The Last Elephant Keeper

Part 4

Determined to complete the pilgrimage, she followed the winding path leading down into the valley, the fading sun casting long shadows across the rugged terrain as the sand pelted whatever tears she had. The chill of the approaching night seeped into her bones, accentuated by a gusty wind that swept through the desolate landscape.

As she drew closer to the house, the extent of its decay became more apparent. Its walls, constructed from rotting wood and rusted metal, looked as if they could collapse with a gust of wind. The windmill stood silently, a testament to bygone times when it had provided life-giving water. However, the house now lacked the comforts of modern life, devoid of electricity and heating. This was it.

She let out a chuckle, looking at the home that her mother had finally built for herself. It was a mess of wood and metal, but it had a certain charm to it. She could see the love and care that her mother had put into every nail and board. It was ugly, but it was evident it was something only her mother could build.

It was a stark and simple home, just like her mother's bedroom had been, back home. Her mother had preferred to live with the bare minimum, without any luxuries or comforts. She had slept on a bed of wooden pallets, worked on an ancient desk full of papers, and gazed at the stars through the windowless walls. She had lived a frugal and solitary life, devoted to her work and her dreams. The landscape, and the home described her mother's philosophy so clearly, and she understood at that moment her mother had likely been content in staying in place such as this.

With a hesitant push, Khumo swung the door open and took her first step inside. The home mirrored the bleakness of the desolate landscape beyond its walls, making her heart sink with sorrow. Faded curtains divided the space into two sections, shrouding the rooms in a melancholic gloom.

In the sitting room, the atmosphere felt unfamiliar, tainted by the presence of new furniture that clashed with the memories of her mother's humble abode. Khumo couldn't help but wonder why her mother had bothered to spend money on these unnecessary items, things she neither needed nor liked. However, her thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected sight – her mother's worn crocs placed beside a pair of delicate sandals. The contrast between the two pairs of shoes caught her off guard, and she couldn't help but contemplate the different facets of her mother's life.

Her gaze shifted towards the couch, and a blunted odor of decay wafted from its worn surface. She averted her eyes, unable to stomach the sight of it any longer. Seeking solace, she ventured towards the other section of the house, the space behind the eloquent print curtains.

As she crossed the threshold, a wave of disorientation swept over Khumo, as if the vertigo had engulfed her senses. The kitchen came into view, adorned in a style so unlike her mother's preferences. The heavily decorated teal kitchen seemed misplaced, boasting tiles and intricate details that stood in stark contrast to her mother's penchant for simplicity. "She wouldn't even dare to have tile," Khumo muttered to herself, bewildered by this unexpected revelation.

Daylight was breaking as the wind brought in piles of sands through the slits of the windows and doors. Taking some medication designed to assist with the high penetration of ultraviolet (UV) radiation, she left the kitchen, leaving her suitcase in the living room, and went to open the last room, portioned by a curtain.

She entered her mother's bedroom, the place that reflected her mother's personality the most. On one side of the window, papers were strewn about, evidence of her mother's passion and dedication.

On the other side, a small bed and a night light showed her mother's modesty and comfort. She often fell asleep with her head on the papers, a bad habit that could have caused her back problems later in life...But that didn't matter anymore.

Overwhelmed by a wave of sadness, Khumo found herself seated on her mother's bed, seeking a moment of solace. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, Khumo realized she needed to arrange a makeshift bed for the night. Nearby, a pile of logs rested beside the fireplace, remnants of her mother's past activities before fate took an unkind turn.

With a sense of nostalgia, Khumo ignited the fire once more, hoping its warmth would dispel the cold emptiness that surrounded her. As the flickering flames danced, she couldn't help but glance at the stand next to the fireplace, where three photographs seized her attention.

The first photo captured her as a young girl, trombone in hand, participating in a recital. A bittersweet memory resurfaced, recalling how she had faltered on the notes, her eyes turned down with a burning embarrassment.

The second photo revealed her parents on their wedding day, their smiles beaming with happiness, and their hands intertwined. Khumo wondered what thoughts her mother had associated with this photograph, one that had been tucked away for so long, along with whatever memories she had about a man she could never know.

Among the scattered photographs on her mother's dusty shelf, Khumo's eyes fixated on the last one. It portrayed her mother with two unfamiliar men, both wearing warm smiles. The sight of her mother looking so happy and relaxed stirred a mix of emotions within Khumo, who had rarely seen that side of her.

Her fingers gently picked up the photograph, and she scrutinized every detail, hoping to glean any clue about the two men. On the back, an enigmatic inscription read, "Me, John, and friend." John? The name rang no bells, leaving her with more questions than answers. Who was this man, and why had her mother never mentioned him or the other friend?