14cotj parents blind spot while leaving their boys in care

7/29/2019 14COTJ Parents Blind Spot While Leaving Their Boys in Care

1/5

We were at that age when seated upright, our feet merely touched the footwell. I had grownaccustom by now to the grunt at the other side of my brother, Rogi. A yellow metallic skin stickingout and seat break that separated the inert and thinking driving figure. He appeared to be listeningto the snort of the fat pet pig lying down alongside his pantsuit thigh, walking the compressionpistons of a diesel engine that took it easy along the level bush road.

The driver caught me attentive and weary, to drop his repeated and silent glance fixing mybrother with the look that till then he had shifted and equally shared between my brother and me. Awhite estranged face emerged, similar to the lack of consistency expected from a cattle farmer towear appropriate casual clothing. Subtle and simmering a Don Juan character emerged, from hisvisits to town. somewhat seducing our mother, which her tomboy facet of the sturdy Capricorn, shefailed, or ignored to notice, somewhat taken advantage of her leniency. It will take another decade,and the break of independence from colonial rule. That, with a teenager's critic mind, noticeMonsieur Olislagers as an immigrant at the point of Africa, when he rolled from underneath a car in

a workshop. Surprised me that life hadn't changed his style as a mechanic. He walked away fromme exposing under his blues, the tie and white collar that never separated from his skin.We wouldn't have been, as children riding high in the cabin of a yellow Thames Trader.

Wasn't that our mother went against her husband's will, turning our father feeling himself destitute,by the great number of mouths to feed. the Monkey in mother, which 'I' off a walking informationkiosk, she carried around while serving customers at the only groceries store in town. All the while,we were high before that wide panoramic upright windshield that elegantly bends the ends. Withour eyes, bringing the leading dirt road closer to squint at the protruding yellow stubby nosehousing the horse power of the 7 ton truck.

For us boys playing with Dinky Toys, and given the opportunity of being a part of theluxurious cabin. On the wane the dashboard, though unreachable over the wide and great footwell.

the dark hollow gap succumbed to that prolonged routine, from which rose an atmospheric lowpressures, conceding the silent reign in the cabin. Monsieur Olislagers had a motive to show aparticular interest in us. He sensed and misunderstood that we weren't reared in an emotive

The writer expresses an esoteric detailed chronology of psychic experiences, through the thread of a down to earth storyon how the mind functions. He is committed to improving readability and understanding of such a controversial subjectthat is a lifetime thesis to show the interactive shadow of the living against a background of immaterial with the aim to

reach the 7 to 77 old.

Na

tureprovi

dedmew

ithapsych

icg

iftim

ages,

whichIstrugg

leaga

insta

dy

slex

ichan

dicap

invisi

bletosociety,

an

dlikepa

intingw

iththemou

th,I

toogo

ttowri

te,

withou

trea

ding.

Youcan

help

bysharin

g,

edit

,transla

te,

query,an

dcr

itics

arewelcome.

WrathWrath

AtAtManMan

TheThe

TeaseTeaserrBeastBeast
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thames_Traderhttp://www.dyslexiaaction.org.uk/http://www.dyslexiaaction.org.uk/http://www.dyslexiaaction.org.uk/http://www.dyslexiaaction.org.uk/http://www.dyslexiaaction.org.uk/http://www.dyslexiaaction.org.uk/http://www.dyslexiaaction.org.uk/http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thames_Trader


2/5

environment, while that carrying parental platform, resided in depth, need be to hurl us off tohospital.

Monsieur Olislagers kidded with us, in an unfamiliar humor, which we ignored as childishcoming from an adult. He squints, wondering why we didn't catch on. persisted, to follow with aneventual head turn. In an accelerating succession, his eyeballs came to stay for prolongedmoments shifting eyes between us, while the Thames truck seemed to be a natural tracker,

steering along the remote sandy straight through wayside bush. The wayside bush lost itsnative lucidity rising its shadows against a palish leading road. The subtle change brings tomind the sky, to notice the veil of dusk drawn across the landscape at loss of the timid sunlight.The road surface continued to slip up and disappear far beneath the windshield. No sooner didhe catch in the reflection of our eyes, the rocky gateway sign that spelled out we entered theNational Park. a smirk lifted the man's face, glazing his eyes with mischief, catching onto ournave believe about animal that roamed with due respected to the frontiers that man staked outon the earth's crust.

When Monsieur Olislagers insisted turning his chest from being square to the steeringwheel, he rose the monster in him, and threatened our position of trust. He insisted, saying; "It'sonly a game!" checking, which of us was influential. Without me, my brother wouldn't move, and

without opening the door, I wasn't going to get out of the truck. As the monster twisted in hisseat, he lifted his foot off the throttle and with dismay I sense the truck slowing down. Themonster's plastic smirk, showed him taking pleasure, insisting; "You will both line up in front ofthe truck. You'll show me, which of you two runs fastest." the truck came to a gradual halt, whilethe night lingered overhead. The monster in his sheepskin suit leaned over the yellow metal pigthat separated us from him. He crawled up, with his words and pushed me to open the door. Istepped down a few steps hanging onto the door. Moved to the front of the massive cabin, soinnocent in its metallic coat. my brother came up to me and lined up. At the spurs of thecompression pistons, behind us the beast roared. Spurred us on, and listlessly my brother andme, we set off running abreast for a short distance. Until, the metallic beast sneaked up closerand closer, its yellow nose jutting us, and pushed us off side. We came to a halt on the side of

the road, watching in horror the tall front wheel roll by, as if there was still hope. Only to staredin disbelieve at the murky undercarriage slipped us into despair. The twin dusty rear tires rolledoff, with a sudden clearing of the dark oily canvas over the wood framed truck bed that hadblotted our sight from seeing what was forthcoming.

Left in the lurch, we stood by the roadside feeling naked, in our tropical khaki shorts,pants and shirt, which mother tailor made. It was a time to reconcile our situation. To think howto get home from the depth of nowhere and the night hanging overhead. While staring at thecanvass drop that covered the tailgate, lower to the road the red tail light flashed. We saw thisas a sign of reconciliation, took our feet and with all or energy ran the length wondering why thedriver didn't shift into reverse. But he did, until our figures filled the side mirrors, and came to ahalt, only to snorted and pulled off leaving us standing dumbfound.

I couldn't appease the wrath in me, at sight of the man, however wise I grew andlearned about a Chinese saying; Never hurt a Wild Boar, because you are bound to regret thatmoment for the rest of your life. A mention of the man sufficed to bring back my plight at themonster in the man, when he seemed to have forgotten his game as a passing whim.

My brother and me, we no longer ran to catch the truck, seeming impossible to outwit anelephant mass with our means. We were forced into patience. The truck reversed. The driverwas up to his trick, but failed our response. Reversed until the passenger door was at ourheight. And still, I didn't move a foot to tread the ring bolted with the wheel, at reach high up thedoor lever. I waited for the door to be opened from inside. allowed my brother to step as thecouchant monster withdrew from the passenger seat, where I followed my brother.

With wrath at heart I followed the road with the night invaded the cabin, until theblackness had absorbed my feelings. Then, I was left brushing my brother, whether hispresence at my side had a sense of protection, or being protective during the flowing longhours, in a world otherwise inexistent. Eyes fixing the sweeping headlights livening up the
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virunga_National_Parkhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virunga_National_Park


3/5

parting wayside bush, while lost in the blackness and the gleaming path was rag-pulled up tous. the straights across the plains left us, and beneath a scintillating lighter sky, we madeheadway along mountain roads. But, without a singled out star burning a light bulb in the pitchblack parterre of rolling hills. Where an electric generator meant in all probability, the passageof uncle Irneh Xueb. He make the white man's existence possible, where the black man hadgone to sleep with the sudden siphoning of the equatorial sunlight.

Deep into the black and fleecy thickforest hills, when the depth of the night wasabout to chime. Least expecting, the lure of alow wayside stone retaining wall, whichvanished with the hillside crown leveling outbrining up a feeble light in the distance. Asymmetrical shape drew a different skyline,shading a house that couldn't be focused asnearby, or standing in the distance, until theheadlights dimmed. The trio of us, stepped out

the cabin. My bother and me, we came aroundthe front of the high truck, and followed thefigure that had driven us up. Continued on footin his tracks. Assimilating the faint shine of acombined window and glazed door, with home'sparaffin lamp. I stepped across the threshold,where the night stayed behind. discovering anew scent in the shadows of obedient pet-likelounge furniture, waiting for their master's returnhome. weren't that Madame Olislagers, and thecouple's eldest daughter, out of a great number

of siblings, were frozen speechless on thecoach. Their expression were up against theman's voice. as soft the candle flames, tall overthe coffee table, had their say; dancing ourentry into the room. My brother and me stoodby as fools, in a family quarrel of glances andwords, while I, was falling asleep on my feet,and waited at being considered for a bed.

A morning mountain dew welcomed mybrother and me in a surrounded rolling fluorescent green hills. Left me feel a snuggle of freshair reaching through the short sleeves of my shirt, out to get my torso well in a skin tight sweatvest. I felt the other snuggle up my thighs dressed with shorts, and creeping my underpants.after a few strides tracking our arrival the night before, the orange-skin phenomenon took careof my body heat, while Monsieur Olislagers leads us on a courteous exploration of the frontyard to his ranch. He passed around the massive cubic and oily dark canvas that covers theloading bed of the Thames truck. He headed over for an off side two tones O pel sedan invadedover the silver bright bumper long rich green blades of grass, seemingly claiming their territoryback. The man paused by the front wheel. A wheel timid by an obvious twist, out of wheelalignment and with a tire in part blended into a swallowing dark mudguard shade. To mysurprise, the man addressed me. He said; "Will you have a look to see if the chassis is buckled if the wishbone is bend if the steering..."

Though all these words had a tone of familiarity, by which to follow instructions. I knelleddown in the cold, and despicable wet grass. Bending over, begun to crawled on both handscloser to the dark burrow. I threaded my head through the curtain with grass blades ticking myidiocy of discovering a monotone murky undercarriage. nothing connecting my Dinky Toys'
http://www.medial.com/opel/seed/kapitan57L.htmlhttps://maps.google.com/maps?saddr=Goma+Airport,+Goma,+Congo+[DRC]&daddr=butembo&sll=-0.911827,29.295044&sspn=3.229144,4.938354&geocode=FRSL5v8dWCW-ASlJrK_s_QXdGTGcQL9spYvCag;FQjzAQAdy-O-ASm30eziKC5gFzFFAjN5gjwWaA&t=h&z=8http://www.medial.com/opel/seed/kapitan57L.htmlhttp://www.medial.com/opel/seed/kapitan57L.html


4/5

pressed black metal plates embossed with, "Made in England." wheels slipped over a littlemetallic bar and held on the extremities by a bend of the plate with a punched hole. A chassisrepresentation of spring blades, and platform launching a few words back, before an extendedsilence told me to withdrawing my head, and in vain.

I wasn't at the man's height of intelligence, for the experience he sought in me, walkingaway and leaving me in the lurch. The man made little sense, to not have begun to put the

pieces together again, the preemptive resurrection of his wife before the earth claimed the coffin since she hadn't died and had little damages to show for the accident. I walked off, to roamingin a timeless existence about the ground floor of the farm house. My inadvertent presence,eavesdropping to imagine the forelegs of a calf pulled by the man to birth. been by a calf livingits first days, was the timeline of our stay, during which the cattle barn with the pen where thebirth occurred was left to imagine, as we were kept from experiencing in the aftermath of birth,the words that chimed a jingle bells story. The story brought up a twist, without a childcensorship, at the course of a bull-calf kept with its mother during her feeding period. But, it wastime which emphasized the baby calves slaughtering, which bring schnitzel on the menu, andthe best veal on a someone's dish.

In the midst of wasting time, my brother and me, we were out on the backyard. Had

sight over the terrace of a grazing expanse. We approached the furrowed that drew a brown linebreaking through the middle the greens. Challenged by the deep shoulder high furrow to getacross, we prolonged the stream, which had over time eroded the rich top soil. We walked faralong that land break, until climbing down into the gully and stepped across the shallow streamof crystal water. A while later, were tracking back the opposite flank, with the believe that wewere bound to find shallow waters again. Until, daylight crept away, and our biological clocksaid; Soon the equator will siphon off the remaining daylight . Thought, the double story farmhouse had grown large and close, a feeling of being stuck away from civilization grew to feel atone moment obliged to turn back. Searching for our track as the brown top soil darkened its wallthrough the gully, we grew desperate and relieved that the original crossover spot wasn't lost forever, either behind, or in front.

I was met by a mountain air morning chill, and an empty house. Roamed the rooms,seeking some human presence. Up a staircase to the first floor, I came across the figure ofMadame Olislagers, her back turned, as she faced the long edge of the bathtub. She dug ahand time and again in a pile of white dirty laundry, while disputing her daughter's teenagerobjection who stood by at the other extremity.

I took sides with the daughter, wondering; 'Why, all that sweat?'Madame Olislagers thought otherwise. In an insistent tone of voice, soon answered a

nave inexistent ritual at home. She said to her daughter standing by with a ball-point pen andfolded back soft cover log book; "You should know that clothes have a tendency ofdisappearing!"

The daughter took notes while disapproving what her mother called out. Clothesfluttered like chickens in a slaughter house, as the mother's left hand took off from the top of thefloor pile, hurled to her right hand, from which vanish the fluttering cloth into the wide opening ofa large basket. And, not without a reminding voice, bearing the frustration of unreliable staff;"You know that the black will take anything they lay sight on ."

I will live moments in my life, to see man's excessive possessions, which a merepilfering by sight, will bring a sensation of wealth, while the owner wouldn't miss its overabundance natives became bound to a white man fences, where the pygmies' ancestor weregods sharing what the earth produced .

The day came that my brother and me were seated elevated in the cabin of the Thamestruck, to find that the mountain roads were long behind and that the night had come to lie on the

bushland. While leading headlight that brushed the white straight dirt road through the waysidebush, a creature squeeze forward from the depth of the door side seat. The shadow of apointing finger stretched at arm's length and begun to poke at the windshield. In a moment ofdoubt, the native tracker dropped his finger, but no sooner insisted, and agitated edged forward


5/5

across the dark hollow footwell. "There, there," he said in Swahili and pinpointing. But the driverfailed to respond, to that little night hunter.

Monsieur Olislagers' indulgent mood had flipped since we rode with him earlier in thepast week. He frowned concentrated, while the engine torque came down to idle and weslowed down as prisoners of his gambling tool, watching in the still bush the rise of massivemoving shadows.

We were all eyes peering into the distance, and far beyond the headlights. An Elephantbull turned to square-up on us, with flapping ears and mocking, the game that monsieurOlislagers had played on us a few day earlier. The elephant filling our path stormed on us,which brought the driver's hand to shift into reverse gear, and the truck back up.

With headlights dimmed, the bush dropped their shadows and praised up at themoonlight, which appeased the elephant's aggression. But, that wasn't the driver's idea, whokept flashing headlights, while behind the bull, an all legs herd moved across the road. Theelephant stormed with his mass and flapping ears in brilliance down our path, and agitated thelittle pygmy tracker, who knew better. When the last of the heard disappeared in the bush, themassive bull turned, and moments later there were no more signs as we drove by the spot.

14cotj parents blind spot while leaving their boys in care

Documents