Man's time always passes away, no matter how long it takes.
It has happened before,when some beings so infallibly human wanted to stand one frame higher than the horde of all these unofficial citizens- citizens who wonder about, to and fro, in search of the basics they have never found.
It is sad that the world has come to take the 'basic necessities' for food, shelter, clothing, and the other one many have come to chalk to heart, and recall at the sense- is it fear?- of their rights being infringed upon.
But the world, in its all-knowing rush- this rush that takes us nowhere- forgets so many simple things.
The world, in this big run for a tomorrow that never be be known, forgets about the real basic necessity, and the second real basic necessity. But the truth remains that the world's 'mother' basic necessity is justice.
Then, there is oxygen- taken in droves, but still unaccounted for on the long list of man's everyday wants and needs.
It is so simple to get to the bottom of man's infallible heart: He counts on what he sees, and feels, and hears. What he touches, too- but never what he doesn't 'oil' with his blood, and sweat, and puss, and the burning tissues that, every 'here' craws into the unknown.
Never to be, again; and never to be called and known by name. These tissues that dissipate.
This happens even in mountains grandeur. Mountains that 'house' the lucky ones- people who were born fortunate enough to have been pin-pointed, hand-picked, and position-bounded long ago- before the strong sun that beholds the tail of this peaceful darkness that comes at the end of the day- to become to 'whippers' of the common man, binders of these common goals in this carton of- you call it what? Oh, I remember, this memory that passes away- Malawi Growth and Development Strategy.
The world, without one such supreme and all-mountain vanquishing being in this common basket of humanity- still has its own bundled aspirations , the unintentional Millennium Development Goals.
It is all vapour, so light to take this giant madness off station. Off course, of course. When the giant mountain-dweller calls you, even though so matter he is, you either go and come back, or go and go back!'
This means what it says: going to 'come' back, and going to 'go' back!
That's what the mountain-dweller does to people. Dressed in his steel clothes of stubbornness, his head covered by the treeless skies above, his feet anchored by the mountains from which he derives this 'artificial' sense of being, this unmeasured sense of safety and security, (what he does to people is) he calls those he so wishes- throwing them from metres on-high.
When they tumble into eternity, (it means) they have gone to the mountain, and gone back. That is, going, and going back!
But sometimes, when the high winds on the low mountain are warm enough to captivate others infallible souls, he calls and the unofficial ones come, breathing high, and he whispers food and sweet water into their bowels and they come back.
Thus, those whose heads touches the bosom of the mountain dweller can be all-highs in this world hope of being let to go, and come back.
They, then, meet their loved ones- people they have come to know, and not deny.
All this happens on the mountain top, or the extensive flat land- 500 sleeps-strong.
Oh, this truth reminds us of the magnitude of their hopes, hopes ridden at the expense of the unofficial citizen's contribution towards the basics.
All sensible mortals, those mortals who walk within their white staff, or grey matter, and come back without losing touch with the winds, know that their salt is not free. That their sugar, too, this white and brown artificiality, has never been as free as the winds climbing through these, our veins. These veins of vanity.
The mountain man, or flatland inhabitant with 500 sleeps (500 of which sleeps can be found in Lilongwe, at the New Soul hut)eats free things, dreams free dreams, and hopes free hopes. All his air, as it were, being forced on the overburdened citizens below.
He eats, the mountain dweller, mountains. Mountains of food. He dreams mountains, for his dreams, being staged on the frame of infallibility, are vast and limitless. The unofficial citizen will pay for his airs and hairs and headaches, after all.
But, him being so 'insured' by the souls all-around, he gets his mountain an inch high with these artificial bricks and rocks.
These rocks and bricks that surround him, and blind his sight.These advisers!
The rocks tell him he is okay. That he will climb on that horse with 2014 legs! A horse that, during the four trips it has paid to the desert, has the tendency to come in May.
Not that this horse brings so many changes! The mountain man and his people put it in their opaque cartons. The white boxes, those ballots they fix throughout all this desert land- fooling our hopes of power; that, at least, this time our hands will work and take another untested infallible being to the mountain (if not the mountain; at least, put 500 souls into his feeble heart, and centre him in Lilongwe!)
Of course, the new infallible being will also change. And turn this hope into madness. Darkness, too.
But that is two, six years to come- years untested and tried. Years that, when their course finally comes, may take this common 'infallibleness' an inch higher, but not higher enough to touch base with the mountain top.
Then, when the winds pass away and reality catches up with the mountain man.
Man! Why is it always man?
Why is it that it is always men; why is it that when women try- even when already so close to the mountain top, they are chased away. Women who, having not bumped into the mountain man, are through out into the 'orange' world, far and far away from the blueless skies.
Some say the skies are blue!
But they all pass away into bluelessness- when the winds pass away.
This wind, this strange wind. At first, it was a cock. This wind.
Then, it inherited the form of light. That yellow light. This yellow light that never ceases to pass away.
Before the new housekeepers decorated it with blue!
Nobody knows which colour it will wear- meaning, this wind- when Twenty-thousand and fourteen horse bring the boxes that contain people's hopes, aspirations, and goals.
And whose boxes are 'stolen' away by the infallible human beings fighting for possession of the 500 'sleeps', or that bushful mountain without game.
But the winds always pass away.