Satire:Dead man shopping
Dear Bisa,
I am gutted by this me departing tale, Bisa. Absolutely livid.
Forget my tantrums of slamming dining tables and conference desks, throwing pots and pans at the wall or smashing C’s ridiculous shaped pink plates and Tea mugs. That was nothing, I dare you.
I wanted to shoot something when I heard this nonsense Bisa. No. I wanted to kill something actually. With my bear hands. Yeah, I finally snapped.
How can these chaps say I am gone? Bisa, I know they wake up every morning and turn to the paper’s obituary section, hoping to draw pleasure from reading my obituary.
Sincere apologies I keep disappointing them. I can’t help it Bisa. I have a lot of unfinished business in the village to go like a chicken. You know how chickens go. Someone wants an omelette, a chicken dies. Some idiots have a Chinkhoswe chickens exchanged and die for real. A visitor comes to the village, a chicken dies and one is taken for the road. To die. I was not cut out for that Bisa. I am too supreme to go just like that. By Facebook? By Twitter or on Nyasa Times. Not me. I am a son of a gun. A pure Tea child. A descendant of the great medicine man from the great spirit mountain who used to sleep in a leaking house on a rainy night and never got wet.
I am alive Bisa. Alive and well. Chauta sanandilandebe mpweya. I can still do my push ups and crucially my favourite press downs. Can still last an hour on a trade mill
I had just come back from this other Gizmo village’s trading centre when I heard about the cooked up departure story. The bald doctor had sent a fax. I had just come from the Mall to pick up the new Ipad2 and other Gizmo stuff. I also refilled my supply of Jack, Hennessy and J and B. C was in the backyard doing Yoga with the creepy Chinese Yoga guy.
My assistant, with protruding teeth came to me and said: ” I am sorry Chief to report that according to your villagers you have been kidnapped, you have diarrhoea and have departed”.
I looked at my Ipad 2, Nintendo and other Gizmos, J and B and the other liberating drinks very closely.
Do dead people shop? I wondered Bisa.
The answer is No. I can also say that in Portuguese. Nada.
When I really go, Bisa. I will go with pomp, fanfare and style. Perhaps even better than the chap from Bethlehem. I would like a one last ‘lights out’ in the village. Not just in houses but the sky. As a goodbye. Unlike a few minutes of ‘light out’ that the JC chap caused, I will do a 17 hour blackout like the one we tasted on Chindere Zazu’s hometown.
Bisa, these villagers must know that C because there will be no reprisals. C calmed me down and made me look at the bright side of the whole thing.
Off course, the bogus departure story was annoying. But it gave the silly villagers something to talk about me. Their one and only beloved leader.
It also diverted attention from the new nice numbers we have on product prices these past days.
To my PR madmen, it was a stroke of genius. We call it spin. Basically deception and avoidance.
New stories are good Bisa. They can buy you sympathy.
Nanga daily the story should be the essential liquid, the silly dead boy Chapezeka and Mijavi yakunja?
The villagers can keep talking. By all means please, keep them talking. I will keep yawning on my Margarita. I always yawn when I am interested and paying attention.
After making me depart in their imagination, there is nothing worse they can do to me, Bisa. Nothing! They have eliminated the lost option and they have nothing to scare me with! Tehehehe!
Off course when you force my hand to log on to Facebook to declare to my villagers that I am only in Gizmo and not Paradise, the thing becomes a little more embarrassing. Especially if they make me talk to that nosy and brush and bearded journalist who badly needs a shave and a trim of hair.
My villagers have lost innocence Bisa. These days the question everything. I take an innocent stroll on my off day, they become paranoid and suggest I have gone AWOL, I have testicular cancer, Ndakwera galeta la moto. All blue lies.
For what?
I don’t need to give my schedule to anyone apart from C because I only fear my wife. Sindingachite. Muwuzane.
I run my village like a bus, Bisa. I am the driver. If the villagers don’t like my driving, let them jump out.
Bisa the villagers are no longer my children if they make such outrageous talk. Talk is cheap, but that’s ok, so are my villagers. So annoying. Now I know why some animals eat their own children.
As P the big yoghurt mouth rightly put it, the problem with me and my village is not Mijavi or essential liquid. The problem, the loud mouthed one educated silly looking media chaps, is that my village it too democratic.
For once, I truly think she is a genius.
Bisa, the trouble with democracy is that somewhere, some guy decides in advance that he will deliberately not understand. No matter how clear you are. He will disagree with you anyway. Now as a good chief I have to decide to send some small time crooks and hefty boys with fires to do everything possible to expedite the process of helping him understand.
Mostly we end up with bleeding noses etc…its all counterproductive.
I had a dream Bisa.
I was in bed. With C. On my bedside were Hennesy and Jack.
Then suddenly that silly lawyer Rafayele, JKK (she has short hair and short hair means aggression), Wanapo the silly young lawyer with silly neck ties, Wandale and that moustache, Dick the bent Rev and Raqif with the cheap national-wear shirts surrounded my bed.
They were glowing and wore red garments. They held lit candles. They looked like angels. They looked like they were on a vigil.
Wanapo was holding on to the rule book of the village. This time he was in a green shiny neck tie, the frog shoes and knock-off Gucci suit.
He smiled. Wickedly as usual. He stepped forward and whispered in my ear.
“Section 59 (3)”
The vigil chaps then vanished. Just like that.
When I woke up, I rushed to my study and opened the rule book.
Section 59 (3) read: “The village clowns meeting shall be opened by the village chief on such a date as the village chief, in consultation with the chief of the conclave, shall determine”.
I was on the phone. To ChiHuman
Funny and liberating things dreams.
So long,
Patapata
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