It’s a Monday morning, the onset of a dreary and a long week ahead, which threatens a retribution for the joyous weekend well spent. Monday’s are often, a humdrum start.
I watch the street lights being put-off, one by one, below which, the Municipality workers are performing their morning chores, cleaning the road and collecting scraps in their jiffy bag.
With the stage set, the city slowly unwinds to motion. The large populace are obviously, of the working class community. Office goers, taxi drivers, laborers, vendors and the likes of many, scamper the dusty city bowl.
There is a lonely old bridge in my locality, which climbs over a busy intersection below, where cars and other vehicles honk and roar, reminding the morning rush hour.
This bridge splits into a three-way above; one, which leads to the beach, the other curves back and surprisingly connects to our neighboring location; a path that cannot be taken, if trodden below and underneath the bridge. The third road is my road. A straight road, and on which I usually tread, for most of my daily activities. This road is so precise that I do not need the Google Map, to locate where it originates or ends.
I walk this bridge every day, for my morning walk; I often see familiar faces, not in a definite order. Heaven only knows, how I’am related to them, but, I have developed a certain familiarity with them.
I look like Tom Chaplin, the lead singer of the British band, Keane. Well almost, but, I’am not an artist. I’am, but, a middle aged banker, with greying hairs painted above my ears. I often take this old bridge to commute to my office. Hello! I see this young man often. Sometimes, I notice him, sometimes I do not. But he seems to always notice my presence. I’am not disturbed by that, rather, his presence brings a calming effect on me; maybe for a moment, whilst I think of the busy day ahead of me – Is this Tom look-alike some kind of an insurance agent, or a banker? I ponder. He is too good, handsome maybe, for that kind of a job. He ought to have been a model during his younger days. Does he even take notice of my presence, I think.
I’am Reginald Okunji, a retired Nigerian expat, now spending the wee hours of my life in peace and harmony. I’d been a widower for ten years, and now stay with my only son. I walk the bridge every morning. Just for a morning breather and a friendly face approach me always – For a change, this old gentleman, breathes fresh air through his nose. Otherwise, I see him sniffing his cigar taken from his huge grey coat pocket, before lighting it. He does not notice me and walks away non-chalantly.
I’am Dan, a fitness freak. I’am regular to the local gym, just opposite this old bridge. Being hip in shape, is my motto. I often see this young man in track pants walking on this bridge staring at me. Maybe this young man should join the gym. It would only help him, you know? If only I get a chance to speak to him, I might persuade him to join the gym, but, I’am a shy guy – This gym guy is too keen on his biceps, and his bulking forearms looks like the leg of chicken. Like the others, he too does not bother. Such a shame!
I wait for a moment, turn back and watch them disappear from my sight, hoping that they might turn back. But, it never happens and I only see their backs instead. I smile and expect to catch their glimpse again, tomorrow.
Sometimes there is an upheaval. I don’t see them, and Gosh! my mind absent-mindedly search the maximum possible distance, hoping to find them, but, in vain. Will I not see them again, is my instant thought. Again, there is a sense of relief, when I see them. Yet, I do not know who they are. Just a familiar face!
Like the first rays of the morning sunlight never fails to fall on the bridge, these people are never really absent from my daily checklist.
For this old bridge is my world, connecting me with these different people, and a common earth place, yet, we do not know one another. Still there lies a common thread that binds us together, that is my Known Stranger.
The Log 