NOT so long ago (or would ‘pretty recently’ sound more romantic?) I bored you with a narrative partly centred on some individuals whose blessed names bear the KK initials.
Congrats for not being tempted to text me a message to describe me as a boring old cow. You know by now, I am sure, as I am that ‘D’ is the first letter of each of the two names of the two top cities of this country (unless you’ve chanced to read a copy of this newspaper across the Land of the Majestic Kilimanjaro Hill; sorry, Mountain) that my memory is near-kaput.
Naturally, therefore, I don’t remember which individuals whose names bear the ‘KK’ initials I sneaked into the potentially-boringto- death piece.
One of the things that I am not good at remembering to forget, however, is to peep into my memory bank regularly, in search of something that, in spite of having happened a scandalously long time ago, some blessed children of God may find interesting.
On and off, however, I regret doing so, because some of the things I recall, according to a species of friends of mine who are non-rumour mongers, cause some pretty embarrassing problems.
Take the nasty experience that a friend called Timo once encountered for instance. But I am warning you beforehand not to be eating or drinking something alongside reading it.
He had stopped over at a restaurant on his way back home from a church service on a certain Sunday noon. Intermittent with sipping a soda (the youngest brother of what he drinks when darkness stages a coup against sunlight) he was digesting what the preacher had stressed in his sermon in church.
It about the ABCs to which a believer should stick, to enhance prospects of subsequently becoming a resident of heaven.
Two men joined him, but only one was in the mood to engage in a conversation, while the other was busy reading a newspaper.
Then, hey presto! He laughed so much (or, rather, was so tightly enslaved by something funny he had read), that he sneezed, the outcome of which something I don’t wish to foul your mood or mess up your appetite by mentioning, landed on Timo’s shirt! It turned out that the trigger for the nasty incident was a character around whom I had woven a somewhat funny story!
Anyway, a funny drama in which I featured as a boy, which has sneaked out of my memory bank, is worth recounting.
Grandma assigned me to catch and deliver to her the fattest chicken in her stock. In spite of being a chap of slightly below-average intelligence (else I would have become a professor of at least my socalled mother tongue as an adult), I knew that we would be hosting a high-level visitor.
I chased the hen spiritedly, less because the guest would get the most delicious part of the assassinated- and-cooked bird, but more because whatever part of the ex-hen I would get would be okay, since such occasions were almost as rare as solar eclipses.
The hen eluded my capture, as it made zig-zag bends like a snake. When my paw-paw shaped head collided with a tree, I fell and yelled like an ambulance siren, the game was up.
Yozefu, my third best friend ( I have forgotten who the first two were) chased the hen, delivered it to grandma, and was given part of the cooked hen that had been meant for me.
I ended up with ‘zero chicken meat’. Whereas Yozefu had acted in good faith, I had suspected that he had been driven by pursuit of cheap heroism.
Our friendship was diluted for some time, but, as adults much later, we let boyhood bygones be bygones, and we restored the friendship fully.
A couple of years ago, Yozefu’s wife (name withheld for spiritual, protocol, cultural and social reasons), pestered her husband to make a public confession over a strong rumour she had heard, and which she tentatively believed, to the effect that her husband was a notorious chicken thief in his home village during his teens.
He denied the allegations categorically, and I consolidated the denial by categorically stating that Yozefu was innocent. Plus, he was a role model during our boyhood, and that, instead of becoming an accountant that he eventually became, he would have served his country, and the world better as a clergyman.
The wife didn’t budge, threatening to seek a divorce if Yozefu stuck to his guns. I used my fake diplomatic skills to convince him to confess for a sin he never committed, for the sake of saving the precious marriage.
The wife was very delighted, as was the husband, who branded me a hero he would cherish eternally; least aware that I was the source of the rumour that had almost spoiled the matrimonial show!