Captured

Tools. I’m not someone who puts up store fixtures like shelves and display stands, so I don’t wear a tool belt. I’m not a registered nurse so I don’t have stethoscopes dangling around my neck.

My tools are words, very temperamental things. What is frustrating is that they are not clear-cut like the sun and moon. They play games, like meandering lovers. They are like toddlers, crawling at incredible speed with not-yet-formed legs, laughing at mum, who is in hot pursuit. Take the word capture for example. I cannot be captured. I’m a human being, not a bird.

1. The championship captured their attention.

2. She captured my heart.

3. The U.K. Labour Party won the election because they captured the immigration vote.

There seems to be some permanence to it. The word capture has connotations of incarceration, like Steve Bannon who was finally captured and thrown in jail for ignoring the House January 6 Committee subpoena. He thought the U.S. Supreme Court was in his corner. He didn’t get the memo that it is a one-client institution. Sorry, Donald Trump only.

Capture implies that I have been elusive, like Steve Bannon. I have been evading something or someone. Old black and white movies have outlaws that are WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. What would they do with a dead outlaw, engrave his head on a coin? Captured. Against my will, kind of captured. It spells doom, loss of independence, maybe even independence of thought.

That sounds ominous. I might even lose my common sense! No thank you. I’ll pass. I don’t want to be captured by man or beast, especially political beasts.

Nonqaba waka Msimang

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