2
All was quiet, well, almost
all. The crickets were finally
concluding their normal boisterous performance as the wind lowered to a gentle
whisper. Darkness crept through
the hills as the night settled into its proper place. The livestock were still
in the encircled thicket.
On the farthest hill in an adobe hut the young goat herder
awoke with his heart pounding madly in his chest.
Does the dream still have meaning? Could it almost be
time for its fulfillment? Why had it disappeared for so long? Only to reawaken
so forcefully in the night? The questions exploded inside of him. For some reason the dream only came
in the darkest recesses of the night when
everything was still.
Gasping for
breath he realized that it was just a dream, his dream. The dream that had guided him in life
since it first marked him many years ago. Indeed, it was a strange dream in the sense that it
seemed more real than anything he had ever seen- especially the dark muddy
walls encircling his straw matt.
Staring at the
rafters in the grass roof he wondered why this dream had become so frequent
again. This was the fourth time
this week it had awakened him.
He had returned to his home village of Butukurayo about two weeks earlier. He was on a quest. It was a quest to reconnect with the purpose and
passion that had guided his steps for the past fifteen years.
When he had first returned to the village people were in
disbelief.
“It’s him. It’s
the young man from the newspaper. It’s Doto.”
However, Doto didn’t
care much for public opinion. He
never had and probably never would.
His sole desire in making the long trek back to the Northern plateau
where his village still basked in the African sun was to find direction. There
were just too many questions floating around in his mind.
Fortunately,
the old homestead where he had lived for so long as a boy and well into his
teenage years remained largely in tact. He had decided to restore the place while
he waited. Many people asked what
he was waiting for in this forlorn place.
“Your grandfather must be dead and no one has lived in this
place for years.”
Doto would nod in
assent knowing full well that people didn’t understand. They didn’t understand
him anymore than they had understood his grandfather or even his father for
that matter. He wasn’t bitter or
even cynical about life. Rather,
he just needed clarification on what the next step should be.
As the wind started to pick up again that night whistling
through the thorn trees outside the little hut he had slept in for years, he
heard the single cry of a hyena somewhere in the distance. These familiar sounds produced
their normal hypnotic effect on the young man.
As his eyes became heavy he stretched his lanky frame out
over the hard rocky floor in search of a softer spot. Just as sleep would overtake his weary frame, the
voice he knew only too well riveted his soul.
“Real dreams never die they only go into hiding,” The voice belonged to his grandfather.
He had heard that voice for so many years. It was a voice that he could never ever
forget- distinguished pronunciation, rhythmic cadence, and gentle
insistence. Although grandfather
had disappeared many months earlier, Doto
knew without question that this was his voice.
“Doto, help the man in the dream” the quiet voice stirred the deepest recesses of his
young heart.
How he wished he could hear that voice again in person! There was none its
equal in the entire village, nor would there probably ever be again in the
entire nation. This one voice had
patiently waited for the birth of a new era in his beloved land. This voice had endured such
suffering. This voice had
bequeathed a legacy that the young man now embraced.
Was it the fact that he missed hearing Grandfather say his
name with such kindness and love? –“Doto”. Or was it the fact that whenever Grandfather
said the young man’s name wisdom and purpose poured into his heart like the
rains flooding the great river. He
couldn’t decide at that moment. As he stared into the darkness of his room, his
mind started to race. The majority of his thoughts centered around the man
whose voice still resonated in his heart in that darkest hour of the African
night when even the leopard sleeps.
He sorely missed Grandfather. To distract himself, he reached for the strange metal
insignia next to his straw mat. It
read: “Jemadari wa Jeshi Kuu”, Swahili for “Commander of the Armed
Forces”. As he turned the
medallion over and over again in the palm of his hand his mind relived events
that still seemed surreal to him.
On the table next to his mat was the picture that had
forever changed his life. He had
been surprised to find it in Grandfather’s hut that day—in the same place it had
sat years earlier.
The young man now in his late twenties pondered many
mysteries that night as he recalled the man and events that had altered his
life forever. This is Doto’s story and probably one somewhat similar to anyone
else’s who has ever had a real dream.
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