There is an old adage that says: «There is no atheist in the foxholes» and I bet it is true. Because, you know, in a single moment of our life we choose a certain path, believing it is the right one, since some rewards come to you, but we are deadly wrong. The amount of troubles can overcome you and even if your soul is strong the pain can be so unbearable that your mind don’t understand. And then you get insane. That’s why I say that those who lived before you are your memory and dictate who you will become, no matter what you do to yourself.

When that happened to Sergio in the last days of April, he drank half a bottle of Thai Seng to dissipate the negative energies swirling around him. What shameless he become… In vinu veritas. But the worst of it, when you get drunk, it is not the reason that triggered your new state of mind. It is everything else apparently unrelated, but in fact, it is the big broken chain of your life. So, in front of anyone else you perform a new role in the stage of your little life. So, he walk sinuously, talking with a rotten voice and laughing, laughing, laughing of himself, laughing of God Who created a so despicable and grotesque being like himself, while all the others, unexpected and unwilling spectators of the dramatic scene, stare at him, some with a funny smile, others not really.

Then all your problems appear at a new light. Eventually you discover, like him, that we all have a Christ living inside of us, the meaning of the tragedy of Man. This was painful. Then he began to cry like a lost kid:

– Father, pardon me, father, pardon me, father, pardon me… – in an unbroken sequence of words.

When you do this alone immersed in a dark valley surrounded by hills with some dispersed houses, probably a dog will start barking, ferocious. But with a supplicant, distressed voice, even nature can vibrate in unison with you:

– Father, pardon me… – The ferocious dog of the nearby house opt for a more gentle mode – Uau, uau… – Animals have an unexpected sensitive mood to the human suffering.

His voice reverberates along the dark valley and he then noticed that his vision was capturing the light in strange beams of white color. He saw the leaves well delineated against the glamorous moonlight but still his pain was unbearable. He was completely oblivious of the reason why he began drinking that night. He was now feeling the intense pain of his soul. Oh, he had failed so often with his father when he was alone, when everybody was against him and he suffered like Christ misunderstood. He was still a kid and unable to understand fully his father pain. He then remembered that day. It was a Sunday, bright day in the glorious colonial times, a normal day of winter in East Africa. Everybody in that family was laughing, happy, eating and drinking. But his father was not allowed to join the happy familiar group. His mother and grandmother gave to his progenitor a loaf of bread and a dish with food and then he met his father there, in that dark service stairs, eating alone. «Where do you go, my son?», he asked in a tender voice despite being hidden from the others, despite to be ashamed of himself. What a pathetic situation! Why his father submitted to such gross disrespect? Why? One day we understand everything. And, much later, he understood the reason. He was certain that if he’d left his wife, he’d lose the affection of his son forever, even the right to see him, to walk with him in that peaceful, calm, Sunday mornings along the shores of Catembe, on the south bank of Maputo, visiting the wooden houses of the Chinese fishermen that inhabited that strip of land since many years, embraced by the Bay breeze. Because everybody took him as a foul and maybe he was to a given extent. But he was also a handsome man, he knew it when one day the lady living in front asked him, him!, just a little boy: «Would you like if I become your new mother?», she asked with a naughty look while sewing a woman dress with an idiotic red color. He found it awkward and instead to reply, no matter what, he looked attentively to her and run away, horrified by the adults sudden turns of humor. His father was a hard worker, too, having a special preference for cars and all the mechanics. Frequently, when his father arrived from work, he spent a long time inspecting all the corners of his new car, cleaning patiently the engine, polishing the round surfaces. In those remote times, he thought that it was a sign of his father’s madness, so it was told to him, but now he knew that it was a means to stay healthy, to have his moments of peace of mind, the proof that he could control some corners of his dark life among that weird family, still a young guy and faraway from the riverbanks of Tagus river.

– Father, father, pardon me… – He was still weeping.

Full of tears and pain, he fell down to the soft lawn and almost fell asleep when his wife approached him.

– Please, let me alone. Thank you for your concern but I need to be alone now. Please…

However, in that isolated valley, he began to understand the meaning of some dark corners of Life, feeling deep inside the carving of an invisible chisel empowering his soul with another blend. Some people call catharsis to this process although he was the actor, not the spectator; others, call the action of God; others, call it «C’ est la vie! C’ est la pomme de terre». Whatever it is, I call it the tragedy of Man.

In that moment Sergio realized that when his father died, a new period of his life began. Because, in those moments we understand we all have a Christ living inside of us.

– Pardon me, Father…

PS – One day I will start writing in magyar nyelv. The advantage is, nobody knows who started using this language of Earth and it suits well to me. Because, you know, I am a pariah in my own land. That will become advantageous when my body will turn in dust, returning to Mother Earth, forgot by all. Forgot by God? Pardon me, Father…

Christ cross by artsjedi.

Christ cross by artsjedi.

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