Short Story: Old Soldier

Dear Old Soldier,

It’s almost seven years now since I last saw you. I returned to school after the mid-term break only to find out that you had taken off. Your fellow security men informed me that, it was just a normal day, you were all sitting down quietly and watching the birds floating freely in the sky, you stood up- abruptly, and left. And never returned.

Of course I never believed you would just leave like that. So whenever it was break-time, I would come out and stand for long, looking expectantly at the school gates, hoping to see you dash in. Hoping to see that tall and lanky and hard and dark frame of yours. Hoping to see those bulging eyes, that erect nose, those enormous lips, that proud neck on that arch back. Hoping to see you with a cane, whirling around the school gates, threatening and swearing at students. I would stand for long, looking out for that lean figure in a big shirt tucked into a pair of tight faded jeans trousers which was always buckled on the belly. And, of course, those impeccably polished boots, gleaming like the sunshine in their master’s eyes.

I would stand for long, picturing all the things that you used to do. You always reported exactly on time, and left exactly on time. Not a minute more and not a minute less. The first thing you always did, when you arrived at the security checkpoint, was to light a cigar and sit behind your lotto papers and work out mathematics with such a concentration as would  Einstein marvel.

I have stopped standing now, but you are still outstanding in my mind. With you, there was never a dull moment or a quiet one. Old Soldier, you were always enchantingly excited or amusingly irritated. When the little school girls passed, bouncing their little breasts and shaking their supple waists, you would laugh out loud, stomp your feet, beat your chest and boast about all the damsels you had dammed and the virgins you had deflowered, back in your days. Oh you were a bad man, Old Soldier. But you were a good man, you meant no harm.

When you were happy, you had many stories to tell. When you were angry, you had many complaints to make; about the driver who blew his horn too loud, about the food vender whose food was too spicy, about the headmaster, the teachers, the students, the cleaners, the cooks and even God Almighty.

Boy, Did I enjoy your stories! Old Soldier knew everything about anything. You could engage in an intellectual and philosophical discourse as much as you could talk gibberish. You made sense. And you mad no sense. You had a lot of opinions. But you had no opinion.

Old Soldier had been everywhere in this world and done it all. Old Soldier fought in the Second World War. Old Soldier was an activist in the independence struggle who even met with Nkrumah and offered him some good advice. Old Soldier had been to Europe to admire its sterling architecture. Old Soldier had been in the U.S and done all sorts of menial jobs. Old Soldier went to Asia for a peace keeping mission. Old Soldier was at a Beatles’ concert in Copenhagen. Old Soldier once met Kiki Gyan in London and advised him to take it easy on his drinking and smoking. Old Soldier this, Old Soldier that.

I remember after prep hours every evening, I would come and sit by your side, sometimes late into the night, listening to all your tales. At one time you told me about the many people you had made rich by working out winning lotto numbers for them. You spoke so convincingly that I forgot that lotto was a game of chance. I even gave you some coins to work out some lucky numbers for me.

Dear Old Soldier, even though I knew some, or most, of your stories were not true, I believed in them anyway, for they were true to life. But I was always wondering- and still do wonder- it was always Old Soldier, never “when I was young.” It’s as if life started for you as an old soldier. You also never talked about family or friends. It was always you, you and you. Did you have no family? Did the heavens just sneeze you out onto earth, for a while, and mother earth sucked you back up?

Dear Old Soldier, how come, with all the great people you knew, the great things you had done, the many people you made rich, you ended up a common security man at my secondary school? Sometimes, I imagined you were doing it just for fun, to add to your repertoire of experiences. But whenever I heard you passionately berating government for the meager salary you received, I had second thoughts.

Dear Old Soldier, I will long remember your laughter. When you laughed, and you often did, you laughed out loud and you laughed out long. You laughed as if your life depended on it. I still hear the echoes in my mind. I don’t know where you are now. Nobody does. Maybe you are still marching on, in your tight jeans, big shirt and gleaming boots. Maybe you are still telling your fantastic stories to any ear that will lend itself. Maybe the world has become too much with you. Maybe you have stopped laughing. Whatever the case may be, the master once wrote, “All the world is a stage and all the men and women merely players.” You have also played your part in this world, Dear Old Soldier, that we may say “here was an Old Soldier, whence comes another.”