I had a dream…


…and often my dreams are very realistic, vivid and occasionally, pretty funny. Some could be made into movies or at least short you-tube videos! Unlike many people, my dreams are often complete and contain details. Like everyone, they have some basis in reality. So I may be visiting the Falls, but have my cat with me..I guess because while I’m dreaming, she is lying at the end of the bed purring and that gets incorporated in somehow…



The Nyamandhlovu road starts off as a double lane, in very good condition. There are no potholes and early in the morning with alot on my mind, its easy to day-dream, easy for the foot to settle on the accelerator. There are no pesky speed traps, not much traffic other than the tiny kids who run to school in the very cold, early morning. They run along barefoot, carrying their shoes, to preserve them!

A man walks along slowly and several things about him catch my eye, my imagination. He is wearing a formal suit. Black. Smart. He is walking slowly and appears dignified. Very dignified. He holds a cane in one hand and he swings it, you know, how a gentleman does. The thing that catches my eye is his cap. Yes, cap. On his head, he has a bright orange ball cap! I spy on him in the rear view mirror as I pass. He wears a deep red shirt and his waistcoat is buttoned up tight.

Without reducing speed, I reach the single lane and heavens knows how fast I’m driving. Too fast. I’m sure in the old days, when the world was new, the road was perfectly safe, but now, it’s a thin strip not really enough even for one car. The edges have been eaten away after heavy rains and there is a deep gully right next to the edge of the tar. Must be murder on a small car, with small wheels. I get pretty frustrated driving behind them while they wait for a section of road where they can get off safely; let me impatiently pass. On-coming, they get off where they can and trundle along, one wheel in the dust, kicking up miles of dust behind them.

I’m thankful that there isn’t much traffic on that road that early in the morning, although maybe – just maybe that’s a car I can see in the far distance. Usually, this early there are only mini buses, packed full of people coming into Bulawayo from Nyamandhlovu, and they know how to drive on the narrow tar road. Most people would say they are maniacs –

Closer, I see it is a bakkie and idly wonder if he will he get off miles away and force me to endure the dust he kicks up, or do what I do and get off at the last minute.

We hurtle towards each other, both firmly on the single tar strip – and yes;  he does what I do, ten, twenty meters away, we both veer off leaving one wheel on the solid, I land safely, but with my eye on him. A pick up, much like mine in size and shape. His front wheel hits the gravel and disintegrates on impact. Rubber flies up under his wheel-arch, the bonnet dips impossibly and in slow motion, his undercarriage passes right by my window. I see his entire exhaust system. His wheels are still running, right here, next to my elbow.

My ABS brakes make a funny noise when I stand on them, I skid and slide. I cant get the stupid car to stop fast enough, nor get into reverse. Its only a short distance, but the car is off the road, it’s rolled right over and is back on its wheels again, and the driver sitting up.

I leap out, leaving my door open in my haste and run to him. I’m not thinking clearly; just need to get over there to see if he is OK. His window is closed. I tap on it. He looks at me, but blankly, surprised perhaps? All the training from a one week first aid course at St Johns Ambulance clicks in. He is in shock.

Wrenching open the door, I see blood. It’s bubbling out of a rip in his jeans, like the Binga hotspring. More like the mud stone borehole we drilled in Svisvi.

“If the injury is on the leg,” intones our instructor, “you need to press on the pressure point in the hip.” My hands are shaking. I’m not calm in an emergency. Its an awkward angle, I cant feel anything and the blood, pouring out of his thigh is all over the seat and on the floor and on my hands and its thick and it wont stop.

The man is silent. Everything is silent other than my own breathing; loud and fast and I cant stop it.
“Don’t mess about with a femoral artery,” I hear our instructor clearly. “Don’t be coy. Just pull down his trousers. This is life or death.”

My finger stuck in the gaping wound, I look up at him. He’s cute. Curly blond hair, cut fairly close to his head. He is younger than I am, wide chest, strong forearms.

“I need to get at this pressure point,” I pant. “Can you take these down?”

He smiles at me. He really is cute. One of his teeth crosses over slightly and he has blue/green eyes. He pushes his seat back fiddles with his belt and pushes his jeans down over his hips. Oh brother. Commando.

He chuckles, but once again, I’m busy, Ive got good access to the pressure point in his hip and miracles… I feel the blood stop pumping against my finger stuck as far up his femoral artery as I can get it. It’s slippery in there, slimy.

One hand digging into his hip, the other buried deep into the jagged hole in his thigh, I realise we need help. Like seriously quickly. My phone is my car, only five short meters away. Can I let go and dash over, get back, stop the blood, phone for help? Will the touch screen work with all this sticky blood.

No. No plan for that.

Then my nose gets itchy. Why do noses get itchy when you have grease on your hands, or flour?  It’s my hair, it’s in my eyes, my nose. It’s all over the place, I have a hair-band around my wrist. I didn’t think to pull it over my hair before I put my hands into all this blood. There is blood everywhere and I cant hold this pose, I’m getting tired.

“Oh. Shit,” I whisper, dropping my head forwards. The ends of my hair wick up more blood.


“My phone. Its in the car. We need to call for an ambulance. You think you can hold this for me.” I nod my head at his hip.

He smiles at me. Oh boy. He’s goofed. He is not functioning and he is going to die here on me, all because I left my phone in my car…

“Ive got one. Its in my pants pocket…”

Now one thing about a dream, is you can do anything. You can reach down, with a hole in your leg, half your blood out on the floor and fetch your phone. I mean think about it, this guy is lying back, the seat pushed back into recliner position, and suddenly, for some reason, he is no longer wearing a shirt. He has a superb chest and six-pack abs. They bunch and flex when he leans forward; scrabbles in his back pocket..I call out my sister’s telephone number because she is Mrs Cool Calm and Collected in emergencies. You wouldn’t catch her forgetting her phone in the car…as usual, she has it all under control. Just hang in there, she says. It will be OK. Just wait.

And did we wait. I have strong hands, but they are really struggling, and the cute guy is chatting to me – smooth-talking, I tell you…all we need now is a pina colada… and I’m flattered. Ive got the full attention of a younger really hunky male. Oh, I can dream.

My nose gets itchy again and I ask him if he will get my hair out of my face. He smooths it back, running his hands through it…he gently holds it in a bundle at the nape of my neck.

Straightening, I look back over his shoulder at the strip road disappearing over a slight rise…oh boy – a white minibus, belting along the road, brown dust chasing it. Full, full to bursting with people from Nyamandhlovu. It slows, and yes, I know what is going to happen. It’s what always happens here in Africa when there is an accident – hundreds of people stand silent, unmoving, gaping  at the victims, bleeding on the ground – the twisted bicycle or mangled car – left abandoned as evidence. I know they are going to crowd round the car. Another mini bus will stop, swell the numbers and what will they see? Two crazy white people, one woman one man. In some strange pantomime – possibly some ancient blood ritual from Europe? He is holding her hair, she is holding his groin, her face as red as the blood on her hands.

I’m seriously contemplating running; hiding, slinking into my car, and leaving him to his fate.

I squeeze my eyes shut. If I cant see them, they cant see me.

I feel a presence, open my eyes, and there, just below that awesome six pack is an orange cap and walking away down the road in a very dignified fashion is a man in a three piece suit, swinging his cane, catching it in the middle, swinging it again…


Please have a look at my books. Unfortunately, Amazon doesn’t allow free books, so you have to pay for A Silken Thread.

Click here, to download A Silken Thread

A Silken Thread

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A Pale

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Jack and Jill a short story

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3 responses »

  1. Wish I had dreams like that! The best ones I can’t remember, just the feeling of happiness or excitement, the weird ones are there in detail. Mind you, it’s all in the telling, and you’re good at that …

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