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September 22, 2005
Umfaan
Yesterday my friend Mary brought her two young sons to visit my studio. I showed them how to use acrylic paint. It was so wonderful to see how proud the boys were of their little paintings.
Watching them paint took me back to the time I made my first and last kite. It took me two whole days to build. It was made of yellow and green tissue paper and I was really proud of it. I made a tail from my dad’s old school tie.
This was probably the worst kite ever built. It was heavy and clumsy and rather ugly. In my mind though, it was a masterpiece!
I ran outside to fly the kite the minute it was done.
It was a gusty fall day in Johannesburg. Not perfect kite-flying weather, but I didn’t care. I had made a great kite and I was determined to fly it.
We didn't have a garden so I ran up and down the road trying to get the kite to fly, but it just wouldn’t lift.
I was frustrated because, in my nine year-old mind, I could see that kite touching the fluffy white clouds in deep blue Transvaal sky.
A sudden gust of wind lifted the kite and jerked the string out of my hand. Before I could do anything, the kite took off, lifted steeply and then took a nosedive into the oak tree outside Mrs. Van Buuren’s house.
And there it sat. Wedged in the branches beyond my reach.
My mum and dad were out and with nobody to console me, I sat on the sidewalk, buried my face in my hands and cried.
I did not even see the old African man approaching.
He patted me on the head.
I looked up startled.
“Are you sad, umfaan?” (”Are you sad little boy?”)
“Yes,” I replied pointing to the tree. My kite is stuck up there.”
“That’s a pretty kite,” he said.
“I made it myself,” I replied, proudly.
“Let me see if I can get it for you.”
He took off his old, almost worn-out sports coat, folded it carefully and placed it gently on the sidewalk below the tree.
The man had holes in his shoes.
“Why have you got holes in your shoes?” I asked, innocently.
“Oh umfaan, he said. “There is not enough work and I have kids and grandkids to feed.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling embarrassed.
“That’s alright umfaan,” he said, smiling. “I am very rich inside. He patted his heart with his hand.
The old man’s smile warmed me from head to toe.
“Does your daddy have a rake, umfaan?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s in the garage. I’ll get it.”
I ran and got the rake. The old man stretched up and tried to reach the kite. He wasn’t quite tall enough so he tried standing on his tiptoes. He stretched even more and managed to touch the kite with the rake. He then leaned back and pulled the rake down. The kite came loose.
“You did it,” I yelled.
Before either of us could say anything else, the rake slipped out of the man’s hands and fell. As it tumbled to the ground, it tore the kite to shreds.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” said the man, putting his hand on my head. “I broke your kite, umfaan.”
He picked up the kite and tried to straighten out the bent and broken struts. Then he handed it to me and shook his head sadly.
“I’m truly sorry umfaan,” he said, picking up his jacket.
For some reason I could not look the old man in the eye and instead I looked down at his shoes.
“Wait,” I said and rushed inside my house.
I went into my dad’s closet, grabbed his very expensive leather shoes and ran back outside.
These are for you,” I said, handing him my father’s shoes.
“But umfaan they are very expensive,” he said. “I cannot take these. Your father will be very cross. And maybe the police will think I stole them.”
“They don’t fit my dad,” I lied. “He was going to get rid of them anyway.”
“Thank you umfaan,” he said, taking off his old shoes and placing the new ones gently on his feet. He handled my dad's shoes like they were made of glass.
They were way to big for the old man.
“They’re probably too big,” I said, relieved. I was starting to regret having given him my dad’s expensive shoes. In my desire to please, I did not stop to think about the consequences.
“Oh that’s okay,’ he said, smiling. “I’ll put some newspaper in the front and they’ll be very fine. Thank you umfaan.”
The old man walked down the street, never once taking his eyes of his shiny pair of new shoes.
Then he turned the corner and disappeared.
Two days later my mum found a beautiful handmade kite at the front door.
It was a work of art.
It was too precious to fly so I hung it on my bedroom wall.
Posted by trevor at September 22, 2005 04:31 PM
Comments
Thank you. So beautiful!
Posted by: Diana Burgess at October 2, 2006 08:34 AM
what a wonderful story! a painting with a good story makes a memory. And good memories are worth living for.
Posted by: little banjo at June 24, 2008 04:07 AM