Freedom of Thought and Movement


My plan: Do a bit of PT and then a walk to the beach every day, sit at the lagoon and try capture that Kingfisher diving into the water. The walk is supposed to be peaceful and cultivate happy thoughts.

Day 1

As I leave the house, Eugene says, “You are not going to cross the bridge with your camera out are you?” I say sure I am. He warns against it. I do not take the advice. Then, as I am approaching the bridge a huge man and two equally huge dogs are coming in the opposite direction. He stops me with a, “Hey Boet!” and tells me what Eugene did, adding he has been mugged twice on that bridge.

Ok, guy his size? The camera gets put away and I unhitch my steel Tripod. My Tripod becomes my Knobkerrie. I make sure my two short blades are where they should be. My happy thought are dismissed. I think, if anyone tries to mug me I will not merely defend myself, I will kill the son of a bitch. My peaceful walk has now turned in to a one man patrol behind enemy lines, for God’s sake. My thoughts progress, perhaps I should DO something about this bridge. Go home, get my Kuroki, lay and ambush; catch some muggers in the act and chop their heads off? Yes!

No, no no. I am on a mission already, In Pursuit of Happiness.  My, now patrol not walk, continues to the Lagoon, I regain my happy thoughts when I see a Kingfisher dive to catch a fish, he missed the fish and I missed the shot. I laugh. Some Egyptian Geese come, they bath, splashing water all about, I get the shots. I sit for a while on a bench and watch the ocean, at peace.

Then it is time to go, I must cross the bridge, one physical and one mental. Happy Thoughts and self absorption in them can get me hurt or killed when walking back. I change gears and get into a self-preserving killing mode. Perhaps I will replace one of the leg extensions on my Tripod into a pointed double edged, razor sharp piece of fine steel?

These Freedoms, of both though and movement were proudly brought to us by the ANC and their total lack of ability to run a shebeen, never mind a country.

View the Mexican Horse Thief’s Page

Short Story




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