There are individuals among us who do not get nearly enough credit for the advancement of our species. I’m talking about daydreamers.
As far back as 400BC, a Chinese peasant may have once lain on their back, watching a dragonfly hover above a rice paddy in the Yangtze River valley, lost in daydreams. A thought probably led to a thought that led to a thought that led to a fantasy about human flight, which led to the invention of the bamboo-copter or Chinese top.
Fast forward about 1,900 years, and an Italian artist and polymath called Leonardo da Vinci drew what we now refer to as the “aerial screw”, a design that inspired the invention of the modern helicopter. This all to say that the next time you see a Rooivalk helicopter, give credit to a Chinese peasant, and an Italian.
These thoughts about daydreamers were prompted by a sobering conversation I had with the missus, after I complained about one of our offspring, whose head has been firmly in the clouds since birth. I had sent him on what I thought was a simple errand, which — due to his general absent-minded disposition — he had conspired to botch up entirely. I was halfway through my bitching session when she halted me with a raised palm, reminiscent of an irascible Austrian corporal, and hissed: “Nein! Enough! Who do you suppose the young man takes after?”
A normal, sane human being would have been righteously indignant and gone home. But all I could think of was that fateful Sunday morning in Standard 5, walking past the Mpumalanga Stadium in full school uniform to face humiliating ridicule
My righteous indignation immediately gave way to a sense of sheepish shame. She has a point. From a young age, my head had never been too close to the ground, choosing to stay at aviation height in the stratosphere. While I am satisfied that my childhood memories are filled with adventure, great conversations and rich anecdotes, I spent a sizeable chunk of that time inside my own head, or buried in the volumes of the Britannica Children’s Encyclopedia, which my mother bought to augment our Bantu education.
As a result, a simple errand such as walking to the shops to purchase a large can of Lucky Star pilchards, a packet of candles and a litre of Creme Soda often took me two trips. Instead of reminding myself what to buy, I’d spend the walk imagining myself to be one of Achilles’s lieutenants, stabbing Paris through the heart just before he dispatches the arrow aimed at Achilles’s heel.
It was so bad that one day I got up at 5am, took a bath, prepared my Marmite and Redro fishpaste sarmies, and arrived at school at 6.20am as I did every week day of that school year. Classes started at 6.30am, you see. Except that on this particular day in June, the school gates were locked. It was a Sunday morning. I will spare you the details of my 40-minute walk back home with a huge school bag, dressed in full school uniform as my schoolmates were spilling out of their homes to make it to Sunday school and catechism classes.
Some of my best friendships are based on the recognition of this malady that the world calls daydreaming. One such friend and a member of my “head in the clouds” tribe texted me in 2021 to have lunch with her at OR Tambo on her way to a well-deserved break in Brazil. After lunch, en route home, my phone rings. She’s giggling hysterically. “Listen, can you come back to the airport? I need company to get sloshed with before I get on the Gautrain, back home to Pretoria. It seems that I arrived about 24 hours too early for my flight.” A normal, sane human being would have been righteously indignant and gone home. But all I could think of was that fateful Sunday morning in Standard 5, walking past the Mpumalanga Stadium in full school uniform to face humiliating ridicule.
Members of my tribe need, in simple English, for people to get off our back. And a little understanding. Remember that without that daydreaming Chinese peasant, we wouldn’t have helicopters.
Be gentle with us.
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