The Eye

The Eye

By Kimathi Mutegi J.



It’s the middle of a January afternoon.  The sun is burning the earth with such intensity that hell would be a welcome place to shelter.  A bird chirps once, a lazy non committal chirp.  She opens her beak for another go, but abandons the effort half way.  The heat has simply scorched the fun out of the exercise.

A few meters away, a squirrel slouches on a tree branch.  Her lithe form spreads along a branch, eyes closed head rested on a front paw.  She would pass for dead, but for the slight twitch of the bushy tail. 

A twig breaks under my foot.  She opens one eye and looks around lazily.  The eye locks on me and stares intently.  I stare right back, spoiling for the challenge.

There is something in that eye that makes me uneasy.  I cannot read sadness in the eye.  Resignation, yes, but sadness, not a hint.  I stare at the unblinking blackness of the eye and try to figure it out.

Is it hatred I read?  Loathing perhaps?  Or is it accusation?  That must be it.  The eye must be blaming me as a human for ruining its environment.  Then a realization chills me to the bone.  It was not the accusation or hatred or loathing that bothered me so much.  It was the lack of it.

This realization fills me with fear, guilt and anger.  It scares me that the eye was actually right.  It worries me that the eye knows so much, frightens me that I do not know how much more it knows.

Then an overwhelming sense of guilt assaults my conscience.  I want to look away, give up the challenge, but realize that I would loose not just the contest.  I want to know all that the eye knew.  I want to read everything I can from the misty depths of that eye.

“What issues do you talk about”, I wonder to the eye, “when seated over your nut table?”  “We, the complex species talk about many issues.  Dad talks about stocks, the stock market and some more stocks.  In between the stocks, he will sometimes speak about the conference of our great leaders on how to stop global warming.  He will talk emotionally about how the world’s big economies are ruining everyone’s environment with their smoky industries and big cars and murderous weapons. He will also complain about the high cost of fuel and how it’s eating into the profit of his fleet of taxis. ” The eye just stares at me and I go on.

“Ma loves people.  So she will talk about her friends, what a nice house one of them moved into, how good the schools that their kids go to.  She will talk mostly about her friends, how good or bad they are.” Still, no reaction from my audience but am content to have the attention so I continue.

“Me, I love listening.  That is one reason I squat in this heat and listen to your loud silence,” the eye stares unblinkingly back at me.

“Tell me, dear eye,” I continue my silent questioning, “when you look around you in the mornings, do you read sadness in the eyes surrounding you?  Do you, pray tell me, see despair and hopelessness whenever you look around?”

“We, the complex species have messed up the ecosystem for everyone.  In our greedy and selfish blindness, we have interpreted ‘Giving back to the environment’ to mean carbon emissions, nuclear wastes and chemical laden waters.

“Why mind about expanding the desert by a few more miles as long as the logs furnish some building with exquisite furniture and make you a few shillings in the process.  “What’s the hullabaloo about melting glaciers and swelling oceans?  Glaciers are made of frozen water and they are bound to thaw one time or the other.  Does it matter to you if I chop down a few or even all of your nut trees to put up some buildings?  You are not as important as my species so why the heck would you complain?”

A fly buzzes over my sweaty forehead.  I do not look away from the eye.  And the eye looks right back.  Then just like that, I feel an irritation begin to well up inside of me.  I feel annoyed with the eye for just being there and staring at me with that knowing look.  I feel angry that it does not accuse me of anything, but just stare.  I want it to scream and rile, shout at me, scold me, make me pay and maybe that would make me feel better, but it wouldn’t. 

The wrath in me grows and grows.  The eye should have at least blinked, given up the contest when it was still ahead.  But it just stares.  So I pick up a stone.  A rough, jagged rock.  The eye still watches me.  My arms twitch with ire and anticipation. 

I swing my arm, and release the rock.  It flies through the air, an ugly missile of death.  The eye sees my move, and does nothing.  It only registers a mild surprise, as if it expected my exact move.   

The rock hits the skull with a cracking thud.  The furry body hits the dry ground with a soft thud. 

Then I am filled with a great apprehension.  What have I done?  It fills me with dread when the enormity of my action fully registers.

I hold the eye responsible.  It saw me pick up the rock, it saw me swing my arm, it should have warned the body to move away.  The eye had failed.  Now it has paid the ultimate price for its letdown. 

I walk over to the dying body.  I look into the eye.  Even in the throes of death, it bears no accusation for me.  It just stares at me, from its misty depths.  I turn and walked away, with mist in my eye.



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