Catching Fire.

If one could separate ones life into phases, or acts (as in a play) the first could be childhood, Second being puberty, ending in late twenties. 
Some would live out this stage until about forty when the typical midlife crises hits men and menopause women. The so called “third act: would be what one did with the rest of ones days. 

In my life I have been able to outline distinct phases. 
My earliest memories go back very far into my childhood, but there are huge gaps, and in hind site I have come to accept that my memory is generally very patchy and a lot of the gaps in my memory are around areas of trauma.  

While looking back I can see clearly how I have had more than my share of trauma, the interesting thing is that I didn’t think so at the time. I assumed that it  was normal for all kids to have been exposed to violence from a young age. 

I assumed all kids got to see beatings and killings and that this was part of growing up. 
Turns out that I was wrong. 

And that only a select few get to cower in the dark and and not all kids have to deal with flashbacks of violent events. 

I haven’t even started this note and it occurs to me that there might not be any purpose in it. 
I don’t really have anything that I want to tell anybody. 
I don’t have any need to pass on any “nugget” of wisdom to future generations. 
I am hardly sure about how I feel about things half the time and unable to pass my thoughts to the people around me let alone people who might be interested in what I have to say after I am gone.  

Then there is the matter of honesty. 
This has always been the stumbling block that stood in the way of any previous attempt to do something like this. How honest am I meant to be? 
If I choose to be brutally honest and bare my soul, warts and all, I fear that firstly I would be driven out of the village with sticks and stones like the mangy dog that I am, or that I will not be able to hold your attention, dear reader with the dreary, drudgery of the reality of my life.  
Both outcomes are insufferable. 
So we are back at the beginning. 
Why do I have the need to write this. 
What exactly is this, and who do I intend as the audience and when?

One could wait to resolve these issues before undertaking any further investment in time spent on this what ever it is, or one could just plough ahead and see how deep the rabbit hole goes. 
Just go with the flow and see where it takes us. 
Much like the way we live our lives. 
And if it goes south I could pull the plug and if the it takes shape and forms something worthy, it won’t be time wasted at all. 

I need to picture an audience before I start this fantastical tale.  
The way a speaker locks onto one person in the audience and speaks to them directly, as the interaction and that bond contributes to the presentation. 
In the case of the analogy of the speech its not that the chemistry between the one random person influences the words, as the speech is already written and practiced, but rather that the missile lock that bonds the speaker to his target, adds the depth and breadth to the interaction. 
The way that a musicians feelings come through in his performance. 
Feelings and emotion that would be lacking from a flawless performance by a robot. 

I am surprised that it took me this long to make my first mention of Robots. 
This, if you knew me is a serious topic and very close to by heart.  
We have not started and already we are going off chasing imaginary robotic rabbits. 

Anyway I was four years old and I loved fire. 

I loved the way it looked and smelled. My dad had a motor vehicle repair shop where we lived in Camperdown and as a child I tried to never miss the "day end fire" that he would build to dispose of all of the crap that from the `Garage` as we called it.  This was rural, small town Camperdown in the 60s. My dad took out the trash at the end of every day and chucked it all into a 45 gallon drum and then fired it up and it was, the most  interesting part of  child’s day.  The adults came around to warm their hands and it was great  fun. We would toss stray bits into the fire and watch them burn.  A daily communion and it made me feel like one of the “boys”. Except I later learned that, "boy" was a bad word and insulting to the grown men it belittled. But back then I was a cute kid who loved to mess about in the garage and the workers were really good to me.  

It must have been 1968 and I was 4 years old and when my daddy tried to light the fire the wind kept putting it out, and in his frustration, he tossed a pail of dirty petrol, that they had used to clean their tools, into the drum. The fire, he thought,  would burn much easier when the trash was saturated in Petrol.  

This was the moment everything went pear shaped. 

Time stood still and I was on fire. 

Searing pain.  

Seeing my daddy through the flames. 

I was actually on fire with huge flames leaping off my legs. 

Turns out the match that he had thrown into the drum wasn’t all the way out and when the petrol hit it there was an explosion, and when my dad recoiled he knocked me to the ground. 
He didn’t know I was behind him and in all of the mayhem he hadn't realised that I was in the fire.  

I screamed out to him and Rookaya, my sister jumped off the swing she was on and suddenly my dad realised what had happened. He rolled me on the sand to put out the flames and carried me to the house. Rookaya ran ahead yelling "Daddy burned Mohammed! Daddy ! Burned Mohammed! threw him in the fire!, I saw it!”. 

I remember my mum and granny, came out,  took one look at me and realised that this was not something the home remedies could sort out.  

My memory of the next few minutes which by the way felt like hours was the journey to Cato Ridge 4 km away. Doctor Singh would know what to do. And my dad drove the huge Dodge van and I lay on over my Mothers lap and my Ma’s lap. (We called my granny Ma.) I kept asking if we were there yet and they kept consoling me and comforting me. 
And I tried to be brave, and it hurt like a demon.  

The trip seemed to take forever, but I could feel their concern and love and I love them all for it.  
All I remember from the doctors rooms was him trying to get the cloth off the wound and the incredible pain of tearing newly formed clot and scab. 

This was the beginning of a very difficult period in my life. I had to sleep under a large cardboard box to prevent the blankets from sticking to the wounds. My leg was badly burned and infection set in quickly as the sand that put the fire out was maybe not the best thing for me at the time.  
I remember that I had to go to the clinic in Pietermaritzburg regularly to have the dressing replaced. 
These were dark times. 

The plus side was that I  came with lots of presents from all my Aunts and uncles.  
Toy guns were my favourite. 
The oddest gift I got, was a very fancy Toy Fire Truck that my White Foi sent. 
(The white foo bit is another story on its own) and I loved it as it had a siren and it was animated in the most interesting ways. It must have cost a fortune, even in those days.  
Looking back, I wonder what the significance was of sending a child a Fire Truck to take his mind off having been seriously burnt?

In time everything healed and oddly I was not afraid of fire. 
In fact I might have developed an unhealthy fascination with fire and that too might interest some shrink who might  feel the ned to analyse this. 

In todays terms the burn would probably be third degree with about 20% coverage  was close to being life threatening. 

I was very lucky.  

And my luck has not run out.  Not yet.