| Sports |
A distressing habit
of sorts
How does one come to
terms with a habitual creature, writes JACK METTA
YOU’D think he would have outgrown
the habit. But as most of us know, habits die hard.
Over the last 10 years, Siuke had grown indifferent to an
activity-turned-habit of sorts on his doorsteps.
It occurs basically every Friday; a cycle of habit, created
perhaps by circumstances.
It had begun when Siuke first moved into the neighbourhood – a
greeting in the morning just as Siuke cleared his gates and took
his first steps towards the bus stop to go to work.
“Morning fada,” Bozo greeted Siuke as the latter closed his gate
behind him.
It really wasn’t the type of greeting that brightens up anybody’s
day. It was kind of attention-grabbing; you know, the type that’s
meant to hold your attention long enough for a proposition to be
discreetly hinted.
Siuke returned the greetings in a mono-syllable without looking at
the chap: “Morning.”
That innocent exchange is the cue for Bozo to indulge him in a
pretentious conversation of no particular subject, except to size
him up and pop the inevitable question.
Over 10 years, Siuke’s return greetings had taken many forms; one
that comes out instinctively since the first time they met 10
years ago, is “Crikes, not you again...!”
But the words had never been uttered loud enough for Bozo to hear.
Often it was mumbled under his breadth as he saw the familiar
figure loitering on the neighbour’s lawn or sitting idly by the
roadside curb.
Siuke had wondered at times when that very thought would
eventually bubble out in full volume and amplified a thousand
times for the whole world to hear and act as a deterrent to this
‘pest’.
He wanted Bozo out of his hair and bad.
Siuke had tried several diplomatic approaches like telling him to
stop bothering him but Bozo was there the following Friday.
Then Siuke resorted to turning up his nose and just ignoring the
guy, only to be engaged in conversation as Bozo cut in front of
him. He wondered then how much longer this relationship would
continue.
Bozo was a creature of habit; there was no doubt about that. His
very character spoke of a person following a strict timetable.
He remembered the first time he moved into the neighbourhood and
the signs all around him were kind of flashing like “get the hell
out of here, this is not for you…”
He was loath to move into the neighbourhood in the first place but
after years of paying atrocious and exorbitant rentals and moving
around practically every leap year, he decided to put his roots
down – at least he’ll be anchored to a place, perhaps for the rest
of his life.
He wanted to put the dread of packing behind him and he looked
forward to utilising the savings on rentals on things that could
go well with the saying that “life begins at 40 ...” or was that
50?
Whatever the phrase, the ensuring vision of bliss was convincing
enough for him to move. And the price of the place that had come
to his notice was reasonable and affordable. That’s not to say it
was livable. It had to be affordable in a neighbourhood like this
and definitely livable under the circumstances.
And besides, he was told that a lot of his relatives lived in the
neighbourhood. That should have been a deterrent in the first
place because over the past 10 years, the wantok system had been
simply a one-way street – all traffic headed towards your way.
A decade ago, the mention of wantoks meant encouragement to live
amongst kinsmen and women, aided by “strength in numbers”.
Siuke met Bozo the first Friday he set off for work. The “morning
fada” façade was sounded.
Of course, being a “Johnny-come-lately”, Siuke had to get
acquainted.
Bozo wanted a smoke and Siuke didn’t have any. Well, if Siuke was
going to get acquainted with his neighbour, it might as well be
through Bozo’s lungs, he thought.
But since Siuke had no smokes on him, he decided to give Bozo some
coins to buy his Mutrus.
Siuke rummaged through his pockets and pulled out some lose
change. Among the copper pieces was a crumbled K5 note.
He was not exactly in a generous mood, but what the heck. He had
to make an impression.
Siuke handed over the K5. “Here, for your smoke ...” he said, but
retained the coins, muttering under his breadth, “my bus fare” and
walked off briskly.
“Na senis bilong yu?” Bozo called after him.
It was to be expected. Bozo wanted to make an impression that he
could be trusted but the tone of his voice betrayed his elation at
having some toea for a change – literally and figuratively.
Siuke gestured for him to keep the change.
When he returned home that evening, he noticed a group of youths
sitting under the mango tree in a secluded portion of land at
least two stones’ throw from his place. Bozo was among the group.
Siuke knew what they were up to – their actions and behaviour
spoke for themselves.
They were still at it that morning when Siuke’s uncle Iava dropped
by to say hullo.
“They’re like that,” Iava said, confirming Siuke’s suspicions.
“Sometimes, they carry on for days on end.”
“They must have plenty of money to have all night binges,” Siuke
remarked.
“They don’t really. A couple of bucks does the trick. Their
refreshment is much cheaper than a carton of beer, you know.”
How Siuke knew – methylated spirit was cheaper than a six-pack of
the amber stuff.
A pang of guilt wormed itself up his spine.
As his uncle talked, he gathered that the community had a
description for such a gathering – something akin to a witches’
coven.
In this case, however, these guys weren’t exactly wizards but they
were certainly delving into the “spirit world” of sorts. The
neighbourhood had a nickname for them – “Coleman lighters”.
“We buy methylated spirit to light up our Coleman lamps but they
buy theirs to spirit themselves into the devil’s world …” Iava
explained.
The scenario had repeated itself about every week for the past 10
years. And every Friday, the same old Bozo is there at the gate,
greeting Siuke with “morning fada”, with a request for a smoke to
start with.
If the response is negative, he would persist with a request for
K2 until he reaches 50 toea – “just for a buai”.
But Siuke knows that the 50 toea would go towards a collection to
feed a habit and he was loath to contributing towards the cause.
He’d come up with an ingenious idea. He’d have a couple of
cigarettes in his pocket just for the occasion and when asked,
he’d put on a show of suddenly remembering that somebody had
offered him a cigarette and that he didn’t smoke.
He’d accepted the offer and had placed the cigarette somewhere in
his pocket and make a show of rummaging through his pockets until
he finds it and fishes it out.
He’d offer it to Bozo and walk away.
Two weeks ago, Bozo passed away, the victim of the demons – the
spirit that he drank every chance he got.
And Siuke doesn’t know whether to jump for joy at having a pest
out of his hair or hang his head in shame at financing, without
his knowledge, the habit that finally killed Bozo.
Siuke kind of misses that morning greeting and how that can be,
Siuke just doesn’t understand.
He knows that there are many Bozos in the city and they would
continue to live the way they do until some miracle comes along to
make it all disappear. For now, he remembers the Wise Counsellor’s
words: “What people call their ‘fate’, is mostly their own
foolishness …”
 
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