The Potter

“I don’t really want to go anywhere. Plus, my garden needs attention and that landscaper made a mess of my tulips”, Menzi explained himself to his persistent colleague.

“You’ve been in this house for over three weeks Menz. C’mon man. I already miss you back at the office and everyone keeps asking me how you are. Apparently, they can’t reach you on your phone during the day and obviously night calls would be a violation in too many ways. Just one beer to catch up and then I’ll drive you back here?” Max prompted him.

The truth was that, since the accident, Menzi wasn’t sure who he was anymore. Losing feeling in his hands and then regaining it ever so slowly was a burning reminder that he’d lost what he’d loved to do and who he was because of it.

The Pottery Academy hadn’t won all those awards in the past decade without his brilliant finishes to the pieces he created. They’d sold a set of 6 cups and plates for half a million South African Rands to one buyer from Australia who wanted an ‘African touch’ to add to his arts and crafts museum, just last year. That triumph was soon followed by Menzi’s promotions to Creative Director of the Academy and Chairman of the Children’s Handcraft Centre, all in the Kingdom of Eswatini. His jubilation and self-confidence were constant, following that achievement, until a truck driver who hadn’t slept on a bed for over three days passed out on the wheel and drove right into Menzi’s car. The head-on collision caught Menzi with his hands rolled against his stirring wheel and nearly crushed his fingers completely. Fortunately, there were no other wounds as critical as his hands so when they got to the hospital, the doctors and surgeon on call immediately determined that Menzi head to surgery so the nerves in his hands wouldn’t die and complicate recovery further.

Menzi was grateful to the surgeon but absolutely devastated when he saw the stitches and band-aids that covered his hands. All he could think about was what his resignation letter would look like and the short-lived legacy that now would be prematurely handed to someone new – and probably undeserving.

On his last day in the hospital, he couldn’t wait to get out of the pale blue hospital gown and out of the hands of the nurses who were responsible for keeping the flies away during Menzi’s recovery. If there was anything Menzi couldn’t stand, it was being pitied and helped when he was so accustomed to working things out on his own. This was the prelude and introduction of his entire life; brought into the world by parents who had no interest in raising a child and so leaving him to be tossed from one extended family member to the next until he was grown enough to take care of himself.

His art was what kept him from falling into the typical patterns of drug abuse and crime. He’d made it through high school and tertiary level by mastering his craft as a sculpture and pottery wizard. Clay also kept his emotions in check, suppressed his pain and kept him focused on what made up for all the loneliness and absence of family. So, now, where would he hide? And how would he go on with his hands barely able to hold still a teaspoon?

Menzi lost his chain of thought when Max touched his shoulder.

“Hey man. Where’d you go?” Max inquired compassionately.

“Listen, let’s raincheck that beer. I’m just not up for it today, I don’t want to waste the offer, yeah?”

Menzi attempted to raise his hand to return the compassionate gesture to his friend and quickly revoked the act. Max pretended not to notice and let his friend off the hook.

“Alright man. I’ll hold you to that”, he paused and looked at his shoes intentionally.

‘Well, I’ll see you Max. Say hi to Luve for me. Tell her I’ll swing by for her famous strawberry tarts soon”, Menzi remarked while he looked away from Max.

Max tapped his friend’s shoulder as acknowledgement to that and walked away to leave the man’s house.

After a few more attempts to get Menzi outdoors, Max ran out of motivation and decided to back off. But he was aware of his friend’s background, and understood, to an extent, why the potter was being so distant. So, he did what not many good friends would do, and called the hospital to discuss solutions to the issue with Menzi’s physio-therapist.

Max wasn’t devout, but the thought to ask Menzi’s Christian therapist to intervene or at least attempt to help Menzi crossed his mind more times in a day than he wanted to admit. He finally decided to act on it and contact the therapist, unbeknown to Menzi of course.

The therapist, Mr. Mun, was happy to oblige and took on a subtle approach to the matter, having noticed himself that Menzi was not exactly going to open himself up to any inquiry willingly. A few weeks after his chat with Max, Mun was about to start giving Menzi his daily exercise routines when he suggested something to Menzi surreptitiously.

“You know, when I lost my wife five years ago, I didn’t want anything to do with anyone for a whole year. It cost me more than I’d like to say right now but the one loss that stung the most was my relationship with God. I didn’t talk to Him that whole year, and only noticed after I did something very nasty to another customer at Spar. She wept after my tantrum and that’s when conviction hit me. I caught it for the very first time in twelve months. I knew right then and there that I had to go back to Him before I went back to anything or anyone else that I’d abandoned. I still feel horrible about the incident but I’m also extremely grateful for it because it nudged me back to my core, you know? Went back home that night and wept. Started asking God questions. Apologizing and asking even more questions. Shouting and then apologizing again. I guess that story of Him and Jacob going at it made my experience that night less embarrassing.”

Mun looked straight into Menzi’s eyes, and didn’t flinch when the man returned the stare.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’m sorry about your wife though. That must’ve been rough for you and her family”, Menzi just managed to sound sympathetic. Emotional conversations were taboo and awkward for him since the accident. It’s almost as if the accident had taken more than his pottery.

“Thanks. We made it through. That’s what matters. I know I don’t know you outside of this context, but maybe you can give it a try. I saw some hope in your eyes for a split second when I mentioned that I got back on track. So, from man to man, survivor to survivor, I’m encouraging you to do something you’ve not done… possibly ever”, Mun continued boldly.

“Just start talking to God. Don’t go there with a script. Just your curiosity and pain. I promise you He can handle the rest. He specializes in mending.”

Menzi stopped moving his hands and threw Mun a deadly stare, like the man had dared to strike a nerve that no one had attempted before.

“You think a God I don’t know, who never cared for me anyway, will listen to me whine about my broken hands and help me?!” Menzi chuckled at himself as he shouted the words.

Mr. Mun paused, as if pondering the question and mentally searching for the right response.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I think. Do one last rep of that stretch and we’re done for today.”

Menzi was enraged and slightly impressed by the man’s confidence. He didn’t know whether to tell this therapist where to get off or simply thank him for the ridiculous suggestion. He completed the rep and handed Mr. Mun the 1kg weight he’d been using.

Silence.

Mr. Mun walked over to place the weight where the rest were, in the small gym room and turned back to Menzi’s side.

“How does the hand feel right now? Tight?” he asked his patient.

“Not tight. Tired maybe. I think my fingers are developing six packs”, Menzi teased. He was trying to read Mun’s mind.

“Okay, tired is good. It means your fingers are reconnecting to the rest of your arm, but slowly. We’ll switch up the stretches so we don’t strain the fingers or tear anything”, Mun was speaking with authority.

Menzi nodded and decided to speak his heart in that moment.

“And what should I do to you if I talk to God and he doesn’t answer me? Or is this a sick prank because you know I can’t punch you with these yet?”

Mr. Mun had to cover his mouth and suppress the reaction to Menzi’s question.

“I don’t think you should worry about that. God usually has His own version of punishment for a liar. And the only way I’d be lying is if He suddenly goes against His own words. He says He never leaves us. I bet you He’s just waiting to hear you address Him. I’ve got to run, I think your driver is already waiting outside for you. I have a client out of town who needs my help after going gorilla at her son’s birthday party. The woman’s only been in recovery three weeks and she’s jumping hoops. I’ll see you next week. Remember, don’t try to one-up Him with a script. Maybe start with a ‘hello God!”

Mun was gone while his last words echoed in the hall of the building.

Menzi shook his head, grabbed his towel and walked out to find his driver waiting just outside the reception area. The young man assigned to drive him home was not a talker, which was a gift to Menzi who had no interest in conversation. The drive was short and he thanked the stranger before stepping out of the black BMW X5. Nice car, he thought.

He walked into his apartment and grabbed the keys to the deserted pottery room that he used to call home. Immediately after walking in, he took in the feint smell of paint and old wood. Then that of fresh wood and dried up clay. The room was neat, considering the job it was for and he could see all of his past projects aligned against the wall on the other end of the room. He started to sob and dropped to his knees, almost landing on his hands. He lifted his head and as his tears ran down the corners of his eyes to his hairline, he took on Mr. Mun’s suggestion and began a conversation that would do more for him than what the therapist said it would.

“Hello, God.”