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Culture and Heritage, Life, Living, Stories, Women

Short Story – Mother’s Coffee Land

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Memoir series – JLeahy

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Credit: Dr Wright picture

In the first moon of the coffee season, the bees would have long gone from the sweetness in the coffee blossom. The delicate petals of coffee blossoms would wither, turn brownie-yellow and drop to carpet the base of the trees. Here, under the tree, other insects such as ants would gather around the sticky rotting pulp. This was the picking time. My mother and her sisters would prepare to harvest grandpa’s coffee.

This is my mother’s Coffee Land story.

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A coffee plantation in Morobe Province

My grandfather’s name means “intelligent” and so he was. Kauc’s coffee garden was planted on his father’s land, miles away from our village.

To harvest the coffee beans; equipment, food, bags, water and all other necessities for processing had to be carried to the garden on foot. It was a labour-intensive method in which cherries are picked, selected and pulped by hand all day and for several weeks.

The remaining flesh from the pulping process was used as composting material for both the coffee and food gardens. Once the bean was dried, it was shelled. The coffee was now ready to sell and grandpa took it to town and in exchange, he bought sugar, rice and a small stick of tobacco. The tobacco was his treat, although he rarely smoked. My mother often wondered why he spent his hard-earned money on tobacco he did not really smoke. She said perhaps he shared it with his friends.

The coffee garden was Kauc’s pride and joy. Being a male and the second eldest in his family, Kauc owned a large piece of land. He was a devout Lutheran and a teacher. Kauc loved the land and he tried some cocoa and his coffee garden for cash.

The coffee garden, near our food garden, was situated less than an hour walking distance from our small coastal village outside Lae, Morobe Province, Papua New Guinea. Kauc grew Arabicas. With a high rainfall and good soil, the trees grew well and produced top quality beans. The family did not drink this coffee. They drank tea which came from Garaina, a sub-district in our province. This coffee garden was purely cultivated as a cash crop.

When the coffee berries ripened they developed a glossy sheen on its deep red shades. My mother, her sisters and my grandparents would go to the garden to pick the coffee and spend the whole day sorting and processing.

Sometimes, they would take a break and make a fire in nearby kunai (grassland) to surround and trap bandicoots for lunch. This made the long day interesting.

My mother said she would feed me milk and lay me down in a bilum (string bag) and hang the bag on a Rosewood branch. Under the shade, the cool breeze kept me asleep while she and her sisters picked coffee. My grandfather washed and peeled the red skins, revealing pale beans. The sisters would pick and bring bags of the red cherries and pour them into my grandpa’s pulper.

“He would stand there in his laplap and T shirt and just turn the handles until the machine skinned and spit the pale brown seeds out the other end. The seeds were collected and dried in the sun. He was in charge of this machine” my mother said.

The trees and in particular, the Rosewood tree became the landmark. Memories of the coffee garden surfaced in a family argument over land allocation eight years ago. My grandfather and his brother were the head of our family and clan. Both men had died three decades ago. Their sons, my two uncles who became head of our clan and land had also died. My mother remains the eldest of the family and clan. Her being a woman brought another cultural and customary argument about where she would live.

According to my cousin brothers, my mother should not have any land. Fortunately for my mother, and for the fact that she was born the daughter of an intelligent man, she stood up for her share. My mother made sure she had spoken to my uncles and got both their approvals before they died. When my uncles asked her to choose, she had marked the land where she used to hang me in a bilum, while she picked coffee with her father. This coffee garden became her land. In memory of her father, my mother named her son Kauc and I named my son Kauc.

Life, Living, Nature and Climate Change, Stories

The Nightmare of Story-writing

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I haven’t forgotten to publish a new short story. I have written a few for my Creative Writing workshop and my memoir. The thing with writing stories is that every time you read it, you want to re-write it. It is not verbal so you could just correct yourself as you tell the story. And, just like the critical eye of an artist about his or her work, I feel that the story is never finished. When I do attempt to re-write, I often lose the magical essence I applied during free writing. For example, a short story of 800 words may flow so well on my first draft but when I start to add more descriptions and enrich the content, I start to lose the tension building or the essence of the conflict.

Then, you still have the general structure and language of the story to worry about. I cringe sometimes when I read my writing that I have published and I had missed a typo, grammar or perhaps a paragraph could be better placed or written. You could pick up something in this piece of writing and I would be in trouble again. What a nightmare it must be for all writers. Thank goodness we have editors and ‘know-it-all’ friends who will point out our mistakes. Sometimes you feel like saying, “You think it is easy; why don’t you write it then?” But without them, these “auto-corrector assistants”, we would not be able to bring good stories out to our readers in good writing.

Anyway friends, that was really my reason for delaying a new short story on this page. I am still editing some of them but let’s just call this one a work-in progress so I can give it to you as promised. It is a non-fiction short story from what I am writing for my memoir.

The Windy Curse 

JLeahy Memoir

The wind was howling curses. Footsteps ran on gravel. People were rushing up the main road, away from Wagang, our small coastal village. It had stormed all night and all day. The waves rose in great heights over the far end of Wagang outside Lae, Papua New Guinea. It was 1972.

My uncle Sam said: “Yesterday morning, some houses were washed away with part of the coastline”. I could not go to school.

“The sea is coming!” I heard a woman call out. She half ran with two crying children behind her. Mounted on her back, the woman had three bilums filled with clothes and food. Dusk had approached when she threw that warning at Tinang, my grandma. There was panic in the woman’s voice as she hurried with her children up the road. We lived at the mouth of the main road to Lae town. Other men, women and children with bags walked quickly by, some dragging or carrying smaller children and animals.

I grabbed my clothes, towel and blanket then followed my own mother out of the room. Mother grabbed a few things. She packed them madly in a handbag and a large bilum. I was not sure what to take.

“Quick, come!” she called.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“We must leave now,” she said. I followed her out of our room.

The village was in danger. We had to follow the rest of the villagers inland. The wind had not stopped for two days. The dry coconut leaves and nuts dropped randomly, making it dangerous to walk outside our house. There was some flying debris of plastic, paper, Tuk and Abong leaves. I wanted to run to grandpa’s house, next to our big house but I was scared. I also thought our roof might fly off.

“I will get the mosquito net,” Mother said. She disappeared and returned with a white bundle with pink ropes and added it to my arms. She made eyes at me to go to Tinang.

I could hear the waves getting louder in the distance and heard my aunty Giuc screaming that the sea was coming in. She was also yelling curses at her cousins to leave the village and run up the road. Aunty Giuc was a few years older than I and tough.

“Hurry!” mother said. I had no idea where mother meant. There was no further instructions.

“Are we running up the road?”. It did not make sense to me, I thought – the road was too flat. The sea would get us.

Yesterday, the government radio said we needed to move quickly as the waves would be at the village on the second day.

“Where are we going?” I asked again.  Mother left me in the lounge and headed for grandpa’s house. I stood near the window and watched through the broken fly-wire. There were no louvres so I felt the wind.

Grandpa once dreamt that our village, less than a metre above sea level was going to sink into the sea. He told villagers that one day the water was coming in and we would disappear because the two rivers that surrounded our village joined on both ends.  Grandpa also told the villagers our house was built on the stone so even if the village sunk,  our house would remain standing, just like the biblical house that was built on the stones. I think that part made the villagers angry because they thought he meant our house was better than theirs. The villagers thought my grandpa’s dream was a crazy story.

As I watched everyone running past, I wondered if today was “The day” grandpa predicted. I walked to the front of the house to see where grandma was. I stopped at the top landing of our steps shocked at what was on our front yard.

There was sea-froth on the sand. The bubbles on the browny white foam slowly burst and disappeared into the sand. It left curly wet sandy trails. It was not normal for the sea to come this far, I thought. We were over 100 metres away from the beach. I scanned the ground to see if there would be fish. It was weird. In the last King tides, my cousins caught some tuna in the middle of our village soccer pitch.

I turned to look in our backyard; my eye caught the river rising. The river seemed angry like the wind. The dirty brown water twirled and rushed along debris and household rubbish.  I could smell the sea from my left and at the same time, from my right, I smelt the swamp coming to meet the sea. Watching it, the swamp swell drowned everything in its path as it spilt over the banks and leaked towards me rapidly. Mother’s garden of maa-le, a scented deep green waterlily used for curing fever, disappeared under the brown smelly water. Just like the swamp people’s houses, I saw our kitchen house posts and the fireplace disappearing into the water. Where grandma had planted the Chinese Kangkung and watercress, flotsam mixed with village rubbish of empty Marvolene bleach bottles, Ommo packets and old thongs pushed in, crushing the green healthy vegetable carpet with its filthy weight.

I looked to grandpa’s small house and I could not see mother. I wondered if father and daughter were praying. It made sense. Tamang (grandpa) believed in God.

“Mamaa!” I called out.

She did not answer. I looked at the people passing our house again. No-one waved goodbye or passed greetings. Everyone looked anxious. I decided they were going to walk to town and climb Mt Lunaman. That was the only high ground I knew.

“Mama! Mama!” I called. I sat on the cold timber floor and waited. The sand caught between the timber gaps caught my eye. There was so much sea-sand in the house.

In the past, the waves had come like a thief and took three village houses on the beach. Luckily no human lives but only pigs, dogs and some chickens went with the houses in the waves. The villagers became smarter and built away from the shoreline. On bad days like this one, we all left the village. The waves were left to what to do what they wanted.

“Yupla kisim ol samting na igo antap long rot”, the loud voice interrupted.

Get your things and move up the road. It was the village councillor. The village bell rang three times signalling emergency. Three times also meant someone died. I was confused.

“Hariap!” a loud voice called. I did not see my uncle Sam but he was barking instructions too at my family to hurry. He told them not to bring rubbish.  He also told his wife, his sisters, cousins and brothers to make sure they brought their underpants as he did not want anyone making pictures he did not want to see in the bush. This remark made everyone scream in laughter. It eased their tension only slightly.

I knew mother was with Grandpa. I stood up and looked out through the broken fly wire again. Then I saw Tinang, my grandma and ran down to her near the main road.

I waited near Tinang. My head reached her shoulders. I could smell lime and betel nut. I felt my way into her colourful nylon bilum to see if she had any betel nut. I was nervous and wanted to chew. In Tinang’s bilum, my hand touched empty nut skins, a towel, her Koala skin purse and other small things and not betel nut.

Tinang said, “it would be hard to move grandpa.”

“Why?”

“Because he is stubborn,” she said in Bukawac.

Grandpa can walk. I could not see how grandpa would walk all the way – but to where? The nearest mountain was miles away.

“Where are we going?” I asked Tinang.

“We are just going to go into the bush,” she finally told me. It finally made sense to me. In the bush, if we had to, we could climb up trees.

Soon, sea water ran in from the front of grandpa’s small house. It was made of bush material. There was froth and I knew more sea would come.

Then, I heard a truck coming. It was my grandma’s brother Mambu’s truck, Maac Kalac. A flat-top Mitsibishi with passenger seats. Its name, Maac Kalac in Yabem means the “proud bird”.

“Ampom!” I heard mother calling me and I ran to her. She came over to grab our things. She pulled my hand and took me to the truck and told me to get up. Someone lifted me and sat me on top of some clothes.

Below the truck engine, and all the chattering, I heard the village boys splashing and laughing in the distance and I knew they were having fun. I thought how silly they were to not see danger coming. Mother continued to madly pack food, matches and torch into our bag. Uncle Sam was giving final directions to all our family members to get on Awac Mambu’s truck.

This was a Public Motor Vehicle (PMV) licensed to transport the villagers into town for 10 cents. Tonight it was a free ride. Packed from top to bottom, it was loaded with bags, food, pots, pans, coconut. I could not believe it. Some people brought everything. There were dogs and chickens. Someone brought a duck! A duck could swim and fly. Why did they bring a duck?

“Tamang?” I turned my attention back to mother for my grandpa.

“He will come,” mother lied. Perhaps she was hoping he would come, I thought.

We loaded in less than an hour and the water started to sweep across the road to the tyres. Awac Mambu wanted to drive off and someone said grandpa was not on the truck. I sat up and looked back to the deserted house. I started crying and wanted to get off. Everyone started arguing. My mother ran back with the kerosine lantern. She disappeared behind our big house. Ten minutes later, mother ran back without the lantern and without grandpa. She whispered to me that we had to leave now and Uncle Sam would come back to get grandpa. We drove off. I thought about grandpa’s dream. I put my head on the bag of clothes next to the food and animals and closed my eyes.

 

 

blogging, Life, Living, People, short stories, Stories, Women, writing

Creative Writing – “My Last Walk”

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My last post on my personal journey through domestic violence brought a lot of pain, anguish and fear. With the graphics being provided in the New York Times film by Carey Wagner, my mind took a long trip to many forgotten places where the monster lived.

I have taken some time to work through things I kept to myself for a long time but in response to the article, many kind words have been spoken by friends, family and even caring strangers both here, personal emails, phones and my Facebook Page. It is a long hard walk to the end of violence against women but we have to continue to talk about it and fight the monster.

I have two very important people in my life; my sons Nathan(18) and Chris(15). As a mother I always worry that whatever actions I take that the boys would be watching me and there would be consequences. I always worry I may hurt them emotionally. This is one of the things we need to teach our boys and young children in PNG if we are serious about starting at ground level.

For my own case, all these years, I did not speak much about my life with the monster. I felt very strongly about many things and my priority was always to protect sons. I knew they would soon learn about me and the culture they are part of. Because they were born into a combination of cultures and parents the responsibility comes back to their father and I to teach them about what is expected of them and how they should treat others.

My past did involve my sons but only just. I recall a confronting incident in 1999 that involved my children and my past. I had fled from the monster in 1988. I changed my life, settled several years later in a very happy relationship and had my sons.

Our family went to a friend’s place one day. My sons were barely 3 and six-months-old. We were invited to the friend’s place for Sunday brunch. When we arrived, the boys my partner and I, in front of my friend’s house was the man who had beat me for four years. He was invited! It was absurd. However, when you look at the big picture, which took me a long time to see was that – everything was ok. Even friends accepted that what this man did was ok.

I was shocked but having my baby (Chris) in my arms, I pretended to ignore the beast and proceeded forward. What I did not expect was he came forward, passing me, to pick up a ball my three-year-old had dropped. Stunned, I watched him hand the ball back to my son. Then the man did something that made me want to kill him. He gently touched my son’s head. I nearly fainted.

We left the party and returned home because my partner and the father of my sons could see that clearly, I became very ill. We never spoke about this incident but I knew that I could never let that person come near my children.

Like all families, life continues and we grow as people and as a family, we take on life’s challenges together. I believe as a parent, I must always do my best and show what is in my heart.  Show love. This love that I teach and show is the greatest conqueror of all hardships and it teaches my sons to love others and treat them as they would want to be treated. That was what my late grandmother, Geyam Kauc always said. I tell my sons to always treat people with love and respect. And when they are older, especially in relationships, treat women with the same love and respect and the women will appreciate and reciprocate.

Thank you to all those people that commented on the “PNG Women: When can we be safe in our own country” post and I hope that what I wrote made a small contribution to help in creating more awareness and also give hope to victims of violence.

As promised, I am sharing a story I wrote based on a true story of another woman who was a victim at the hands of the monster. This story hopefully one day will be published in a book of short stories. I thank my teacher Isabel D’ Avila Winter for editing and formatting this story. If you have any comments about the story, please let me know. Pictured below is a picture of women I worked with in Eniyawa Village, Suki, PNG where I was told this story. I met several very talented women weavers, leaders and also victims of domestic violence relationships. It was in the evenings after our weaving workshop that we would sit and discuss some of our own personal triumphs and how we got away from the “the monster”.

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My Last Walk

By Joycelin Leahy

I could feel his eyes burning into my back as I struggled uphill and over the grass stubs. The air was tight around me. It is almost four in the morning and chilly.

“Walk faster!”

This time I felt Bomoga’s heavy breathing, close and menacing. I longed for the day’s first warmth, for the softness of my three-month-old baby Boni and for the giggles of his older siblings. I felt extremely fatigued and wished I could stop walking. A sudden breeze brushed over the tall grass making a shoos sound. I shivered.

This was how Bomoga and I walked to the garden, except I walked behind him with a child on my shoulder, one in the bilum on my back, whilst pulling my eldest by the hand. Their father walked proudly in front with his spear, his small bag strung across his chest. This time I was in front, wearing my favourite red meri blouse. In haste, I had worn it inside-out. It hung loosely on me.

As I reached the top of Kasu Hill, I struggled for air.

“Hurry Up!”

I could feel myself sweat vigorously as my heart pumped wildly.

Kasu was the only hill in Domogu Village in the wallaby plains of Western Province in Papua New Guinea. The rest of the area was flat grassland hunters burnt often to entrap wild game.

As commanded, I marched a further three kilometers along the ridge and then descended gradually. I stopped feeling the mud and my sore right foot. Near Kasu Hill, NGO environmentalists were studying the tailings allegedly from Ok Tedi Mining. Along the river bank, hundreds of fish and plants had died. Usually there would be people here, but it’s too early – there is no-one.

I felt my milk starting to drip down my blouse. I hadn’t worn a bra, so my breasts were full and uncomfortable. My heart beat faster as I steered my thoughts from my baby. The sun rose and faint shadows began to form while warm air caressed my face. I was sure now: we had crossed the open country and left Domogu Village. Bomoga’s ancestors, nomads like mine, had decided to settle in this land because of its fertility.

We’re up high and it is clearer. My eyes scanned over the mountains where mining giant Ok Tedi explored. To the south, there was an airstrip; Airlines PNG flew in weekly. From the top, the village looked like an exquisite jewel, a deep jade opal, festooned with glassy lakes of various sizes.

“Move!” his voice cut through the silence.

I stumbled forward.

Soon, we entered a dark forest, the only obscure part of the land. Strangely, the birds were silent. I had never been here, but I knew sorcerers came here often for bush medicine. I looked for the outside light through the tree openings. I saw only the lingering fog, separating me further from my children.

“Keep walking,” he hissed behind me.

From the moment he’d woken me this morning, I had not looked once in Bomoga’s eyes. It was still dark and I had felt his sweaty hands touch my arm. His physical stench was almost invasive. I thought he wanted sex but he shook me roughly and ordered me up and out of the house. His shadow had loomed over me as I carefully took Boni off my breast and put my meri blouse on quickly. My baby stirred and nestled into his flannelette blanket, eyes still shut. Thank God, I thought, he didn’t wake up and cry for more milk. I hung on to the last touch of his tender little fingers. Eka and Maria were asleep. I heard Bomoga pick up something and then close the door behind us. The mood between us was chilling. He was quiet and cagey, unlike his usual loud and showy ways.

If we were not having sex, which was rough and unpleasant, we had arguments which would end with a sudden punch in my eye or stomach, sometimes causing me to blackout. I knew if I answered back or cried out, the beating would be worse.

He repeatedly told me no-one would help me because I was his wife. Not even his mother, sisters, or other villagers. I always felt like his prey, moving under his watchful eyes while I went about my daily chores.

My thoughts reached out to my children, then my mother. Our years of marriage had worked this way: while Bomoga ruled, I kept my mouth shut. My bride price had been paid and when my family left after the wedding ceremony, I knew I would never see my mother again. I ran after her. We cried and hugged for a long and last time.

The sobbing began from inside now, my eyes warmed and salted with tears.

I remembered a slight improvement in Bomoga at the birth of our first son. I’d made him a proud Melanesian man by having a first male child. Eka was my child of hope. I held this hope close to my chest along with the bible. Children can change a marriage, the village pastor had said. Sadly, Bomoga’s cousin came back from the city one day with SP beer and some other alcohol. The two had many days of stories.  I saw a change aroused in Bomoga, followed by his old ways. When I had two more children and threatened that I would leave, I saw something new in his eyes. He started beating me.

Today his manners are different again. He is like a time-bomb, ready to go off at anytime. As I walked on, I remembered how no-one had seen us leave the house. Not even Tau, the old Papuan. I wish he had already opened his trade store. He was a kind man. If he or someone else saw us leave then, one day, they could tell my children. I did not leave willingly. It was not my choice to leave them behind.

As we descended through the gloomy thick undergrowth into a flatter area, I glanced across a small opening. I could finally see sunlight touching the mid canopy. It was a pretty sprinkle of luminosity touching various leaves and the moss. I caught a glimpse of a beautiful Bird Wing butterfly on a fern, just waking up. I felt a flash of hope.

We left the dense of the forest and approached a Y junction. I could hear rapids.

“Turn down towards the River,” Bomoga commanded.

I turned towards the sound of the rapids. My mind focused on the returning pain in my foot. In each step, I felt the sharpness of the rocks greeting me as I descended over each one. The rapids became louder. Before me was the belly of a fast flowing river and it was full from the rain last night. Is he going to drown me? Perhaps this was my last walk, I wondered.

I imagined villagers rushing to screaming children. My body laid there as the women rushed to the children. My laplap had been swept away and only my treasured meri blouse, still inside out, was clinging to my slim frame. I was dragged ashore with a paddle shafted under the hem of my blouse. Here, I was left on the pale silky banks of Suki River while everyone gathered to look. Then a woman ran up and started yelling and then, in a cry of recognition, she bellowed my name: “Sulita!, Sulita! It’s Suli!.” Everyone would turn and ask; “Who is Sulita?” They had not recognised me half dressed and impaled by a black palm spear. By then my corpse had been soaked pale and bloodless by the hours in the river.

“Stop!” he yelled over the rapids.

I stumbled and halted, snapping into reality.

On the river’s edge lies soft silky mud. The ground is pale and covered with smooth boulders of all kinds. In places there were no stones and the ground looked easy to dig. I kept my face down and turned away. My staggering feet were covered in mud and grass. I needed to relieve myself. Under my extreme state of duress, blood rushed to my head, causing a war of pins and needles.

“Turn around and face me. Look at me.”

Slowly, I raised my head, looking up into the point of his most prized black palm spear. In the background everything there was to see and hear faded.

Bomoga had speared the biggest pig, the fastest wallaby and driven the largest cull of deer. Many feared him because of his mastery with the weapon itself. My eyes shifted from the spear and held my husband’s eyes. Even after ten long years we stared at each other as if we were strangers. I finally felt at peace.

Bomoga’s eyes were wild, bulging and red. His nose flared and his eyebrows twitched in the anticipation of violence. He raised and pointed with the spear.

“Where would you like to be buried?” he asked.

Life, Living, People, short stories, Stories, writing

Creative Writing

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Thank you all for your comments and encouragement for my very first post yesterday. As promised here is one of my short stories. I belong to a Creative Writing workshop group at Kenmore School in the Western Suburbs of Brisbane City, QLD Australia. We meet once a week during school term to workshop our stories under the master story-teller and author Isabel D’ Avila Winter.  Here is a story I wrote under the category short-story fiction. It was based on events of a real situation but characters and scenes have been changed. I hope that it would be published later in my short story book. Please click on the highlighted link below to download or read the story.

The Price of a Small Change – JK.Leahy short story

“Any small change?”

Dit held out his right palm as he expectantly traced the bus queue at Kelvin Grove, Brisbane. It was Thursday, almost seven. For Late Night Shopping in the suburbs, not too many people were around. The wind was cold.

Visitors to the Royal Brisbane Hospital were leaving; visiting hours ended at 8pm.

“Excuse me, any small change?”, he asked the fifth person, a pale-faced peroxide blonde woman, in her fifties. Standing nearly as tall as him in a black three inch high heel and, wrapped warmly in a red coat, her heavily made-up face took a long stare at Dit’s ripped blue poly-cotton long-sleeve shirt. Clearly, Dit’s appearance did not fit. She scoffed and looked away.

Dit pressed forward without a flinch or loss of courage.

His left shirt pocket had ripped to its base and flew about like a kite in the wind. He was barefooted. His dirty blonde strands flapped in the same direction the wind took his pocket.

“Small change?” he asked the next three people. No-one gave him a thing. No-one said anything.

I could hear him coming towards my sister and I as the crust on his trouser hem swept the floor as he walked. I started to feel around for coins in my pockets, my bag and my purse, my eyes on him. Being a pensioner, I had only spent my last $20 for that week on a bus ticket and dropped the change somewhere in my bag. I had not planned for this situation. I could identify with this man’s desperation and I wanted to help.

In a few seconds, I could see his dirty brown denims sweep into view and two very dirty feet peeked at me. His toe nails, soiled, uncut and ugly. My eyes followed the awkwardly hung trouser legs up his thin frame to his face.

“Any lose coins”, he asked, standing tall and looking down at me with steel blue eyes.  Nothing could be piercing and clearer than those eyes, set in a ruffle of stringy long hair. The bus terminal overhanging casted a shadow over his face but I could see less than half a dozen teeth and a wide smile outlined by a scanty moustache.

I held up our lose change, both my sister’s and mine and he grabbed it, touching my hand. I pulled away.

“Hi, I’m Dit” he said as he pocketed our coins.

I smiled at him. He stood there, smiled back and then asked: “Don’t I know you?”

My sister stared at him, alarmed.

“No, I don’t think so”, I said.

“Oh… I KNOW YOU’, he insisted. “You helped me before”.

I was embarrassed that I could not remember. I hoped he did not think I pretended to not know him.

“Ah, maybe I did help you in the city or the Valley”, I said.

He flashed a big toothy grin and coughed. “Oh well, I better get going”.

“Alright, you take care now” I said and watched him disappear into the dimly lit street.

At that moment, Bus 333 arrived and everyone piled into it. My sister and I took the seats at the back door.  We had the view of the front but we could get off quickly to catch Bus 444 to Moggill at the city stop.

As the bus drew out,  a man in a long black coat ran and jumped on just before the bus door slammed shut. He carried something.

Stopping briefly to check the main road traffic, the driver eased Bus 333 onto the road and headed for Brisbane City.

Every passenger was sitting with their heads pointing down engrossed on their smart phones, tablets and other electronic devices. A woman in the seat near us read the paper. At the front of the bus, my eye caught that last passenger. He leaned against the metal post near the driver and there was something about his stance and his face was familiar but he was covered and his coat had a hood.

As I watched, the passenger approached the driver; we were only five minutes away from Adelaide Street Central Bus Terminal. The man leaned over and the bus driver suddenly stepped on his brakes two stops before the city and a few metres short of the next stop.

All the passengers’ eyes came up briefly and then they returned to their phones and what they were doing before. I felt something strange was about to happen.

I kept looking at the passenger. Then he stood stand up again. I saw him drop a piece of cloth revealing a gun, which he pointed at the driver. The driver slammed the brakes and everybody swayed forward and some even screamed. We had stopped in a quiet dark street.

Some passengers started crying and many tried to get up, but the stranger cocked the gun and said in a firm voice as he walked towards us: “Everyone, please stay where you are, do not move and do not try to scream, I have a loaded gun”. His voice was familiar.

The man stopped in front of my sister and me; I was shocked.

It was the same toothless smile I had only seen earlier this evening. “You two can leave”, he said, nodding his head towards the door.

Trembling and holding on to each other, we stepped down and just as we got out, he leaned over and said: “You take care now”.

The door slammed shut and Bus 333 drove away.