Dear Bisa: The devil’s private workshop
Dear Bisa,
Now you must agree these villagers are all dim wits.
They are mindless creatures Bisa. Strangely, I think I still like them Bisa. I really do. Most people say I’ve got no taste. But I like these villagers.
I care less what these creeps think of what I say about them. I will defend, to their death, my right to my opinion.
However, I am bored with them. For good reasons Bisa. Mainly for their lust for self preservation. I hate to be brutally frank but these chickens andiyenjeza with their resentment of my ideas, sarcasm and lack of appreciation. I need to let off a bit of steam.
Bisa, have u ever seen morbid resentment, almost psychotic? This self righteous lot lack exposure and thats why they hate me. Just listen to their vile and ignorant remarks on the biased radio phone-in programs. Ignorant preaks Bisa! Unbearably obnoxious. They have disease. They have a troubling chronic inferiority complex and it is fully justified, am afraid Bisa because of their little minds.
I’m impressed though Bisa! I’ve never met such small minds inside such big heads before even on my frequent flights to Honolulu and Banda Ache.
Even their so called civil society leaders are worse Bisa. They do not let education get in the way of their appaling ignorance and stupidity. Villagers only follow them out of morbid curiosity. The opposing psychos are worse. What is lacking in the opposition is intelligence but the chaps more than make up for it with stupidity.
The villagers lack of a sense of occasion Bisa. It is annoying. Like housefly drowning in my Jack or Hennesy. It’s a new year. A clean slate. A clean page but all they yap about is complain and judge me. Same old fashioned stuff.
These idiots have forgotten their place Bisa. They still are having trouble to know how, let alone when, to worship me their beloved leader. Instead, they have perfected the art of complaining Bisa.
Complaining about every little mindless thing they can lay their ugly fingers on. Now they are complaining that Cocacola bottles are not rounded enough, the village strumpets are demanding more for pleasures provided, no muti in the infirmary, the rains are not pouring enough etc. Why complain to me? Have I ever looked like the rainmaker? For what Bisa? What can I do? Nothing! The insurance industry were smart and called these “acts of god”. Means beyond “the work of my hands”.
So if these cry babies have any valid issues, let them sue the guy for the stress he is causing them. It is that simple. On the other hand Bisa, I think stress is good. Very good. I always look at the bigger picture Bisa. It builds a village. It prepares a village for the worst. My point is if there was no stress, anger and distraction, no one would have energy, motivation and drive at all.
Bisa, I find it particularly insulting to the village medicine men for some idiot in form of Marita that loud mouthed nurse and strumpet to complain of the village lacking muti. As far as I am concerned, my witchdoctor, has not complained of lacking any voodoo dolls. And I see these cry babies everyday saying andilodza. Here is the stumper. Where does all that broom riding come from? My philosophy is simple bias. Adapt or perish.
Bisa, these cry babies are still on my case, yapping about non-existent problems and am afraid it is getting to me. It is ruining my Golf game. I have lost my swing and my putt has suffered a lot lately
That explains why I seldom write these days.
Bottom line is they know who is behind their troubles. We have travelled that road before. I was insightful enough to point out who the guy is and he has been around a lot longer than me. I named names Bisa. He first messes with JC that chap from Bethlehem in mortal combat and tales of eating bread and turning stones into rocks. He now finds that to be boring and he is picking on little guys like my village and has not offered me and my villagers any boons.
It is therefore unfair Bisa. Unjustified. Cruel and mean in fact for the villagers to make me responsible for some other creature’s handiwork. It is cowardice.
The villagers are chickens. Maybe ducks or Turkeys. Just good enough to be chicken bones over dinner. I am not a horse Bisa. Neither do I have a horse. Yet they are picking on me when in fact they know who the real villain is. They know who is doing horse riding on them. Why can’t these chickens and their bent and fornicating catechists be useful for once and exorcize the village and drive Black Lucifer away while I try to regain my swing on the Golf Course?
Why can’t they set themselves on fire in protest in order to drive the evil one away. Like I always say, conviction and faith has gone to the dogs these days. If these guys really must express displeasure, they should do it like the chaps in the scriptures. Set themselves on fire, grab a live snake or something. I promise to listen if Zazu does that. I even promise that I will hand him one of those fancy prizes at “Our Chickens, Our Lies” next December.
No chance of that happening Bisa. It will not happen that way. Instead Raqif the bearded one and his ugly shirts, Wandale the pain in the butt, Mphatso and his large ear lobes, Marita the nursing strumpet will find something to complain about. Just be sure it will not be about Lucifer. Just like now!
If these chickens feel so strongly about the village, let them blow their fuses and write songs and plays about it or become hangmen. I assure you Bisa, they will feel much better. It’s proven therapy.
This village can complain about anything Bisa. Even things you can’t do anything about. They always think that as a chief clown, I always know where I can stick it. Seriously, Bisa, what should I do if there are no rains in Texas? Nothing! To me its Karma Bisa. Karma to Texas for giving birth to Joyce and that silly clown olira ndi mkodzo wake omwe who changed sides and hardly gave a mature explanation.
I had another dream Bisa.
I was on the Golf course. I was 9 under par against Dull the dapper and not-so-bright TV chap. Wanapo, the silly young lawyer with his stupid neck ties appeared. He had his usual wicked silly grin on. He also had that annoying wig on. He looked more like a Chef. He said he was representing his client.
He served me a subpoena. Wandale was his witness. It was a civil suit.
Slander was the tort. I slander everyone everyday and I wondered who had the guts to litigate against me.
I opened the subpoena.
The Plaintiff was Lucifer.
Wanapo said his client sought no compensation but just a public apology.
The silly young lawyer further said his client’s area of expertise and specialization was “sin” and not governance, mediocrity and chicken bones.
I passed out.
Now that’s a bad dream.
So long,
Patapata
