The way in which we see ourselves is not always congruent with the way in which we judge others. We tend to have much more leniency with ourselves- for subconsciously we are aware that no matter how suffused with despair or malevolence we are, we shall never escape ourselves. This is unlike all other people, whose experiences and ideologies aren’t as inalienably attached to us as our own. One can live his whole life by avoiding individuals whom he is morally indebted to, and will seldom have to face his wrongdoings. It would not be erroneous to say that I somewhat half-admire such people, for their ability to make amazing efforts to achieve such unhealthy goals- but for the most part I try to have as high standards for myself as I do for other people. However, inevitably, not everyone will abide by this philosophy- because not all people possess the resilience to resist impulsive living.
This behaviour was exemplified greatly by my grandfather seemingly with every action he executed. He was the sort of character to get wound up easily watching other people do what he condemned, and would often get himself into trouble for his outbursts. Many considered him ill-mannered, and he was sometimes caught doing the very things he complained about. This seemed to be a popular opinion about him.
However, call him a hypocrite I cannot, for though he was ignorant to his own actions it would be unfair to place all the blame on him- because I often doubted his sanity, and when I think about our memories together I clearly remember the care and love he showed to me. But forget the awkward moments I also cannot do, and one in particular never escapes my thoughts.
It was the first time he had ever bothered to show up to a school event- which was the fayre in my final term at primary school, to which my parents also came. Located in the main hall, rows upon rows of stalls loaded with clothes and fresh produce greeted my eyes. The decorations were stunning, for they had been funded by the council- meaning the hall was by far the most opulent it had been since the forty-fifth president’s inauguration. It had a pacifying effect on me, because I hadn’t seen much that was grand or beautiful for years. The rows of shops intersected each other every six metres, so with six horizontal rows and seven vertical rows there were forty-two places where the paths intersected.
In every intersection was a marble statue of an important Nivillian historical figure, each one about three metres tall (the same height as most of the stalls). I only recognised three of them, however: David of Nuboja (a military officer whom we had learnt about in history), Marius Terveyin (the founder of the modern Nivillian republic), and Hobus Din (a traveller from southeast Asia who founded the important port city of Asinga).
I had always admired Hobus Din- for I saw myself in her. She had been portrayed in countless films about her journey across Africa, escaping from tyranny in her country and finding freedom in Nivillia. However, that was 200 years ago and I knew that our country had changed since then.
Each statue was on its own circular podium with a wooden bench around it. I decided to give myself some rest, rather than traipsing around pointlessly, so I sat on the bench by the statue of Hobus Din. My grandfather had not yet arrived as he lived twenty minutes away, and my parents were picking him up so they weren’t there either. I’d walked to school on my own for the first time and I felt a bit drained, but I was proud of myself for doing it. I waited a few minutes there for them to come and I settled down by Hobus. She was wearing a long, simple dress that I imagined was made of the finest crimson red silk, which tapered in at her waist- displaying her beautiful figure. I imagined her hair to be a dark brown, reaching her back in undulating waves that juxtaposed the rigidness of her dress. I saw that her eyes were a deep brown, bold against the warm hue of her skin. Her countenance expressed a down-to-earth nature and a love for all, and I felt increasingly comfortable as the statue became more real every second I looked at it. Being next to her was like being protected from all evil forces, and on that bench I felt like no one could touch me.
After six minutes of gazing at Hobus Din I found my parents standing right in front of me, my grandfather mumbling something behind them. My mother was beaming down at me with all teeth showing, clearly saying: ‘Let’s get this done quickly.’- as my grandfather had only come under the condition we get him home by six O’clock, and he always considered himself the most important thing. Therefore we had a very tight schedule and had to prioritise his interests over everyone else’s.
To keep him happy we headed straight to what he had come for, which was the shop my mother’s friend had set up. He had a strange fondness for middle-aged women, and after my mother told him her friend April was running a grocer’s stall he seemed more enthusiastic than ever about going to my school. I found it rather repulsive, for it was evident he hadn’t come for me, but for April- she would be bringing in lots of women around her age to help with the stall.
The only communication between us was an exchange of looks, before he bolted to April’s stall. I didn’t even get the usual ‘Hello Alice.’ He was off before he could say much to anyone- and my mother insisted we not catch up with him. We had no idea how he knew where it was, but we turned up at April’s stall about half a minute later to find him already mid conversation with a woman who seemed to be at least three decades younger than him. My conclusion is that he must have had a special sense for detecting women, which was how he found the stall so quickly- probably one of the many results of his wealth of experience.
Despite their blatancy, Mother’s naivety meant she was completely oblivious to her father-in-law’s real motives, which meant I had to be on guard- already put on edge because I knew there would be lots of chances for things to turn dire.
Without suspecting a thing, my mother approached my grandfather and the other woman, whom she called ‘Tracey,’ and they started conversing for a bit. My grandfather grunted.
All along the shop were dozens of old crates filled to the brim with the earth’s goodness. Piled on classroom tables was an endless supply of sacks, abound with onions and potatoes fresh from nature’s grasp. Tall columns on which bunches of bananas were suspended could be seen on either side of the stall, and as I mindlessly gazed upwards, I spotted a pole hoisting the Nivillian flag. It was a miserable sight, for I knew it would have been put up there willingly- not just as some act of compliance. April was not one to question, and was much like Mother in this regard. She was of an optimistic, naive character and could not differentiate between truth and lies. Again, much like Mother. For a while I was transfixed by the flag, attempting to think of an excuse for their senselessness.
It took a few seconds to see what was in the corner of my eye, and even then, my vision was interrupted by the striking orange pigment of the Drapeau de la Niville. All that was perceptible was a skin-coloured blur, which gradually became more clear as my eyes focused on it: some sort of limb, reaching into a box of onions.
It was too late- I should have known better than to leave him on his own. I sighed at the sight of my grandfather scooping a small loose onion from a torn sack. He put it to his face and grinned- seemingly proud of himself, leaving me to watch in frustration. Unfortunately there was very little I could do to stop him.
I turned away impulsively, not wanting him to realise I’d noticed, as that would only make it worse. However, this was a grave mistake. He was highly volatile and quite literally anything could trigger him. In fact, when I saw what happened next I knew an incident was coming. There was no chance of mitigating it.
A small girl of about six years had watched my grandfather steal the onion, which prompted her to do the same. She scooped one up with her fragile hands, not realising her mother would condemn it. Evidently pleased with herself she started to turn around and show everyone behind her who was interested. She received chuckles and comments as she proudly showed off her new acquisition, until after a few seconds her mother realised. The girl was seemingly shocked by her sharp gesture to put it back, but she instantly complied. As this was taking place the mother tried to muster a faint smile at my grandfather, who was staring from a few metres in front.
This made him seething.
He was like a bull, but an old one: for he maintained his youthful passion but was physically disadvantaged. However, although he was weak, his passion made up for it, and it was irrefutably the most dangerous aspect of his character. It could overcome any barrier. It was the fuel that gave him strength to fight those who had done wrong in his corrupted mind. Suddenly, but yet predictably, he was off. His wrinkles smoothed out as he smacked himself through the air, instantly becoming years younger. In seconds he had confronted her with his walking stick, aiming it at her face, making sure everyone was not anticipating a brawl of equal strength.
She was a mouse and he was a bull- a primitive beast guided by impulse. Knowing no shame it dropped its stick (which now seemed more like a prop to indicate some nonexistent weakness than a walking aid) and brought the mouse to the floor by its legs in the most unnatural position. Savagely it restrained it, again by the legs, and punched it in the chest multiple times.
Unsurprisingly the girl started whining- while the mother screamed harshly in his face. It was an inaudible slur of hateful words, which alerted everyone who hadn’t already noticed to what was happening. Soon enough the attention got the whole family escorted off the premises. None of us got home before six O’clock.
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