Capsicum minimum is short and rather overweight with spiky pointed hands and bright red speared dreadlocks. When I find him he’s sitting stiffly on a tree trunk looking as though any movement would cause him great pain. He’s staring right at me as I walk closer and although he smiles I can see he is quite sad.
“What’s the matter?” I ask as I shake his outstretched hand. As soon as I touch it I can tell something is wrong. It is icy cold and red, his fingertips are dark purple and his knuckles are swollen.
“Sir your hands…are they ok?” I ask distressed.
“Oh they’re the least of my trouble girly” he responds with a sigh. He shifts a little to make room for me beside him and as he does so I can see that his knees are also swollen.
“It’s just old age”, he tells me when he sees I am staring “…I know I need to lose some weight too but it’s just so hard to do”.
“Why is it hard?” I ask.
“When I eat…” he responds, “…I feel as though my stomach is made from lead. It’s like a concrete mixer run outta power, still and stagnant, yet so full”. He is in obvious discomfort. We lapse into silence.
He sits still for a while and stares out into the garden, sorrow flashing through his eyes. Occasionally he puts his hand to his heart and winces in pain.
“I swear my ticker’s on its last legs too. Such a weak little thing, it’ll be any day now that it stops”.
“I’m sorry” I say hopelessly and get to my feet. It is so easy for me to walk yet so difficult for him. He’s given up it seems for he does not even notice as I walk away.
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