Fallible Fortitude Foiled

It was one of those laboriously lazy afternoons of an African bushveld, such that could only be brought on by the oppressive heat that blanketed this part of the world this time of the year. The airways sluggish, the leaves curled in spite of the heat, jealously guarding the precious moisture they’d drawn from the earth and even the buzzing sweat bees had slowed to a crawl. Still, the man in the shade was content. For this was the land of his birth and he had known it well all his life. The sweat on his exposed body made his black skin gleam even in the deep shade of the teak tree and rivulets ran over his wide belly to disappear in the kalahari sands beneath. Yes, he was content, sitting here outside of hailing distance from the village, alone as he often wished to be and undisturbable in their need should they find themselves in it, a condition, which he felt, was all too frequent in its occurring. Say what they would about his general work ethic he didn’t care, for he sat in a fortress of contentment that was unassailable from the outside. The crops grew without him, his family owned many cattle and there was no need to trouble a man in his living, for what could there possibly be greater than that: being alive? Thus, it was that the little bird found him, and he was exactly the man he needed.

“Zeet, zeet,” said the honeyguide, for such he was, and began a well-practiced display on the lower branches of the teak tree the man lay under, “zeet, zeet.”

The man opened one eye and regarded the little bird carefully, then with widening wonder he opened his other eye and turned to look at it.

“Zeet, zeet,” it implored him, and flew off to another tree and then back again. And then returned to the far tree, and back again, flitting his little green wings. He was pointing in a specific direction. “Zeet, zeet,” continued the bird. The man sat up. The prospects of this new day suddenly opened before him this late afternoon! What potentials! What an opportunity! Honey was a prized possession in any circumstance, and it had been a dearly long time since anyone in the village had tasted anything ever so sweet and delicious. His wife, who had been especially sour recently, could certainly do with a dollop or two to fix her parameters in the right direction. He wiped his brow and raised his bulk off the ground, dusting his backside and back with the fly swish he carried. Then he picked up his gourd of water and made ready to follow the little bird, who undoubtedly was trying to lead him to a beehive he had discovered.

His feathered friend could barely contain his excitement, “Zeet! Zeet!” he exclaimed, hopping to and fro and flying there and back again, there and back again with a whirr of wings. Together the pair set off through the bush, the little dull green bird flitting ahead with the big black man following, the rest of the bush was languid and silent in the heat haze as the sun continued to burn even though He had begun his turn towards the earth. Tall teak and msasa trees shaded the man as he walked, but the big forests were stifling nonetheless, and soon the man stopped, leaning against a magnificent msasa and puffing, he drew on his gourd of water. How much further did this confounded bird plan on taking him? He pushed himself off the tree, rallied himself for another effort and then…

The man froze, rooted to the spot, one foot in front of the other, a look of abject doubt upon his face, as if he had stumbled upon some long-forgotten memory.

“Zeet,” called the honeyguide, “zeet!” But the man didn’t move. Suddenly he sat upon the ground and watched the bird beadily. He was just now remembering his lore. He felt he could trust himself in this endeavor, for honey collecting was something he had learned as a boy, as had everyone in the village. Skill though it was, he was confident in his abilities. But now, he suddenly didn’t quite trust his companion in this conspiracy. Wasn’t it a well-known story, passed down even to his own children, by his own mother, that the honeyguide could lead a man to his certain doom: into the lair of a leopard, or worse, upon that black snake of potent death with a head the shape of a wooden coffin? Especially if the person in question had slighted the bird previously, most importantly failing to leave a harvest of larvae for the birds feasting once the collection was done.

Now that he thought of it, how foolish had he been to trust this little will o’wisp? Sitting there on the ground he began to take stock of every bad thing he had ever done, and the balance of his account was certainly somewhere below the line where he would break even with honey, and certainly nowhere near where he would profit with no stings! For wasn’t it told also that each sting was a message from an ancestor that penance was due for some small sin committed? Well now, the costs are rising! Even this day of labour in the village had found him absent, what penance could that incur? Suddenly the trust he had in himself, and his skills was eroding in the face of his own self-doubt of his character.

What was he thinking here? Truly? Did he not know how the world worked? Good things never happened to people like him; it was a lesson he had suffered through throughout his life with little deviation. His wife came to him as an arrangement and had been a bothersome gnat in his ear since. His three children, not one of them was a dreamer (as he liked to think of himself) like him, they all wanted something different in life and seemingly couldn’t wait to leave the eaves of his hut. His son wanted to be a warrior, his daughter has big cow eyes for Kunashe, the boy of the village smith, who she one day wanted to marry, and his younger son chased snakes and mongooses, so that one day he could hunt lions like his uncle. None wanted to travel with him to the next village, or could see the bright vision of how the world could be if they all just listened to him! Didn’t they see the utopia he had planned for them, of days of leisure and ease if they only took his advice? Nothing was ever how he had wanted it, and how could he expect this situation to be anything else but the normal. Suddenly the traitors within the walls of that unassailable fortress began to undermine its impenetrable facade. His guilt about wandering off whilst the others tilled the riverbanks now rose to torment him, as it often did when he felt this self-doubt, try as he might to pretend to be unaffected. How would they look at him if he came back now, laden with honey and a smile? Would they give him a heroes praise? No. Like not they would thank him politely, enjoy the bounty and scoff behind their hands at how it would’ve been better if he hadn’t as more work could’ve been done. And would he even manage to collect the honey? That last redoubt of fortitude now came under assault. Was he not useless? His wife certainly thought so, as did the chief, though he didn’t dare say it, being one of the wealthiest families in the village. It was why he avoided work in the first place, wasn't he so adept at mucking it up at the worst times? He had never collected honey, alone, in his life, was he not aware of his competencies? They were few, so stock of this was achieved far swifter than the previous accounting he had made. He was bound to mess it up, lose the honey, get stung for good measure if, that is, he avoided burning the entire forest down. No, he was not known for this, these were exploits for the younger and fitter and the more competent than him. Imagine the story of humiliation he would bring home with him and nothing more. The man sighed deeply, and hung his head, defeated.

“Zeet?” inquired the honeyguide, landing close by, becoming agitated with this unseemly delay. But without an apology, or even a word in farewell did the big man stand up and dejectedly begin his slow walk back to the village. In his mind he had stood out over the chasm of uncertainty, upon the sturdy bridge of his own trust, and found it lacking. There would be no victory for him on this day. He stumped back, head down, towards the village. But soon the prospect of beer, a warm meal prepared by his wife, and the comforts of home, however deserved, raised his chin a bit and soon he was forgetting the trials of this day, in anticipation of its inevitable end in ease. By the time he reached the village as the sun set, the fires were already gleaming, and he was expected. He had even resolved to take his slingshot with him the next day to put the little menace out of business from leading men towards their peril as he had been willfully led to this day.

The honeyguide had pursued the man for a time, zeeting in agitation at him, but to no avail. He finally gave up and flew back to the big msasa where the man had turned aside. He flicked his tail, bobbed and flitted about and with his beady black eyes got his bearings again and shot off over the thorn shrub into the next clearing, alighting on the branch of a dead tree, flicking his wings in agitation once more. Nearby, in the trunk of the tree, hummed the hive. So brimming with honey was it that the trunk below an opening in the dead wood, was stained with dripping gold. The bees, quite secure, buzzed at the entrance, returning from another hard day's labour amongst the flowering trees. The honey guide shook himself vigorously, puffing up his feathers and nestled down on the bare branch. The wind blew passed him, colder now with the resting of the sun. He would try again tomorrow. Ever since the men in the village had killed the honey badger that denned in the riverbank he had been without a decent meal for quite some time and lost his dearest friend and co-conspirator. It would be another night of an empty belly, and another day in the morn of dubious prospects. But he was resolved to his existence, and as it was his only possession he could only seek to keep it by surviving. As the light dimmed about him, what thoughts he could achieve in his tiny mind, were given to wonder at how he could find himself in the service of such an untrustworthy creature.