Mbebe, The Wanderer [Fiction]

I am a wanderer. A restless soul. Or perhaps a descendant of the Biblical Cain? I often wonder why I can't stay still in one location for a long time.

I left home when I was twelve.

"Please, my child. Must you go with that crazy craftsman?" Mama begged, her bloodshot, tired eyes already mourning my departure as I stood beside her.

The 'crazy' craftsman was also a wanderer. He went from villages to towns, making handy things like dolls and carving statues for sale. I was fascinated by his works. I would sit with him, pick my colour pencils and draw a replica of his dolls on paper.

When he was leaving my village three months later, he offered to help me improve my drawing skills.

"Yes, mama. I want to. Ngongo is moving to the next village. I won't be far away and I'll come back soon." I promised.

I think she didn't believe me, but she let me go.

Like a bird with new wings, I flew with Ngongo for a few years and later, solo. My paintings got better each year and made me more money.

It's been years and I've not returned home to see my mama. I often wrote to her about my adventures.

She would write back with the same enthusiasm, wanting to know more. I told her in my last letter that I'd left the African continent and was in Europe.

I waited for her warm response. It didn't come. I'm still waiting.

Then I wandered to this mesmerising neighbourhood that looked like a dream. The sight was overwhelming, stirring my creative juices. My palms began to itch.

^{Image credit: @wakeupkitty}

The greenery surrounding the hills and quaint houses spaced with lush vegetation and blossoming flowers was the perfect image of a paradise in the midst of a dying world.

Quickly, I dropped my rucksack in the middle of the hilly green field that gave me a fantastic view of the neighbourhood. I set up my easel and put a blank canvas on it. I arranged my paintbrushes and other instruments beside me.

Just when I positioned my paintbrush to begin, I heard, "Hey. Howdy there!"

I glanced up. It was a middle-aged, sturdy man strolling towards me. His cheeks were a little flush revealing he'd spent the better part of the morning outdoors.

I waved.

"You are new around here." His stare was suspicious.

I nodded calmly. "Yes."

He walked around me and my easel for a moment. "You are a painter?"

"Yes. Do you live here?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm the mayor. Roy Manchester. We don't often get strangers coming here."

"Nice to meet you, Mr Manchester. I'm Mbebe. I'm fascinated by this place so I want to make a painting of it. Is that alright?"

"Of course! Sure. Will you sell the painting at an exhibition or something?"

"No. I usually sell my work to private collectors. Will you like a copy?"

His face took on a new shine. He grinned and gave me his card. "I'll very much love a copy. You can look me up at the office when you're done here."

We shook hands and he left while I started my painting.

By evening, I had a perfect, almost too perfect painting of the beautiful neighbourhood.

When I visited Roy's office, I was astounded for a moment. Two of my paintings graced his walls. He beamed at me and shook my hand vigorously. "If a man was allowed to faint, I may have when I saw you at the field. But I wasn't sure."

Roy Manchester was an admirer of my works.

I gave him the new painting and did not make a copy of it.

The sun was slowly descending when I drove my jeep into the village and parked in front of my mama's house.

Children playing around quickly surrounded the car curious as to who the visitor was.

I stepped out and heard a hoarse scream. It was Mama, a little hunched over and leaping towards me with a cane. I left the driver's door open and ran to meet her halfway, lifting her into the air.

The pain of staying away for so long tore at me as I buried my face in the crook of her neck. She whispered blessings into my ears.

"A good day to you, mama," a gentle voice said. Mama pulled away from me to see a young, white-skinned lady smiling at her.

"Mama, this is my wife. Lilian Manchester Mbebe."

I spent the night regaling Mama with the tales of my adventures and how my paintings made me who I am. I promised my mama I would be back. I'm glad I kept my promise.

What I see

I see a beautiful neighbourhood surrounded by lush vegetation and landscaped fields.

What I feel

I feel the neighbourhood is serene, a place for a budding plant or person to grow and thrive.

This is my entry to A Picture is Worth A Thousand Words. To participate, click on the link.

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