A Little Nostalgia, A Little Story…
Back in the days, after a little too much of toiling in town, we would pack a bag and board some old God-forsaken bus to upcountry. My grandfather would wait for us at the entrance of the homestead, while my grandmother would camp in her smoke-filled kitchen doing her thing. The reception, warm and ambient, a few chickens here and there facing the knife, with the boys running all over chasing rabbits. My favorite dish, smoked duck. I once shared with a friend, about my people’s duck-eating habit. You know those things that hideously slip out of your mouth, when chasing sunsets. I guess watching the big orange ball surrender into the horizon culminates a feeling that ‘This is a safe place.’ All he said was,’ Your family are a strange people. How do you eat ducks?’
We are who we are. We can handpick friends, customized to our likes and dislikes but family, that shit is complicated. My grandfather remains a man I admire and respect in equal measure. Nothing about his physique, but everything about his calmness because he was a 5’5 tall, yellow fellow, with satellite ears. He was always peaceful, calm and collected, no matter how hard the tides rocked the boat. I would blame it on the cultured ways of the Roman catholic, but two decades later I realized, it was those things self-help books overemphasize- an inside job. My grandmother was a cactus, detached and distant torn between the cultured ways of the ancients and curving out her own path. Sometimes, we would sit around the fire listening to my grandpa tell stories while my grandmother, a few steps away held a cigerrate in her mouth. In that smoke-filled grass thatched kitchen, the storyteller was hatched.
While I crave my grandpa’s peaceful aura, my grandma’s wild moon-ness must have rubbed off on me. In the search for self, I met this beautiful girl Samantha. Truth is, I do not know how Samantha looks like; whether she is vanilla or chocolate, tall or as short as I am. As far as I am concerned someone did kill Samantha and no one knows who did it, neither I the playwright, the cast nor the readers who immersed themselves in the play ‘Who Killed Samantha?’ This is justice to Samantha, half-hatched characters who had to be killed because the composition had to end abruptly and the slippery ideas that decided not to perch a nest and hatch a story.
The HoneyPot is nostalgia-dipped in honey, fine creativity with a soul and, for the sweetness of the language.