'Butterfly' by Maurice Bur

He awoke three minutes ahead of the alarm, and since there was now no point to it going off, he disabled the clock. The day was yet to break. So he lay on his back in the dark, hands linked behind his head, listening. His wife breathed quietly beside him. Insects chirped in the yard. A dog was howling in the distance. It was quiet otherwise. It was his birthday, his forty-fifth. 'Old man,' he whispered, grinning. He thought of what might've been, and where he was now. He thought of boyhood buddies who'd gone on to be antagonists in big success stories, but he also thought of those who'd irreparably botched things up and those that were dead. He thought of his wife of seventeen years and their four children. In conclusion he counted himself lucky. He'd outdreamt the fantastic visions of youth. Now he dreamed only for peace of mind and to see his family happy.

His wife was beginning to stir; she'd soon be awake. He threw back the covers and got out of bed. It was still dark, but he knew what was what and where, so he got his face towel without a hitch and entered the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him.

There he turned the light on and, blinking, went over to the toilet to pee. Twice the urine jet fluctuated and his heart made a minor lurch. 'Relax,' he told himself. 'Your prostrate's fine.'

As he stood to shave before the cabinet mirror on the wall above the sink, he appraised his face. His features were long and disproportionate. He needed no telling he looked comical. Humpty Dumpty and Scooby Doo were the more popular of the numerous aliases he'd generated back in high school. It'd taken him an awful long time, but he'd at last come to terms with his looks. When he thought of the jokes now he laughed in the second person, as though the jokes were on someone else. He was putting on aftershave when he heard his wife saying her morning prayers.

An hour later, the family were seated at table for breakfast. Two of the older children were away in boarding schools. The last two, a girl of 9 and a boy of 6, were drinking milk and eating bread spread with jam. Their robust good health was joy for him, an indication of good decisions, of progress. In spite his earlier magnanimity, he was glad none of the childen resembled him. They took their most visible features from their mother.

He watched her now as she straightened their son's collar. She sensed him looking and she looked up and smiled. He smiled back. She turned to the children. 'Sornen, Mimi,' she said, 'what are you supposed to tell your daddy this morning?'

The kids looked at each other with bashful smiles. Their eyes met his for a fleeting moment, then they stared down on their plates and muttered in unison: 'Happy birthday daddy!'

He laughed. 'Thank you my darlings,' he said, and reached across the the table to pat their cheeks in turn. The children turned to look at their mother, and smiling she nodded at them.

His wife drove them out in the old silver Golf 3. She first dropped the kids off at school. As they rode for his place of work, he turned to look at her profile. She was still a beauty, in spite of everything. Then his eyes fell on the scar on her left temple. He traced a finger along its length. She took one hand off the wheel and took his hand and kissed it. 'I'm sorry, Sady,' he said. 'That's all over now. Never again. You hear me? Over.'

She nodded without looking at him.

When they got to the little police post before the intersection, she slowed up and pulled over. They sat silent for a while. 'So where's it from here?' he said.

'To the poultry farm. I have deliveries to make,' she said.

'Okay. Have something planned later for us.'

She turned to look at him. 'You want that?'

'Like nothing else in the world.'

'When are you done here?'

'Four thirtyish. We can leave the kids at your sister's.'

She thought over it. 'Okay,' she said.

'I love you Sady,' he said and saw her lips tremble.

'I mean that,' he continued. 'And I promise to prove it to you every single day.'

He leaned over and kissed her. 'Happy birthday sweetheart,' she said.

'Thanks baby.'

'Go get them.'

'You bet.'

He got out. As she drove off he blew her a kiss; she tooted the horn in reply. He stood watching the Golf grow small in the distance. Now he turned his gaze up at the intersection. Traffic was building. He hurried on to the little police post and went in through the open door.

There he met a constable and a corporal. Both men looked up as he came in. 'Morning Joseph, Sanyol,' he said to the men in turn.

'Sup man,' the constable, Joseph, said.

'Hey Riko,' said Sanyol, the corporal.

The corporal looked at the clock up on the wall. 'Your late, Riko. That's unusual. Or are we going back to old habits now?' he said.

'Today's my birthday,' said Riko. 'I was having a little something with my family.'

'Oh, of course. How could I forget,' said the corporal.

'That's how old now Riko?' said the constable.

'Forty-five.'

'Whoa!' the policemen exclaimed.

'That's a centurion in the making,' said the constable, and both men laughed again.

Laughing himself, Riko strode into the changing room.

He changed into uniform fast and reemerged pulling on his fluorescent yellow jacket, donning his cap and pulling on his white gloves. 'Going out on the town later to celebrate, Riko?' the constable said.

Riko shook his head.

'You're really done with that?'

Riko nodded.

'That's awesome, Riko. Keep it that way.'

'Well,' Riko said, 'see you around.'

He went out the front door.

The constable and corporal looked at each other and laughed.

Riko stood on the kerb, waiting for a break in the stream of cars. When it came, we quickly waded out to the centre of the the 3-way intersection. It consisted of a thoroughfare running north-south that was joined by a B-road coming up east. It was the thick of the rush hour now and the volume of traffic was dense. He took immediate control, holding up weak flows, letting the bursting dams go. He pirouetted, waved vehicles on, breakdanced, barked orders, jumped. He'd been 15 years on this job; he inhabited it completely.

By mid morning, the rush-hour had eased up and he entered his cubicle to escape the waxing sun. He could feel the sweat dribbling down his sides but he was happy. He thought how his wife might be on her way now to Pam's Kitchen to deliver eggs. He smiled as he thought of her. Then he noticed a tanker coming up the road south.

Such a tanker had rumbled by unnoticed past a joint he was at with friend seven months back. It was a cold wet night and rain drummed the tin roof and dribbled down the eaves. There were just a handful of them in that dimly lit place. A couple of girls had sat smoking across from him, winking at him and opening their legs. By midnight he was drunk and in an argument with someone. Then he was punched in the mouth and he fell, kicked in the ribs.

The friend took him home in a taxi, and he was pushed out in the rain. He somehow made it up to the door, somehow managed to unlock it and stumbled in. He staggered through the dark house, knocking things down, barging into others. In the kitchen he went through pots and plates, sending each one empty clanging or crashing to the tiles. Finding nothing to eat, he pulled out his belt, and shouting his wife's name, lumbered to her door. He barged it open, fumbled for the switch. Blinking in the sudden illumination, he saw his wife, the children clinging to her and crying, staring at him in terror.

He idly watched the tanker coming on, colossal, imperious. Well, the lanes were free; the monster could go right through. Then he saw the cyclists. There were three of them, two girls and a boy, and they had on air pods and were coming fast up the B-road. He turned and saw the tanker was gathering speed as it came downslope. The cyclists were yet hidden from the tanker's view by the cement fence that ran along the left flank of the B-road. As he hurried out his box he noticed a Peugeot 406 coming fast from the north. From how it was angling southeast, Riko saw the driver intended to take the arc into the secondary road at top speed. Riko thought quickly. The tanker, he decided. He raced out his cubicle into the lane down which the tanker was thundering. Bracing his feet, he raised both hands and shouted, 'Stop!'

'Stop!' he'd heard someone say. 'Let him get up himself.'

What was that awful smell? he thought. Then as he got himself, got his bearings, he realized he was face down in the loo, his face right in the shit hole on the ground. His face, his lips, were smeared with what he was afraid to acknowledge. He slowly got up, brushed at his face. His shirtfront was covered in vomit. He turned to see all his neighbours in the compound he lived in massed behind, staring at him. They were all well-dressed. It must be Sunday. His wife and children were watching from the window. Without a word he went through the crowd, which hastily parted, and on up to his apartment. His wife already had bathing water ready for him. He scrubbed himself until the skin bled. Then he was crying, pounding the wall, saying over and over, 'Never again! Never!'

Seeing him in the path of the truck, the cyclists, after a brief hesitation, came cutting through the middle of the intersection. The Peugeot jammed on the breaks. The tanker kept plunging forward. It grew in size until Riko could see the face of the driver high up in the cab. Maybe on another day he might jumped out the way. But this was his lucky day. It must be my lucky day! So he stood his gground, shouting, 'Stop!'

The tanker roared on. Thirty metres... 'Stop!'... twenty metres... 'Stop!... fifteen... ten... Riko stared, the driver stared... five... onlookers screamed... two...

Two seats from the front row, Riko sits petrified as the teacher calls student after student out the register to solve Math problems on the blackboard. This is thirty three years back. The sums are quite easy, but Riko's just no good at Math. He hears those sitting behind him giggling, whispering, 'Look at old Scoob, he'll piss in his pants!'

Closer and closer the stern voice approaches his name. Then he suddenly gets up and runs out the class to shock and hysterical laughter.

He runs and runs. Without having thought of it he ends up in the school farm. He flops down on a ridge, catching his breath. At last the trembling leaves him. It's quiet here, and a soothing breeze is blowing. He looks about at the endless rows of ridges covered in the green of maize and groundnuts. Above big friendly cumulus clouds are sailing in the bright blue sky. Then below he notices a cocoon hanging from the underside of some weed. He goes down on his belly, to observe it at its own level. The cocoon is moving! The inmate in there is wriggling to be free. He shakes off some red ants going up the stalk. He watches, openmouthed. There's a tear now in the sack; something as yet indistinct's emerging. Somewhere far away he hears silly voices calling, 'Scoob! Humpty! Where are you good doggy!'

The voices only come to him as distracting thoughts and he shakes them out his head. At last, the wriggling thing pushes a quarter of itself out, then half. Awed almost to tears, he sees the wet emerald and black patterns on the folded wings of the butterfly.