Short story: THE NIGHT INCIDENT

By Joe Veramo

TT was about seven o’clock when I A came out of the cinema. The film had been a good one, the acting brilliant, the suspense breath-taking and the story beautifully narrated.

For no special reason I had de cided to walk rather than to catch the bus. My home was about a half hour’s walk away.

It was a cold and windy night.

The cold air bit into my face making my mouth and neck very cold. As I strode along I was somewhat sur prised and disgusted to find the main road dimly lit, and for a good dis tance there were no street lights. With mild curiosity I eyed the places, wondering if there were any crooks lurking in the darkness.

There was no one on the road, except for a lone Indian a few hundred yards ahead of me, rather thin and in his middle fifties, so I thought. On his back he carried a heavy sack which kept dancing from side to side as he plodded on. I could see that the weight of his sack made him stagger slightly.

In the distance I could see the shadow of a Fijian man silhouetted against a street light. He had a long unshaven and villainous looking face.

The Fijian was wearing a torn shirt and very tight pants. As the Indian man drew nearer he approached him rather curiously and the latter sensing what was coming, asked, “Can I help you?”

“What’s in the sack old man,” the

Fijian inquired,

“It’s food for my family,” the

Indian replied,

“Any money?”

“I have only 50 cents, my friend,” the Indian man answered slowly, For a while the Fijian eyed the old man calmly and then he smiled, a soft naked smile.

“Give me the food and money,” he ordered.

“Please take the money, not the food,” the old man said. “I have four children and a wife to feed to morrow.”

“What do I care. Give it to me.”

The Indian man was almost in tears now. He was only a labourer

earning a miserable wage. His chil dren were starving and suffering from malnutrition. To have their food stolen was the last straw.

“Please. I beg you. Have mercy on me, an old man.”

The Fijian began to laugh mirth lessly. There was no compassion in his eyes. He was like a carnivorous creature staring down on his prey.

Slowly the villain pulled out an ugly looking knife which was carved at the end.

For a moment the Indian man stared at his sack of food and then at the man. He knew he had to think of a plan.

By that time I was about 10 yards away. As the Fijian raised his knife I tried to distract his attention by yelling abusive words. The plan worked. Knife in hand he left his prey and approached me instead.

With gritted teeth and vulture-like eyes he stalked me.

As he came nearer I suddenly

lunged at his knife. My surprise

attack caught him off balance and we both fell down struggling against

each other. His breath which smelt of stale yaqona and home-brew just about suffocated me.

Soon he was on top of me and for one fleeting moment I thought it was going to be the end of me.

Just as he was about to plunge the knife into me I heard a loud thump and a crackling sound. The next moment my assailant dropped his knife, and rolled weakly away.

As I looked up, I saw the old Indian man, stick in hand standing above me Slowly I got up and thanked him.

“My name is Ram Singh,” he said.

“Mine’s David,” I said relieving him of his heavy sack. “Are you going this way?”

When we reached an old track off the main road, Ram Singh stopped.

“1 leave you here,” he said. “TTiank you for helping me.”

“It was nothing,” I said.

“May God bless you,” he said. “I will never forget you.”

Slowly he walked away into the night. Before he entered his dimly lit shack he turned and waved to me.