Mamela [Completed]

The man with no language.

There's a man on the bus. An unkempt man with short-pitch black wavy hair and black stubble around his chin. He is seated at the back ,not too far from where I'm seated. He is mumbling. Rambling on and on like a broken record.

His lips move awkwardly as he pronounces his words. I do not understand him, none of us do .He is drawing attention to himself. Perhaps it is his custom to disturb others with endless chanting before embarking on an arduous journey.

Seated beside me, my six year old nephew tugs at my sleeve and whispers," Kida,Kida,that man has no language”. I look down at him and smile, amused by his childish ignorance.

Just then, my phone rings and I temporarily ignore the man .It's my aunt. Sounding very stern. She is warning me about the bus I am traveling in.

"You'd better miss this trip and escape with your life".

Huh?Her statement bewilders me.
She says the woman whose husband owns this bus is involved in dark magic. At this, my heart drops to my stomach .I am conflicted. Everything around me seems to stand still. I can no longer hear the banter and chatter of my fellow passengers.

Fear, anger, despair, rage-I am at the mercy of these emotions. I don't know which to feel. All at once, I feel them surge through me.I close my eyes, and clench my fist. The feeling is intense, perhaps I will explode like an over-blown balloon at a kid's birthday party. I hope not. And then...it hits my eardrums like a clap of thunder.

Boisterous laughter. It's that voice. Again. It rescues me from my emotional dilemma but only momentarily. The man with no language is amused. He lets out a continuous guffaw of laughter much to the dismay of the passengers nearest to him. What on earth could be so amusing to just one person, I wonder.

Could he be an escaped mental patient? Or perhaps he is a hobo; or worse still, he could be the bearer of an evil talisman. My thoughts turn back to the dreadful call I'd received and with my aunt's words of warning echoing in my ears, I crane my neck to look at the strange man. My eyes fixate on and sweep over him, zooming in, looking for any signs to confirm my mounting suspicions.

Without warning, we lock eyes for a split second and instantaneously, I retreat, neck and all. I dare not hold his gaze. As is my custom, it is a taboo for a young lady to stare into the eyes of a man, especially a stranger.

From this brief encounter, one thing is certain for sure. The man is not a hobo but I cannot rule out the question of his sanity. He is wearing a bright red shirt and a pair of khaki pants. At his feet lies a black bag. The shape of it is strange. Perhaps I am being just being prejudiced towards this man. With a shrug, my attention briefly diverts to a road block up ahead.

In league with the police, the road safety agency has set up road blocks after every two hundred kilometers to inspect vehicles for road worthiness and to ensure that buses are not being overloaded.

As the bus slowly approaches the roadblock, all the passengers lower their voices. All except, the man with no language who at this point, breaks into song, the tune of which sounds like the last shrieks of a dying chicken. Sighing, I roll my eyes and lean back into my seat. This strange man is proving to be more of a nuisance than I had anticipated.

The door creaks open and a pot- bellied, well dressed officer of the law steps in. With his burly index finger, he silently begins to perform a head count of all passengers on board. As he nears the back he begins to count aloud.

..."thirty-two, thirty-four, thirty-si....".He is distracted. The man with no language is chanting and making some rather unusual gestures at the officer ,whose countenance like lightning quickly changes. I can tell he is offended by this untoward behavior.

"Excuse me sir but this is not a pub where....".Once again he is rudely interrupted by the strange man.

"Vadadaam....vadaaadum,haak...."

With a stern look on his face the police officer picks up his walkie-talkie and radios in to his colleagues outside for back-up. Immediately, two more police officers step aboard an ask the man with no language to step outside for a brief moment.
Instead of complying in a peaceful manner, the man begins to stomp his feet and chant louder and longer. The sound is deafening and somewhere in the bus, a terrified toddler begins to cry.

My head begins to spin and I begin to feel claustrophobic. The man with no language is resisting a simple order and the officers resort to forcibly removing him from his seat in the interest of public safety. As the unruly passenger disembarks, I can see the look of relief on the driver's face. The man with no language is charged with disorderly conduct and taken to a waiting police vehicle.

As the bus drives off, my nephew sticks his head out of the window and waves until the officers at the roadblock become small insignificant dots in the distance. A smile forms on my lips as I too, like my nephew am relieved to finally be rid of the unruly man with no language.