Clumsy Mory

    

                                   By Mory Keita

              I guess I was born clumsy – unorthodox isn’t it. Since my early childhood, I was often criticized for my odd behavior and my “care-free” personality. Though I dislike writing this genre of mini-autobiographical story, I must admit that as I write this brief story, I feel nostalgia; I realize how fast I have grown and how different I have become.

            Surrounded by family, friends and the enchanting majesty of nature, I grew curious like Ulysses, and began questioning the purpose of life itself. Though I have always been overly fascinated by the functioning of things around me, particularly machines, like king Midas’ golden touch, I have also been “blessed” with the ability to cause damage to any object I touch in my investigations and pursuit of understanding. I remember opening my dad’s watch because I was fascinated by its moving hands. Though I successfully completed my goal of putting the watch’s pieces apart, I unintentionally destroyed it.  That is one reason I was mockingly referred to as “clumsy Mory” by my sister and friends. Apart from this instance, there have been numerous other instances, which I do not wish to mention here, where my childish curiosity, or should I say naivety, has gotten me into trouble.

          When I look now at myself and think of how ridiculous my childhood nickname was, I wonder if I was the only adolescent who hated his nickname. Why couldn’t it have been “Mory, the cool guy”, or something nice to hear, or at least good sounding?

            Now that I have attained a certain level of “maturity”, it amuses me to hear my family sarcastically referring to me as “clumsy”. I wonder if it a trait that I still hold. My lost of childhood imagination and curiosity pain me, I now know that the little prince was right, grow-ups are “mushrooms”; all they ever think of are authority , riches and vain praises. But, Alas, I failed to follow its advices and have become a mushroom too; for, “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

            To conclude this short story, I have always wondered whether my so-called clumsiness was a gift or an object of mockery. Recently, I have realized that, although being clumsy isn’t perceived positively, it is more virtuous that many other characteristic and it is what made me who I am now. As I grow up, I still wonder if I shall ever once again regain that clumsiness that I have lost.

Clumsy Mory