h2>Dating : Osala
I never knew where Osala came from. No one really did. But everyone said that he fought WWII — in Tanganyika.
How people knew this I don’t know. I think Osala told them. And they had no reason not to believe him, because, they said, he lived like a soldier. In a shanty, lonesome mud-and-grass-thatch hut by the side of the road, a single room that he shared with his chicken. One huge cock with a rainbow-ish hue about the edges of its feathers, and which he would replace soon, as he did from time to time, to continue a healthy cycle of servicing for his hens, for he needed the eggs that was his trade.
In that hut, he had all kinds of old paraphernalia, rusty metallic stuff, piles and piles of it that took up nearly half the house. He said it was part of his wartime loot. And people believed him because if you actually dug in there, you could find all kinds of gadgets that looked… well, from other times. And old stoves and iron-boxes that were reportedly once again of great interest, because, people said, the metal was of great value — coming from when things were… things — and now worth thousands in some circles, even millions if you knew where to look.
I think Osama lied about the wartime loot part. There was in there a big plate whose entire face had been taken over by red rust, like rushes that cover every inch of your skin, but which I thought looked like a satellite dish.
I liked to fancy Osala a thief: It made him interesting.
No one knew Osala’s age. WWII was the only reference point, which we only knew to have been many, many years ago.
Grandma — herself old and hunched — liked to mock his aging. When he went by our gates, she’d say: There goes Osala, walking down the hill hunchback. So folded like a snail. His shell could crack just now. Oh but it already has — only the lines are too dim you can’t see. And she’d laugh, and we would too. It became her chant, her song, and I suspected she looked forward to it with great impatience, her eyes to the gates.
And to think that Osala had been young once.
One day a tortoise wandered into his compound and settled in his yard. Osala was greatly excited. We were going by with a friend when he called to us. He hadn’t bothered it, but he sat there by the door, making sure the animal didn’t extend its welcome into the house. The tortoise was a big one, it’s height coming to about my knees, and Osala theorized that it was a very old one. He said, “You can tell by the way it sticks its head out, not hiding in its shell; how it stares hard.”
When we left, the two were locked in a staring contest. I think Osala didn’t even notice our leaving. Then I couldn’t stop laughing, because … you know, grandma’s song. And I thought what a strange man Osala was.
