The debacle of the motorists.
“That’s why I write, because life never works except in retrospect. And writing makes you look back. Because, since you can’t control life, at least you can control your version.” ~Chuck Palahniuk
I stared at this quote, ruminating, and being mesmerized by its sheer validity. I pondered greatly as to how my version could possibly be of more interest. That, having the notorious writers block due to the possibility of producing an unoriginal piece, is something that writers actually encounter and will eventually overcome. I told myself, all in good time.
As I grew up, I had these vivid memories reappearing. And yes, this sounds cliched but they were mostly about things my father had taught me. As I went about my daily routine, I found myself doing things absentmindedly. I'd realized that what he had repeated to me over the years has become what I now repeat to myself. In this way, he became my literal inner mantra.
One of the most fondest memories I have of my father is of him while he was driving. This was back in 2008 on the way to a distant family members reunion and began when a rancid driver had done something to enrage him. In a moment of absolute exuberant stifle, he jerked the car to a halt and reversed back all the way until he was next to the other driver. He looked up at my mother, expecting her to roll down her window, at which stage she glared at him and then agreed. The other driver had already rolled down his window and was affirmatively ready to belt out a string of vulgar language. And yes, although we, my sister, Fay, and I, were under the impression that we were going to be subjected to a raucous word battle - to enhance our profanity - instead he turned to Fay and I and calmly instructed that we glance at the other driver. He said "Look closely and take notes". I think he expected us to whip out our ancient electronics, that resembles something of a brick back then, and open a memo pad. We didn't. After an estimated thirty seconds of silence, we turned back to him, expectantly. He continued "That, Fahima and Sauda, is the face of an ass".
And on that note, the other driver clearly hearing him and awestruck and father evidently pleased with himself for proving a point along with hyena laughs from the backseat, we huffed off away from the other driver in our 2002 model Toyota Tazz and drove off into the horizon as a warm shaft of sunlight fell behind us, exposing us to the night sky.
Yes, a 2002 model Toyota Tazz was a fashion statement back in 2008, believe me on this one. We were literally the neighbourhood thugs, dressed in our Islamic attire that the colonials had visibly coined "ninja suit". Well, actually the term they were in sought of and the much more plausible term is "parda". That signifies another important mantra I learned from my parents. I couldn't help noticing that I was always so happy. I was happy about where I lived. I lived in a beautiful[and functioning]home. Not a palatial house. I was happy about the fact that I attended a prestigious school. And let's be frank, I was happy because they supplied me with an endless supply of free wifi - to fuel my soul, that is. But most importantly, my parents had given me the single most amazing thing - my sister. Then, I was content. And now, I realize that I was spoiled, beyond recognition. As long as your core values had substance necessities over material, happiness would be clear. That to be happy all you needed was to be loved and to have religion, preferably both. And with this tool, you could surely create more happiness, both within yourself and in the world.
And that is why I write. Because I love writing. And I can use my self-professed brilliant writing to create more love. Because all the world needs is a bit more love. And maybe some food for the middle African children.
Sauda.
@ladysauda
I stared at this quote, ruminating, and being mesmerized by its sheer validity. I pondered greatly as to how my version could possibly be of more interest. That, having the notorious writers block due to the possibility of producing an unoriginal piece, is something that writers actually encounter and will eventually overcome. I told myself, all in good time.
As I grew up, I had these vivid memories reappearing. And yes, this sounds cliched but they were mostly about things my father had taught me. As I went about my daily routine, I found myself doing things absentmindedly. I'd realized that what he had repeated to me over the years has become what I now repeat to myself. In this way, he became my literal inner mantra.
One of the most fondest memories I have of my father is of him while he was driving. This was back in 2008 on the way to a distant family members reunion and began when a rancid driver had done something to enrage him. In a moment of absolute exuberant stifle, he jerked the car to a halt and reversed back all the way until he was next to the other driver. He looked up at my mother, expecting her to roll down her window, at which stage she glared at him and then agreed. The other driver had already rolled down his window and was affirmatively ready to belt out a string of vulgar language. And yes, although we, my sister, Fay, and I, were under the impression that we were going to be subjected to a raucous word battle - to enhance our profanity - instead he turned to Fay and I and calmly instructed that we glance at the other driver. He said "Look closely and take notes". I think he expected us to whip out our ancient electronics, that resembles something of a brick back then, and open a memo pad. We didn't. After an estimated thirty seconds of silence, we turned back to him, expectantly. He continued "That, Fahima and Sauda, is the face of an ass".
And on that note, the other driver clearly hearing him and awestruck and father evidently pleased with himself for proving a point along with hyena laughs from the backseat, we huffed off away from the other driver in our 2002 model Toyota Tazz and drove off into the horizon as a warm shaft of sunlight fell behind us, exposing us to the night sky.
Yes, a 2002 model Toyota Tazz was a fashion statement back in 2008, believe me on this one. We were literally the neighbourhood thugs, dressed in our Islamic attire that the colonials had visibly coined "ninja suit". Well, actually the term they were in sought of and the much more plausible term is "parda". That signifies another important mantra I learned from my parents. I couldn't help noticing that I was always so happy. I was happy about where I lived. I lived in a beautiful[and functioning]home. Not a palatial house. I was happy about the fact that I attended a prestigious school. And let's be frank, I was happy because they supplied me with an endless supply of free wifi - to fuel my soul, that is. But most importantly, my parents had given me the single most amazing thing - my sister. Then, I was content. And now, I realize that I was spoiled, beyond recognition. As long as your core values had substance necessities over material, happiness would be clear. That to be happy all you needed was to be loved and to have religion, preferably both. And with this tool, you could surely create more happiness, both within yourself and in the world.
And that is why I write. Because I love writing. And I can use my self-professed brilliant writing to create more love. Because all the world needs is a bit more love. And maybe some food for the middle African children.
Sauda.
@ladysauda
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