I grew up in a small village called Doba Springs, named after the rich water which surrounded it.

It's barely on any maps, and I'm pretty sure Google doesn't even list it.

Yet people run out of the town to pick up supplies, but often we lived

off the land. The only visitors we got were relatives who left town, yet found themselves

drawn back for visits.

As you can imagine, nothing exciting happened much outside the turmoil of small village gossip.

So, when a clown rolled into town, it was on the tips of everyone's lips.

At first, it was talked of like an urban legend.

Did you spot the strange clown?

You were either dismissed for propagating the legend or hailed for tales of the event.

However, as more and more claimed to have seen it, it became irrefutable that there was indeed a clown wondering the streets.

Peasing together from everyone's testimonials, well the believable ones anyway, it seemed the

clown would walk the streets with a huge grin on his face.

He never said a word and was always in costume.

On the moments you didn't just catch a glimpse of him turning the corner, a colourful

blur on the edge of your vision. He was performing. It became a sight to see when he would pull up to

couples in the street, pull out a novelty sized plastic flower, only to skirt water

on one's face or spill something in an exaggerated comedic fashion,

try wipe it up with a handkerchief, only for it to be daisy-chained and a seemingly infinite length.

The town was a buzz. On one hand, he was loved for adding colour to the otherwise drab scene of the town.

Others held him a nuisance and said he should be expelled.

I personally had no opinion until I finally met him myself.

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