He stands up straight, more upright than his agemates long aged. He hold his long walking stick closely, now part of his hardened anatomy :a herder is known by his stick.
He throws his cloth over his shoulders ones again as he peers afar, keenly studying the activity. His piercing eyes are still strong and stern, with the kind of depth that shows the owner has seen too much in a lifetime. His sight pierces through the crowds, the traffic, the dry, dusty bushes beside the road, kilometers away he sees it. Standing as it did a century ago, untouched by time, testament to his legacy.
He ignores the tout calls and stares into the young man pulling him out of his way,
‘Doesn’t he know who he speaks to…? ‘
He withdraws and the aged man crosses the road without a care in the world. Slow but sure he confidently crosses unmindful of traffic. His youngest grandson had explained, that the man on the wheel controls the metal box, man had yet again managed to amaze him. But this trip today was more important, one that couldn’t be delayed by anything.
‘They should know who crosses… ‘
He clusps his leather artifacts a little tighter, adjusts his shuka onto his shoulder and proceeds as traffic deftly avoids his step.
He mutters something under his breath and spits in response to an infuriated ignorant driver. Perhaps a curse, a restriction to never use the route running through this land.
Why should he move?
Why should he step aside?
After all, even a moran doesn’t bow to such crude acts, those are meant for simpletons. Yet his word would suppas even 20 morans. He proceeds and doesn’t give a second thought to the boda boda rider on his right, who came to a complete stop.
With one swing he puts down the babbed wire keeping strangers out, the earten grounds feel smoother, familiar, best for grass growing ;if only its glory had been maintained. Just a few more meters he saw it and trembled as he stretched to feel its cold presence.
A moment of silence as he listened to the wind as it confirms his presence.
He feels the ground beneath him quieten to one voice in a century.
His heart pounds along with the victory drums within.
He sees his father and his grandfather before him all holding their long sticks next to them, their people behind them; happy, celebrating: Their Bloodline lives on. Their people will have a leader now.
He recalls as a young man, when he saw his father, from afar, touch the shiny pole, and smiled gratefully knowing his son was observing from where he stood.
“This is our land….. ”