THE CASE OF THE LAME STICK
I was thinking last night, maybe I should write something about my struggle with the imaginary walking stick. But oh my word, it’s such a complex, immensely personal story, I don’t think I’m ready to face it yet. Let’s leave the imaginary kierie until I am brave enough.
Let’s rather talk about my beloved apple stick. She’s getting long in the tooth now, just like me, basically ready for a wheelchair. How far have we two walked since I bought her at the flea market in Thirsk, England? Hundreds of kays, more even. I remember our walking paths through the forest semi-surrounding our village in North Yorkshire, the white and grey clouds of rabbits jumping everywhere, peeking out of holes. I remember our stony paths around the Karoo koppies behind the house in Hanover, South Africa, past aardvark holes where deadly yellow snakes slept on the warm sand, where she helped me make up stories to sell so we could keep a roof over our darling Dalene’s head.
I’d be lying if I said I used to think she’s just a stick, a piece of wood. I never did. Even when I duelled with my grandson Aidan on the castle ruins at Scarborough, swiniging her like a broad sword, I always had this feeling she’s more than just a stick, she’s a friend.
And now, when she’s become a light sabre in Jedi duels with my boy Ruhan, I suddenly find her lying broken on the floor. My apple lady is done for, no more walks down to the sea.
That’s not the only problem: Ruhan, the light of my life, is gone. I call my little boy’s name, no answer. His grandmother Nita also calls; she’s the caregiver who helped me take care of Dalene, a task she performed with dedication. Ruhan’s mum is not at home this time of day, Saarkie is out working, selling cars.
The more we call in vain, the more I suspect Ruhan had a hand in the apple stick’s demise.
His grandmother Nita looks outside where, using his powerful imagination, the boy has transformed the garden into a Jurassic Park filled with prehistoric toys: you will find raptors roaming Ouma Nita’s rock garden, a T-Rex roaring silently from behind a rose bush. Ruhan loves playing there.
I check in our bedroom, he enjoys bouncing and dancing on our bed, tries to sleep between us every night. He’s not in the bedroom.
I look in our bathroom. Next to the toilet, I find The Jungle Book open on the floor. Ruhan is becoming a toilet reader. He only reads words, sentences are still too long. I started this by reading to him from picture books. I would show him the word “tiger” in the story and then the illustration of a tiger. He got the connection faster than other children I have tried this with. Again, what kind of biological people does this exceptional boy come from? And, very painful thought, what will they do if they find out what they gave away?
Saarkie and I certainly don’t want to lose him.
His grandmother calls from outside: Rebekka and Dawid, the white Labradors, don’t know where the childl is either. Ruhan often tries and fails to ride them. Basjan, our yellow crumpled dog from China, is asleep, of course. Basjan, short for Sebastiaan, resembles a large, wrinkled lion but he’s not a watchdog’s backside; everyone is a love object to Basjan, all he wants to do is cuddle.
“Ruhan! Where are you, darling?”
I keep calling as I walk past the open door of his bedroom-cum-playroom. He can’t be there, I decide, not with all this calling going on. I go open the door of the guest room where Ruhan sometimes plays Bat Cave under the bed with his Batman, Robin and Joker. He’s not there.
I begin to fear the worst: he’s gone off, over the wall, into the streets. We often go for walks around here, he knows the neighborhood’s dogs by name. We no longer walk to Noor Se Kkloof these days, the forested ravine is full of snakes and feral cats. I know my thinking’s turning desperate now,, but I can’t stop myself: what if Ruhan is so scared about breaking the apple stick he considers Noor’s ravine a safe hiding place?
I’m being melodramatic and I know it.
Last time we walked down into Noor Se Kloof, we saw an enormous fat hobo washing his clothes in the little brown stream and hanging them on branches to dry. His only mode of dress was a white Speedo.
“Papa, I need to tell you something,” Ruhan whispered, wide-eyed. “That man is naked.”
He had a point. You couldn’t really see the Speedo.
“I need to tell you something,” is my son’s introduction to important announcements, and naturally he believes everything he says is important. He will, for instance, approach ypu dramatically with his empty bottle: “I need to tell you something. Fill up.” He only drinks water. You cannot tempt Ruhan with milk or a soda. Bersie is the Afrikaans word he uses the most. Bersie is the name of his white-and-blue security blanket. “Voila!” is his idea of thanks if you give him his blanket or a bottle filled with water. He probably heard the Italian word on television.
I don’t expect to find him there, but I decide to look in the guest bathroom. Ruhan likes to pretend the shower cubicle is a submarine, he often hides there with his imaginary friends when there’s a great white shark loose in the guest bathroom.. He’s not there.
I really don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t find him. I don’t want to know what his mum will do to me and his grandma if we don’t find him.
At last, basically giving up, I look in Ruhan’s bedroom-cum-playroom. It’s not, strangely enough, his favourite place. I think it has to do with him thinking it’s his exclusive place in the house so he won’t usually find us there. He likes to be with us.
And that, finally, is where I find him. He sits in a corner on his plastic motorbike, his bersie like a scarf around his neck, staring intently at the wall while pretending to drive somewhere. Toys lie on the floor around him. His little mouth moves as if imitating the hum of a motorbike, but he doesn’t really make a sound. I can feel he knows I’m standing in the doorway, but he keeps looking at the wall in front of him.
He doesn’t have to look at me or say anything. His whole body language and face tell me Ruhan’s heart is broken. He broke his daddy’s best stick. His life is over and he’s not fully four years old.
I can’t fight with him over a piece of wood, even though she is more than just a piece of wood. Should I talk to him? Then I better do it gently and tenderly, he must know I accept it was an accident. But what if I speak and he bursts into tears? That could break my heart, and what good will it do if both of our hearts are broken?
So I keep my mouth shut, sit down next to him on the floor. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, continues rushing forth on his silent imaginary ride. I pretend not to notice him either, choose an action figure from the toys on the floor: Godzilla, the fire-breathing dragon. One of his great favourites. I do Godzilla’s roar, let the figure jump on the plastic motorbike in front of Ruhan and try to give the dragon a deep, growling voice: “Look, Ruhan, I’m riding shotgun!”
No reaction. He pretends Godzilla and I are on another planet, keeps on riding his bike to nowhere. Suddenly, the wind of the bike’s speed catches Godzilla full in the face, and the frightened dragon has to cling to Ruhan or he’ll be off the speeding motorcycle.
“Help me, Ruhan! I’m going to see my ass!” pleads the figure in my version of a dragon’s voice.
Ruhan is a typical little boy when it comes to cursing. He may not swear himself, but he finds bad words wickedly funny. I can see he’s trying hard not to laugh. I pretend Godzilla loses his grip and falls off the plastic bike, rolling over the floor and uttering more wicked words. Ruhan can’t hold it in any longer, laughs out loud.
I pick my son up and put him on my lap.
He whispers, “Papa, I need to tell you something.” I can hear he’s close to tears. “I didn’t mean to break the apple stick, it just got stuck in the chair’s legs.”
I hold him tight against me.
His mum has magic hands. That night she fits the apple stick’s leg together neatly, and wraps white duct tape tightly around the break. My lady is back in action.
“Voila!” shouts Ruhan.
His mum has an idea: I should give Ruhan a stick that will be his only, and he must take care that his stick never breaks.
I choose a stick too short for me. It’s made of willow, almost as soft as poplar, bends easily. Chances are Ruhan will break it before the end of the week.
And what does this son of of mine do? Yes, right, he protects his willow stick with his life, treats it as if it’s a wand of gold, cares for it streets better than he did my poor apple stick.