HE WHO SEARCHES SHALL NOT FIND

Agitated, he stands agitated;

His face darkened by the sun, dry mouth watered by the sweat of his brow. He bows his head in between his knees at the days end agitated, lifts himself up and stands agitated.

The only decent piece of clothing he owns is now no longer decent, stained by sweat creating a yellow patch underneath his arms, he unbuttons his shirt, agitated, and with his tough bony hands compresses it into a ball that he uses to clean the sweat off his brow. The shoes on his feet bore no demarcation between the grounds under his shoes; they were old, they were dusty, and they were tired.

In the middle of the road, with only a wrinkled cream white vest, a black trousers that is no longer the absence of colour but shines purple in the setting sun that painted the horizon a deep orange with golden highlights; the trousers loops were held up by a black leather belt that lost its elegance like a warrior who lost his glory, it had pieces of cotton lingering from where it began to fall apart. He lifts up his shirt with the little strength he has and cleans the sides of his neatly shaven head, he looks up facing the sun searching for what he could not find; Hope.

He had circled the narrow streets, mapped the grey and dusty roads, navigated the concave steel refined highways, voyaged the distant wards, journeyed the growing cities visiting the magnificent red pan bricked houses, navy blue government offices, foreign owned compounds, busy town shops, distant district factories and the beautiful colourful rural farms; all of man’s infrastructures looking for what he could not find.

Day after day, week after week, month after month till the calendars became too expensive, no longer keeping track of the times and seasons. With his head facing up, he searched for reasons to go on and on and on. The bones in his body nearly broke loose from his skin, you needn`t use and x-ray machine on him, all was clear as the still waters of Lake Mweru.

The sweat of his face made his T-shirt wet, it was useless now, and it dangled from his hand that dangled from its socket. Lately, his mind was rusty, his idea exhausted, the maps in his brain punctured with pins everywhere; he had been everywhere till the balloon of his mind burst like a socket that had seen too many days of power disruptions. His tired legs, long and strong wobbled under the weight of his body, they cried for rest but he did not want to lose hope, in spite of that, there was nowhere else to search.

He could search no more, for there was nothing to find. There were no jobs, the few jobs he could find required him to have degrees and diplomas but he had never sat on a college seat, no, he had no money to take him to school and how could he find money if he had no job?

Banks could only lend to those who had jobs and relatives could only give to those who could pay back. Walking back home with shame was no option, because he had no home.

Finally, facing forward, across the golden savanna grass, beyond the highway, his back against the skyscrapers and maroon brick figures that yielded no promise. In front of him was a tree, he finally had options.