by Roelien Steenkamp

Created on: April 04, 2010

The Tale of Msicar

Maya was to meet Msicar one day. In fact, she had learned of him before, as Msicar had lived a very long, strenuous life. His stories were often told by travellers he had come across. His journeys took him from desolate lands where hardly any man tread, to cities of extreme concrete, inhabited with both strange and ordinary peoples. Everywhere he went there was war and where he wasn’t at, was the absence thereof.

 One day, he decided to visit Maya, “I had no mother. No father. I was born all alone.” She offered him a steaming cup of tea, but he refused. “I cannot really drink anything that calms me. It goes right through me. I cannot even sit, therefore, because it is my culture to not apologize for my customs, do not mind me standing while I talk to you.” She put the cup of tea far from him and drank hers, slowly. “Before I continue, stranger, I must say thank you for listening to me and for veiling your face.” She didn’t say a word, she merely nodded. She had to follow the instructions on the contract she had signed, for Msicar was a powerful man. “You have such diverse artwork in your house; however I am not fond of all of them. It really does look like you have travelled to many faraway places.” He looked around and she could hardly see the contours of his face or an expression of emotion. She wasn’t even sure of his nationality. She didn’t respect this man, but she feared him greatly.

 “You must know that I tried extremely hard to ignore the surroundings on my way here, I almost burnt my eyes with unnecessary information.” Maya went down on her knees and tilted her head down to the ground, making her petite frame and presence inferior to that of Msicar’s, as to apologise for his inconvenience. She was very careful as to not reveal too much about her identity by doing so. “Get up silly woman. These acts of yours will betray your true nature. Sit there and listen to my story. I’ve lived long enough and now I wish to die.”

The room, in which Maya and Msicar found themselves in, had invited the outside fog. The warm and homely feeling had disappeared and the artworks from across the world had covered themselves with white sheets. The air was grey and the seat on which Maya sat smelt of an abattoir. The red roses on the coffee table became limp and dried out, creating a pile of ash. Maya hated this man. He reeked of death

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