BABA BOYI: This boy will be the end of his mother

THE white folks came up with a saying which I find to be a very big lie and very ridiculous, the term ‘a chip off the old block’ does not make any sense to me whatsoever.

What these confused fellows we call the ‘mzungu’ meant was the fact that sons and daughters usually inherit some characters from their fathers, that is why most behave like their old men.

Meaning if the father is a thug, then there is a very major likelihood that the son, when he comes, will possess the traits of a thug.

When I was growing up, my father used to be a very strict fellow, and there was a time he was an avid partaker of the frothy Ilala liquid, which caused my mother some serious headaches, but as time progressed, the old man changed.

During that time, apart from swallowing frothy liquid like a fish on a mission, the old guard was a renowned chaser of the opposite sex, in other words no woman was safe in front of the old chap who happened to be my father, but that was before he bumped into my mother, who applied some technical speed governors to control the wayward fellow who sired yours truly.

But when we were still growing up, something happened which changed the old fellow completely, because one day as he was staggering home after a drinking spree with his cronies, the old fellow was cornered by some evangelists who knew their job very well, because by the time they were through with him, the old man decided to throw away the bottle and replaced it with a Bible the size of a small briefcase, and instead of singing songs like ‘Beer tamu,’ he started to sing hymns and scream at the devil.

 

After coming across the veteran evangelists, my late father started crisscrossing the country, thumping his Bible and warning people of the possibility of becoming permanent members of hell, where they will end up becoming firewood in the eternal fire, where sizzling brimstone is served for breakfast, lunch and supper.

As years progressed and I turned from a boy (adorable) to a man, I tried to look into myself to see whether there was anything that suggested any fact that I had some characteristics which resemble my old man, which include shouting at demons until they ran for cover.

I managed to discover a few of these character traits in me, and one of them comes in the shape of my love for the frothy liquids, without forgetting that mama Boyi managed to get rid of the skirt chasing character in me (for good, I hope).

So when I married my wife and we managed to get a son, I harboured some secret hope that the boy, eventually, will get some of the characters of his old man, which in this case happens to be yours truly.

But as the years progressed, I discovered that there was nothing in the boy which reflected me, apart from the fact that he wears trousers too, and his reputation of chasing the girls the way a cock chases a hen (so far three neighbours have accused him of impregnating their daughters…plus four house girls).

Just the other day I found my wife, mama Boyi, in the bedroom crying her eyes out. For those who know the mother of my clan, then you know that she is the kind of woman who is as tough as nails, so when you see her crying, then you know that something is not right somewhere, and maybe you need to go down on your knees and pray to the big man upstairs, because chances are, something worse than Gaza is about to happen.

In front of her there were several items, which included four rolls of bhang, a nylon paper with dried twigs inside (I later found out that it was mirungi, or khat) and some chewing gum.

Of course I wanted to know the reason behind the tears, and she told me that the stuff in front of her belonged to my son, the domestic thug, who was sleeping in his room.

“Baba Boyi, you know that the boy did not sleep home last night, he came back soon after you left, drunk as a skunk, smelling of all sorts of alcohol, including mnazi and mbege, and he was singing old circumcision songs and calling himself the lion of Buza,” she said.

She told me that a few minutes after he staggered home, she followed him to his room, but she found the boy in a total blackout, so she decided to check his pockets, and the things in front of her was part of her discovery (she could not continue, she said).

I went into the boy’s room and the first thing that hit me was the smell of alcohol. I found the boy snoring like an old Isuzu lorry negotiating a sharp bend on Kitonga hill, with his tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth and saliva drooling on the dirty pillow.

There was half a bottle of a drink which looked lethal on the floor next to his trouser. I decided to continue where my wife left with the search of the pockets, and the first dip of my hand produced a packet of two condoms.

I told myself that at least the boy had enough sense in his head to walk around with protection, and wondered whether the pregnancy cases levelled at him were manufactured.

In the back pocket I found an evil looking knife, and my mind told me that his nickname, Papa Dog Killa, might have something to do with the weapon, and I prayed to God that hopefully the killing involved dogs only.

I shook the boy violently trying to wake him up, but my efforts proved futile, if anything I think the snores got louder, and I was about to go for a bucket of very cold water but my wife stopped me.

“Baba Boyi, even if you manage to wake that boy up, I don’t think you can get any constructive information from him, because with his condition I doubt if he can even talk,” she told me.

For the next one hour I had to endure a barrage of accusations and blame, including being accused of transferring my drinking genes to the boy on purpose so that the two of us can torture her.

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