There are many men in a man

There was once a young man who went to Africa to plant. One day civil war broke out and when the militia came into his village they killed every male over the age of fourteen, raped every female irrespective of their age and after that they wiped this tiny village off the face of the map as if it was just a smudge. The young man ran away like a spineless coward and he cried for days and nights. He could not understand.

Many years later. When the man was not so young any longer. One day he saw a pillar of black smoke rising for days in the far distance. He could make up the rumble of distant artillery. On moonless nights. The man would put war paint and venture deep into the bush with his tribesmen. He always came back before dawn. One morning he came back late and all the villagers could see the grisly sight of cut off arms and legs that had been neatly arranged at the back of the landrovers. The man did not speak. He was as the tribesmen would say Bako – not of this world any longer…..(This word carries with it such an evil undertone, it is taboo to speak it. Instead it is expressed as a sign by placing the palm on one’s solar plexus to signify the seat of the soul and gesturing with the other hand that it has departed to signify the man is no longer present. He has moved on to that unmentionable place and all that remains is the creature.) he looked like a man who no one knew. A different sort of creature. One where the children of the village no longer knew his legs any longer. But that year was a veery strange year. As despite it being a prophetic year that the bones foretold would bring forth both the twin heads of famine and civil war. No one came to the tiny village where the man who never smiled turned the wheel of life.

The moral of the story is this. In life make sure you speak with the right man in all the men who live in the head of this one man.