Post hoc, ergo propter hoc The storm already announced a few hours. He was not concerned whether it would be intense at the end of December, full rainy season, when it comes down is always with the greatest intensity. As usual, people had prudently withdrawn in time, this time thanking God that I could more or less complete the day's work, now that it was almost sunset.
The small town of Tembisa is located almost exactly halfway between Johannesburg and Pretoria. The expansion of the two major cities besieged him like a vice, but has not yet closed its close. So Tembisa remains there, half, as if to mark in advance the exact point where the two cities are meeting to merge, one day not far away now, into one. In fact, this position is not random: he grew up around a small railway station, placed there just to serve the industrial area in the past, especially mining, which occupies the space between the economic and political capital of the country.
Indifferent to their fate the small town continues his placid life, centered on the large square outside the station, in the shadow of the porch and piles of sheet metal and, more importantly, under the great tree which covers with its merula branches almost any size available, garantendo ombra durante la giornata, sebbene non molta protezione in caso di pioggia. Qui si svolge la vita commerciale, sicuramente la parte più vivace e colorita, del piccolo centro abitato.
All’arrivo del temporale il barbiere, che per antico diritto rispettato da tutti occupa lo spazio più vicino alla base del merula, era già andato via da tempo: il suo lavoro richiede la piena luce del giorno e per questo è sempre tra i primi a ritirarsi verso fine pomeriggio. Anche gli altri, però, visto l’addensarsi delle nuvole, avevano anticipato la chiusura. Quelli sotto il porticato, che in pieno giorno non si sarebbero fatti condizionare dalla pioggia, al pensiero della strada che li aspettava, si erano affrettati.
From the window of his room, Tebogo, nine years, the scene looked bored. For some time my mother had taught him not to fear the violence of the summer rains. "See, Tebzi," she told him, "we have the good fortune to live in a house of bricks, because the father works on the railway. A shower is so dangerous for a sheet metal and cardboard shack, as those who are over the tracks, but our house is the only tickled. " After that explanation
Tebogo was always happy with the time, not so much for being a lucky child - this was a concept that does not grab at all - because the thought of how his home was fun when the rain tickled.
Dad instead taught him not to be afraid of lightning. Showed him how to branch out into the sky, explaining that the drive train, when they raise the pantograph to engage the power line, sometimes produce a lightning bolt. They counted all the seconds before the lightning to the thunder, because many are the second, so far has fallen the sight: a mile every three seconds, because the noise travels much faster than a train, he said. This, too, had occupied the imagination of many times Tebogo: imagine the thunder that came ashore at the turn of the flash and then threw very fast - more than ten times a train! - To come to a sound from him.
These notions were acquired by time and rarely, now, come back to count the seconds after a lightning strike. Now Tebogo was just idly looking out the window, with no thought and no imagination in particular. Toying with a sprig gathered that afternoon, while his eyes wandered over the landscape familiar to perfection, in that magical light of the sunset creeps beneath the dark clouds, giving special emphasis to the falling rain: in front of him, more than square, low red-brick barracks of the warehouses of the railroad, the station left the porch, right - the nearest object in that narrow view - The big hair of merula. He noted that the last stragglers rushed to seek shelter and now, in the midst of storm, as he was getting dark, he had nothing more to see.
He was about to give up his seat near the window, when it all happened at the same time. In a sense, one thing happened, but when you try to tell us we have to dwell in so many different details that happened more or less all together, because parts of
that thing happened. It happened that decided to switch to some other occupation, Tebogo broke the stick.
was not even looking at him, his branch: the look was turned to the big tree, just at the point where the main trunk came off a powerful horizontal branch, as a lintel to support the roof of leaves. At that moment, instead of the expected "jack" of broken wood, a violent bang hit the child like a fist, shaking the whole house and above the window, while a dazzling light invade the whole visual field.
The flash of light was instantaneous, but the roar that accompanied the first blast was soon a time to disperse, or perhaps it was just the feeling of the ears of the deafened child. He was shocked and felt a block in the upper chest, just below the throat, as if to cry or scream without success. Outside, the merula tree burning in several places and in the twilight of the evening, moderately lit the fires, Tebogo could note that the large horizontal branch, just what I was looking for an instant before, had fallen to the ground leaving a large hole in the trunk scorched.
He wondered if it was him. Common sense, although as a child, told him that it was not possible, but at the same time he did not mind the prospect of being able to go around thunderbolts. It was like all of his games: he imagined a hunter, or railroad, or soldier, and it was really for the duration of the game, knowing, in a corner of his head, which was only fantasy. When
The mother rushed to see if it was scared, he found his Tebzi quiet and slightly smiling, next to the window, intent on playing with a stick. He thought very proud to have a brave son.
Lightning Thrower, Tebogo was secretly, and imagined his adventures.
***
"Post hoc, ergo propter hoc"
is the title under which the ancients had labeled a known pattern of fallacious reasoning. Of course, the effect always comes after - post - the cause, but this is not to come after only a guarantee of a propter
, to be caused. Not everything that comes next is the effect of what comes first.
In theory this is very simple, even a child of nine years, without knowing the medieval philosophy, understand that a broken branch does not cause lightning. But we must also admit that there post and post, otherwise how do you distinguish a cause from a coincidence?
The rich hunter takes careful aim in the scope of his rifle last model, gently caressing the sensitive trigger and shoots. Now, almost simultaneously - but still later, "post" - the handsome male kudu (the long twisted horns make it a magnificent trophy) falls down.
A Case of
shot.
repeat the scene. The hunter takes aim. Shoot. The antelope, stumbles, takes a few steps, then falls. Again because
stroke, perhaps less precise but still the cause of death.
again. The hunter takes aim. Shoot. The magnificent bastard (no offense to the hunter) runs away. He runs for a few minutes then calms down and stops. Later placidly burning the grass of the savannah, when suddenly something went wrong. Raise your head, stands still for a moment, then collapses. Try to get up, but without success. After a short agony, dies.
was the hunter? He has eaten something harmful? A virus that has smoldered in selected that precise moment to make the final assault?
Before the shot, then death. But if the post slows, weakens the link. Even one death from old age, some years after that shot, was a post hoc , but would have no value.
So that lightning: a fraction of a second later and would have been different. But if the crash and flash of light overlap so perfectly normal to snap a piece of wood that breaks, to the point that you can imagine is that its natural expression, as if all the branches, when they are broken, producing a blinding flash and an explosion so forte da far tremare tutto nel raggio di molti metri... si capisce che c’è spazio almeno per fermarsi a fantasticare un po’.
E poi anche l’entità dell’effetto ha la sua importanza. Se un uccello tessitore prende il volo nell’esatto istante in cui mi tocco l’orecchio... a una cosa così non facciamo alcun caso. Gli uccelli tessitori vanno e vengono mille volte al giorno nel loro continuo lavoro di costruzione del nido e poi di alimentazione dei piccoli; il singolo evento di un prendere il volo non appare per nulla significativo. Altra cosa è un finimondo: quello avviene ben di rado e sicuramente non passa inosservato. ***
Un giorno di due anni dopo, Tebogo prepares to leave home to reach his favorite retreat, a small hill behind the station from where it dominates the activities of the railway station and where, above all, you can rest in peace. He takes the bottle from the refrigerator Oros that Mom put in the fridge for him and stuck it in the back pocket of his shorts, feeling the cool invites you to enjoy the colored syrup as soon as possible, because the day is hot and if you wait too will become undrinkable. Grab hold of his fisherman's cap, the indefinite color between green and brown, the inevitable result of aggressive sun on the fabric, and is about to start.
Already well-known port on the group of boys lingering shadow of the merula, at the extreme of the square. Tebogo has long since learned to avoid as much as possible to those guys. He does not understand well how it happens, but there seems to be something about him that invariably active aggression of the kind of people. Sometimes he wonders why his classmates can go undisturbed - at least most of the time - in front of any group of boys, with the only caveat to keep going without causing in any way, and he did not. For as much effort is not to be noticed, do not do anything to draw attention, he finds himself increasingly addressed, stopped or harassed? They have a sixth sense, as there and perceive the presence of someone like Tebogo from afar. Are attracted like flies to the biltong hanging out to dry.
Little knows he has no choice: if you try to cut straight to the audacity of them would cost at least the loss of her drink. As at other times resigned to take the long route, behind the houses. You can always take consolation in the thought that a few sips of Oros already on the way up.
When he reaches his hill the question of bias is already forgotten. The work of the railway fascinates him and is happy when he can spend the afternoon contemplating. One day surely will follow in the footsteps of his father working on the railway, in view Dad is openly proud. "You will see that my Tebzi become station master," he says frequently relatives. Look
unloading of three wagons full of outdoor speakers. Every now and then drink. The wagons are detached from the train and the small diesel engine - one that often maneuver his father - has pulled them and then pushed on a side track. Then the men were put to work, lenses under the sun of early afternoon. Some standing on the wagons, others in the area near the wall of the warehouse where the boxes are stacked, while two trucks, including all the equipment that Tebogo prefer, commuting with the load.
After the drink, Tebogo rests bottle between his bare feet. The rolls a little 'back and forth with the sole of the foot, then to crush ago. A habitual gesture, made without even looking, attention turned to a car parked on the transport of liquid siding on one side more remote from all over the airport. How many days will stay there, four or five? The faded colors remind him of a giant can of coke laid down on a few bogies.
And at the exact moment in which the foot crushes the bottle, just that rail tank car explodes in a fireball. A blaze thick, not particularly bright light in the intensity of summer, it expands rolling sideways and upwards. A mighty roar of the low noise dominates completely crumpled plastic of the bottle, while the shock wave reaches Tebogo embraced in a warm shove.
Bottom stir men like ants with a kick when the covering of the nest, while the fireball gives way to high flames that produce a dense column of black smoke. But the attention is on the bottle of Tebogo who crushed. He remembers that night two years ago, the thrower of lightning, while mentally reviewing all the details of the show which has just witnessed.
went home, nursed the bottle crumpled. Goes through without thinking about the group of bullies, a pitcher with lightning in his hand a powerful weapon. The boys, who were commenting on the explosion just felt restless, stop and watch him go.
For the first time do not tell him anything.
