The Pothole Of Non'-Existence
One day in Mongezi Street, a pothole appeared- big, brooding, and boldly ordinary. The kind of pothole that refuses to explain itself. No one saw it arrive, but everyone felt it's presence the way you feel an unnoticed stranger staring at you.
People started forgetting things whenever they passed it without greeting it properly. A man forgot the name of a cow he'd raised since calfhood. Naledi Lerata, the muthi seller with the quick tongue, forgot his wife's name and walked around looking betrayed by his own brain.
Instead of fixing it, the municipality launched a study. A thick- necked civil servant in a starcged uniform arrived with a clipboard so stiff it looked ironed. He circled the pothole with ceremonial steps, cleared his throat like a man with imaginary authority, and declared in a booming, bureaucratic voice:
"This is now Pothole No. 4 of Unspecified Depth and Origin."
The moment he stamped the form, he forgot his own rank and wandered off into a tavern, requesting tea he didn't even like.
Meanwhile, the people of Matebeleng kasie adjusted. They walked around the pothole respectfully, as if passing an elder with unpredictable moods.They nodded at it, greeted it, and reminded each other not to tempt it's appetite for forgotten things.
Because in a world as absurd as theirs, sometimes the only rational response is to remember to remember, even when the state forgets everything else.
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