The problem was that Nindo had left his brother a year before he was to make his important choice: speech instead of listening or listening instead of speaking. If his brother Lindo had chosen speech, then there was no way of explaining to him his happenings in the city. The ear drums were permanently shut once you had chosen. There was no going back from that.

If you chose speech you could talk to your heart’s content without hearing any responses. It was the price you had to pay. The talkers lived off of body language and facial expressions. Smiles meant the world and tears needed no translation. Nindo felt that he could not choose one over the other. As disgraceful as escaping was, he felt that it was right. This was a world he had to explore.

“I have gotten so used to talking Sunny, I am now a slave of words. I forever feel the need to express myself and to hear from someone how they feel. I can no longer go back to being the person I once was. I am in too deep friend,”

He always stressed the importance of listening when we started getting restless, when we all felt the need to stress our points on a particular situation.

“Wait! Wait! Nindo wants to say something!” I would say.

“Listening is a beautiful thing,” he said.

It gave the mind something to do, whether music or informational conversations. There were things to be learnt there, he said. Nindo loved music. He said music meant more than words can describe. He said the best respect to music was to listen.

“Let it speak to you,”

When Nindo came to the city he was a little boy, never exposed to the chatter of the streets. He never knew how people could say such nasty things to each other, about each other. He never knew the world would tell him so much. Boredo was a few miles south of the city, though no one dared to go. Well, except Nindo. He was lucky in finding a bakkie in its lonesome, the driver had gone into the bush to relieve himself.

He hopped at the back of the bakkie, hoping it would lead him to undiscovered places. The big city. Nindo had seen a car before from a magazine filled with all sorts of beautiful cars. It had been found by his mother in a nearby bush. Nindo’s mother was gifted with interpretation. She could see what you wanted to say without you actually having to say it. She could see in Nindo’s eyes that he one day hoped to see such a thing and be able to tell stories about it.

The bakkie indeed was heading to the city but Nindo had no way of looking through the window since he was in hiding, waiting for the car to stop. He had no idea when it would. As the car headed towards a new world, he felt excited yet at the same time he was scared. He had no idea what it had in store for him because the city was something that was never discussed. Though the ‘talkers’ would talk madly about it, but no one would respond.

The city taught wickedness and filthy morals. People from the city did not know how to handle the power of their tongues. They spoke carelessly; they spoke when words were not needed. And this was the biggest crime to the people of Boredo, speaking out of place.

One could not say that Nindo had the best of beginnings in the city. He had no family here, he had no money. Only wearing a Boredian vest and torn shorts, he had nothing besides words which had the power of getting him out of his rather complicated situation. He could not get help because people could not understand what he was trying to say. Some chose to not listen, suspecting he was just like the other boys who bought glue and sniffed to their sleep.

Nindo however wanted someone he could explain to, about his people and his reason for being here. In the beginning he found it hard communicating because back at home one did not need to speak to express how they felt.

As time went by Nindo learnt the ways of the city and managed to make some friends, me and the others who shared the Sooney Bridge with him. The Bridge was a place for the homeless and I, like Nindo, had no home to call my own. We all could tell that he did not belong here. He talked about things we did not care to notice.

The Bridge was no place for a person like Nindo, though he always managed to charm his way into getting something to eat and probably something to smoke. He had a way with words like I’ve said. The others called him the ‘chosen one’. He though had to go back to Boredo.

“You know sometimes the water, it speaks to me, and it calms me. It says ‘Yes Nindo you are a beggar without a home, yes you are a disgrace to your family. But Nindo remember, you will be fine’ it says. Nindo will be fine, Nindo will flow like water.”

***

Tell us: Would you live in Boredo?