I like stories. This is a story that took place on a deck. Not this deck.
Mr. Smith was a guy who’s name was not actually Mr. Smith. No one knew his name. But, that’s what he went by and that’s what the locals called him. He was an OG Rhodesian with grey hair and white and wrinkled skin. I met him at the Good Friends backpackers in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. A place with wonderfully uncomfortable twin beds, yet the most precious china for a Rooibos tea. Also a place that seems to have since vanished.
At night, I laid down on the cold wood of the deck with my arms folded under my head staring up at the Zim sky. It’s darker there. Mr. Smith came out for a smoke and politely asked if I minded the company. I never do. A man who looks like that has stories I want to hear. He told me a handful, but it’s no surprise that the one I remember most was about the time he spent in Livingstone Prison just across the Zambezi in Zambia. He told me he’d spare me from what put him there but that he was better for it. He told me to be good and to not take any shit. Me and Mr. Smith’s conversation was brought to an abrupt end when a spider the size of my face scooted across the deck beside me and that’s all the nature I needed that night. I like to think the spider purposely and politely waited until Mr. Smith could make a memorable impact.
The next day we bumped into each other in the kitchen and poured Rooibos tea into precious china.
That was the last time I saw Mr. Smith.
And, that’s my story about a deck.
#anythingthatswild #sharestories #tellstories #meaningfulmoments #mrsmith - 2 days ago