kagablog

Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
I came to, travelling on a train through a place I didn’t recognise.
It was pretty outside the window, all crisp blue air and twirling,
flaming maple leaf confetti, tracks hewn into the side of steep grey
rock . I thought it could well be the Rocky Mountains, reminded of
pictures on the covers of my dad’s John Denver records and that
mawkish Disney film about an anthropomorphised squirrel played to us
too many times at primary school on an ancient projector that
stretched the epic’s crackling orchestral score out of tune.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
I was deciding what to order from the dining caboose’s menu. Or
rather, I was deliberating about whether or not to have the Pork Liver
and Pea Paté. There was only one dish du jour.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
The motion sickness was making me indecisive.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
The food trolley looked hospitable enough. Actually, *hospital*
enough. In its stainless steel ramekin, glinting in a wan shaft of
afternoon sun that pierced the canyon obliquely as we rounded a spur,
the grey-green sludge quivered appealingly. The underdone slivers of
cold toast curled reassuringly on the thick white porcelain. I lent
forward to lift and peer under the polished cover of the dessert tray
and realised I was in a straitjacket.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
The waitron raised the cover for me with a pair of enamelled tongs. As
they rattled against it, I saw that the pincers doubled as the
waitron’s right hand. Lurid pink blancmange, dark vermicelli sprinkles
bleeding into it like caterpillar poos, jiggled expectantly
underneath. No wonder they had kept this risqué little number under
wraps.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
“Where are you taking me?” i asked the waitron.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
The answer came mechanically, without hesitation, in a voice like a
modem, or a receptive fax machine, or an insect.
“Bzeeeeeeeeeeeellleebellllllllllleebellllllleeeeeep.”
Very communicative, telling me nothing.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Smiling patiently, I tried again.
“Why am I on this train?”
Clack-clack. Clack-clack.
“Bzeeeeeeeeeeeeshwwshwwweebellllllllllleebellllllleeeshwwwzzzzzzz.”
I tried not to laugh.
The drone jerked around abruptly and wheeled the clattering trolley
out of the otherwise empty car.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
(I think i must have fallen asleep.)
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
It’s dark now.
I’m hungry.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
And really cold.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
I am completely alone.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
No, I can’t be. The train is moving.
But *who*? Or *what*?
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
Clack-clack, clack-clack.
The condensation of my breath on the window is melting a darker space,
a halo of frost encircling the moon, an icy, detached angel looking
down dispassionately, shirking her guardian duties.
Lub-dub, lub-dub.
Lub-dub, lub-dub.
My heart is beating in time.
Lub-clack, lub-clack.
Lub-clack, lub-clack.
Panicking is a waste of energy in a straitjacket.

first published on africans.co.za