Firstly, I'd like to apologise for absconding - after returning from holiday, I found that SA had gone back to the dark ages, literally. Simply having electricity at an hour that I'd normally write, has been the challenge.
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The 2014 Nissan GT R – the Black edition. Quite possibly the
sexiest thing alive. Yes, alive – the way that it moves, the way that it roars,
the way that it purrs – yes, this car is very much alive.
It’s sexy. It’s alive. And it’s not Peter’s. How absolutely
and utterly depressing. Sitting dead still in traffic, in his Hyundai i10,
Peter didn’t even have room to hide. Nothing made his car look more like a
matchbox than having it sit right next to this beast.
The driver of the beast was an old man with a comb-over and a
chunky gold chain around his neck. He looked Peter straight in the eye before
revving the machine up like it was ready for takeoff. Just then Peter realised
that he had been staring at the vehicle. Turning a lovely shade of red, almost
like a tomato just before it reaches the perfect ripened state (you know, that
plush red with a tinge of green along the edge) Peter wiped the drool from his
chin and shifted into gear. He stalled the car. As if his existence couldn’t be
more embarrassing. The GT R vanished as
traffic opened up, releasing Peter from his hypnotic state.
At 35 years of age, Peter felt like he had done well for
himself in life, but it wasn’t good enough. He had a good job as an accountant
at a large firm, owned a small townhouse, a car, some nice clothes and shoes, a
few expensive watches and he enjoyed fine dining. But he wanted an expensive
car, a large house and a Rolex. Peter was practically working his fingers to
the bone, but these goals always managed to be just out of reach.
He looked around as the agitated motorists passed his
stalled vehicle on the main road. Everybody seemed to have a nicer car. Peter
just sat for a moment and looked at each driver as they overtook his car. They
all looked so proud in their nice cars, noses in the air, disgusted with his
cheap little matchbox that couldn’t start. Peter felt ashamed. The shame turned
into anger. Soon he’d managed to start his car, but his mind was still stuck on
the same destructive path.
He looked down at himself. He liked the suit he was
wearing. He was willing to bet that it was a nicer suit than that of most the
motorists with nicer cars. Not because it cost more, but because he had better
taste.
Peter started looking at the drivers again, this time focusing
on what they were dressed like; their hands on the steering wheel – did they
have nice jewellery or watches? Soon Peter’s focus was shifted to the people on the side of
the road, marching to their destinations. Everyone appeared to be so well put
together. That man had a stylish blazer that he managed to pair well with jeans
– Peter bet that he owned a nice car to go with it. That woman had a perfect figure
that was complemented by a tailored dress – there was no doubt in Peter’s mind
that she was married to a man that provided a large home for her and their
kids.
Just then Peter spotted a man that seemed to be rather out
of place. Peter’s first instinct was to snicker; the guy clearly didn’t have
any fashion sense what-so-ever. His pants were clearly too small; they fit him
around the waist, but were too short; his shins were totally exposed. Almost as
if this grown man were wearing pants made for a 10 year old. His trainers didn’t
match the odd, but formal trousers that he was wearing and even though it was blistering
hot outside, they guy was wearing a thick furry jacket.
Like a brick, it hit Peter – this man didn’t suffer from
poor taste in clothing, he was simply poor. The guy was probably wearing whatever
he managed to get his hands on. The fact that he had that jacket on in the heat
meant that he probably didn’t have a place to keep it. So he was more than
likely homeless. The poorly dressed guy most likely didn’t have a job and if he
found one, it wouldn’t be one of the highest paying jobs either. He looked
awfully skinny too. Peter hit his hazards and called the guy over.
Sipho practically
attacked the McDonalds BigMac. Immediately after Peter had invited Sipho into
his car, he regretted it; every horror story of every person that was ever
robbed and murdered crossed his mind. But once they were in the public take-out place and Sipho started to chat, Peter felt absolutely at ease. Sipho was an intelligent
sounding guy, a nice guy. He kept saying “God bless you” and “Thank you” to
Peter, ever so grateful for his kindness.
After a good hour or so, and about 5 more burgers, Peter started
to feel really guilty. He couldn’t help but wonder what the difference
between him and Sipho was. Why did he deserve to have a job, a nice house, his own
car and many more luxuries, whereas this man had none? To make matters worse,
just a few hours earlier, Peter’s greed had had him fuming with jealousy, and
here a man with nothing appeared to be ever so grateful for that which he had
received in life, even if it was a hand-me-down that was 3 sizes too small. The
fact that someone offered it seemed to be the single act that brought sunshine
to this man’s life.
By the end of the day, Peter had welcomed the man into his
home, allowed him to clean up in the bathroom and gave him a new set of clothes
(and a stylish set at that). Peter made sure that he popped a
few notes in the shirt pocket so that Sipho would be able to feed himself till
the next nice guy offered a hand out.
Lying in his bed, reflecting on the day, Peter put himself
in Sipho’s shoes. Peter was a determined man. He worked very hard to earn a
good living, but had he been dealt a different hand, would he still be as successful?
Peter was one of 3 kids. Once he got his matric, his dad got him a job in
sales. He hated it, but used the money to pay for further studies, which is how
he became an accountant. He worked his way into finance, and once confident enough,
moved over to a bigger company for a better salary.
Sipho doesn’t know how many siblings he has. He grew up in a
shelter. He was abused there, but too young to leave and fend for himself. When
he was 11 he ran away. He never received an education. He would get an odd
labour job here and there, but nothing that ever lasted long enough to earn a
living from. Sipho once asked one of his employers to help him with schooling,
but was scolded; “I have my own damn kids to feed. Why in the hell did your mother have
you if she couldn’t even afford to look after you?” was the response Sipho got.
Two different men, both hard working, looking to make an
honest living for themselves so that they may have better lives – two different
hands dealt – two vastly different lives – two different men, yet still, very
much the same.
I love this story!!!
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