Of late, I always get the feeling that I am the lead character in a narrative where the author dexterously weaves a story of poverty, suffering and punishment. If you read Fyodor Dostoevsky’s novels, you risk getting into depression.
For how can one explain in real life that l get over-taxed the pitiful salary I get and my wife, Mai VaMaidei is harassed at the market by overzealous municipal police because she does not have a hawker’s licence.
The antagonist is always in the background, hell-bent on making life miserable for the masses. As soon as life seems to be too soft for the common man in the street, the antagonist digs deeper from his bag of tricks and pulls out a new set of rules and regulations, wiping out all the smiles in one stroke.
The only consolation in a pure work of fiction is that the main character will not perish, but will ride the tide and weather the storm. Let me go to my story lest I forget.
Sahil Bloom never minced his words when he said: “Most of your friends aren’t really your friends.” They are just there for the sheer fun, convenience or value. When you read through the story below, you will be able to draw your own conclusion.
We were all taking it easy at Zororo Bar. I was with Fatso and Rasta. On the big screen was an exciting premiership match. Manchester United was playing against Arsenal.
Outside it was getting dark and some of the street lights that were still working would soon light up.
There were a few patrons in the bar and I was sure that by half-time, the bar would be overcrowded.
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All of a sudden, Fatso’s cracked Itel phone barked. Yes, it barked. It was distinct. His ringtone was of a dog barking.
He rose on his feet and answered the phone a few metres away from us. That was strange. His behaviour over the last couple of weeks was very strange.
When he came back, he excused himself. “Guys, something has come up, I am going home,” he said.
He was gone before we even replied. I was left with Rasta and we all looked at each other.
“What is wrong with him these days? He can’t even look me straight in the eyes," said Rasta. I was thinking of his phone ringtone.
Sometime ago, he had recorded his dog, Bhoki barking. It was a Rhodesian Ridgeback, common in our urban areas and the countryside. This African breed has been the butt of many jokes around. Some say that this breed will attend a funeral or a wedding event even before the owner arrives.
One thing about the breed is that it is disease-resistant, can even go hunting on its own. It is loyal, friendly and protective.
Unfortunately one day, they found Bhoki lying dead in their compound. They suspected food poisoning. Someone had been fed up after finding out that Bhoki was stealing their eggs in the chicken run.
Afterwards, Fatso adopted the ringtone of Bhoki barking. The ringtone irritated me at first, but I soon got used to it.
Just as Manchester United was about to take a penalty and we were all eagerly crowded around the big screen, there was a sudden power blackout. The screen turned black and all lights went out. Some of the patrons shouted in dismay and others banged the tables.
“Let’s go home,” said Rasta. We trooped out with a few others before the generator was switched on.
There was still time so I went with Rasta to his house where he lived with his parents. His parents were currently in the countryside so it was just him and his younger sister, Veronica. His sister was a first year Law student at the university.
When we arrived at the house, it was dark. A solar lamp was lit on the table in the sitting room. A few flies attracted by the lamp light, hovered around it. Veronica was likely in her room as there was a radiance of light under the door.
And then out of the blues, we all heard the unmistakable ringtone barking of Fatso’s Itel phone. It was coming from Veronica’s bedroom. Was that a mistake?
It took Rasta only three quick strides before he kicked open Veronica’s door.
My mouth opened in the shape of an arch in surprise. Fatso was sitting half-naked on Veronica’s bed.
“What are you doing here with my sister?” Rasta screamed as he grabbed Fatso by the neck. Veronica was trembling on the bed and had quickly wrapped herself in a duvet to cover her nude body. “It’s not what you think,” pleaded Fatso in shame. There was nothing to think about, we all saw what we saw.
I suddenly remembered one of James Hardley Chase’s masterpiece — The way the Cookie Crumbles. A good read that delves into manipulation and betrayal.
- Onie Ndoro X@Onie90396982
