I will start it straight. The people of the Kingdom have a saying that omulayi w’ebuwanga ashina mumuse lulala. Dear Gentile, the good one of Wanga dances on the floor once. So I want to dance on this floor once and only once. And quick. Friend, the trouble with dancing is that you are assessed by those whose bones cannot twist but whose eyes are so sharp to pick the best dance of the year. You alone sweat; they alone judge. You must dance well because that is the only dance you will have. Unless you don’t want to be the omulayi of Ebuwanga. So this dance will be Brutus, using the crudest means here and there. It is thus perhaps paramount to state from the onset that I will hit badly “or else the story I am going to tell you will make no sense”.
Life has become difficult, yes. People don’t respect you. Everything is going to the dogs. Now you want God to bring a rain of fortune. Smoked fish, millet powder and iPhone. My friend, the woman who will give birth to the woman who will bear the grandfather of your liberator has not been born.
You sit there complaining about the weather and January. You spend your time cursing this and that. That you are broke. You now forget your laziness and curse January, an innocent month of God sacrificed at the front to open doors of blessings for you. Imagine having to come at the beginning of every year (because you’ve never seen July come first) and having to persevere with curses of people who have no clue how innocent you are.
You sit there gossiping people in Watsap groups and expect life to run smoothly. You gossip that girl in the hood when she passes. You gossip your in-laws when your partner goes to work and still hold you are okay. How? It is legal for people to dream of a Subaru before 30; but how many people do you need to gossip to get one? Last year one second-hand Impreza costed 760k gossips; it must have gone down with the fall in oil prices. Find out and let me know. Gossiper.
By the way there is nothing that demeans an intellectual as cheap talk. Nick went to town yesterday and dash dash. Hey, when will you build your life? I am announcing amnesty for the criminals who slander friends that leave social media groups. Three days amnesty. I’m talking of “any dim-wit with internet connection, rent to pay and a lot of…”. Surrender your gossip tools in three days or we shall come for you. Me and my girls. And boys. Call the people you slandered and apologise over a glass of juice and goat meat. Three days’ amnesty, not four.
And you are the slowest monkey around yet you complain why the people around you are in an unending rush. No hurry in Africa? That’s what the thieves said. Came around, found Africans in a cultural hurry and were disappointed why people with melanin could be so unfair. Then when they were going away, your father, whom you take after, took them to the port. He was lazy and hungry and so he snailed himself on the way. They took B/W photos of him and on their home-bound voyage wrote big books. So you may believe them.
Otherwise Africa itself is a scramble. Virus, an accomplished professor of Engineering and rusticator of students, acknowledges the fact that life is a race for the strong. So if the race is too hot, buy a sisal rope, choose a branched tree and end the misery. Or get bus fare and go back to the village.
The village is a very noble idea. No need to buy an umbrella. Just walk back and those guys will embrace you. They’ll clap their hands and enthrone you. They won’t know you are stingy. And poor. Haha. A poor stingy man returning from the city. And that you don’t honour your debts. They won’t know you are a criminal of life. They won’t know you’ve committed all solid crimes under the sun.
Your mistake number one is that you are a fluent watcher of soap operas and you are also a bookworm. The latter is what you call yourself when you do motivational books once in seven months. For the last 5 years you’ve been waking up at 8 a.m. every 1st January and when Zuckerberg asks what’s on your mind, you’ve always set your New Year resolutions painted in colour and by 3rd you can’t recall what they were. You spend the first half of the year breaking and washing them down the drain and use the second half conjuring up new ones and painting them in air to later respond to Zuckerberg on the next 1st. You amaze. You do.
Selfies guy. By right and by worth. So you have reduced your world to images. Dead copies. And you complain when girls buy buttocks and don 3-ton wigs of dead Indians. When you take popcorn, you selfy yourself. When you buy new shorts, you selfy yourself. When you selfy yourself, you selfy yourself. You selfy yourself at the pub with a borrowed girlfriend and glass. Have you heard us complain? No. We have not even unfriended you. We don’t gossip you. We keep asking ourselves what sort of a guy you are that you cannot take a meal without burdening the selfies stick and running to photoshop for a favour here and there. We ask ourselves what you were doing at college for four years. Like, if you learnt anything else apart from cheating. And failing. You lie even to yourself. Typically that thief who waits till it is dark and then steals their own clothes from the line.
Then when you go to town you complain of the traffic. You complain of the dust and post selfies of your Turkish sandals. You complain of the noise of hooting buses. You even watch those movies and say how backward our city is. Our city, for God’s sake. Issokay. Just go.
Go back to the village because that is where your A-Double-S belongs. Go back home and look after your father’s goats. Just leave us some feet near the gate in case the city cemetery will be full the time we respond to the Call. Demarcate it with thorns (we’ll send the money) and every time you pass there, remind yourself that thereunder shall rest the bones of a stronger inhabitant of Earth.
This is 2015. Hitler is dead and so are Jews. 2016 in fact. Yet you still want things that would make Daedalus and Icarus laugh. Do you even know Daedalus and Icarus, friend? See! Motivational books and Mexican soaps.
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Anyway, you are my friend and the only one I got. I hope you continue staying around and giving me company. No, don’t go to the village. I hope you stay around so we go swimming together and walk to work together and gossip that new tenant – who does she think she is? – together. The world has changed and we can’t be what our old folks were. We can’t live in their shadows of values.
I hope you dwell not on my weaknesses but keep reading this henshit and that you don’t compare me with the established icons. Let’s die for each other. That is friendship.