayed at Rhodes University as a visiting scholar from the University of Limpopo.

Luckily, I arrived safely. As a journalism student, I was supposed to write a feature article.

First thing in the morning, I contacted the man for an interview. His name was Elethu, meaning “The world is ours” in English.

I wrote about his childhood. How he endured pain as a child born blind. Everyone teased him at school and around the village. He had to leave school.

I wrote about how he met his wife who was also blind, who took care of their two sons, who did their laundry, how he learned to play keyboard and so on.

That was my first article ever. 

That was the beginning of my writing career.