It has been long. Yes, so long a silence that the memory of my last chat is blurred. So long that the young birds have developed crushing teeth!
Sigh. Here's my balderdash...
#### ####
Listening to an orator is an exciting experience, listening to an exaggerated experience by an orator is even better. My neighbour, the young man whose paternity is linked to a veteran politician is such a fellow. His mother sang so well and the politician got impressed to the extent of singing for her too, only that his was a lull that saw the melodious bird silenced by the bulging tummy. The father of the girl, grandfather to our orator was silenced too. A nylon paper bag full of cash for total silence over the daughter's 'little mess'. This led the man astray, drinking dens that saw the grandson inherit nothing but the laudable prowess in both lovable and laughable oratory skills.
Too much narration? Here we are! We are around the three-stoned kitchen, (its ages since we met here, thanks to cold and KPLC) Janie, my shy teeny sister, Andre and Dan, the cheeky twins we faced the knife the same day but I'm their senior, I got the cut first. Also in attendance is Grace, the queen cousin whom the naysayers and gossips claim we share more than blood. And how do I forget the man of the day? Jack, the politician's bastard, who also deserves the b name for his unapologetic crude utterances.
It's a bit smoky and sooty too. Jane is whining over low battery and the constant power outages. She's wishful, a little nostalgic of the good old days.
“You dunderheads worked so hard to make me scream on my way to the river. Only cowardly boys of your caliber had fun in making a girl shriek then, sadly none of you is hooked yet, so it appears you're still cowards."
That sounds fun. We laughingly tell her off. And the captain gets the topic of the day out of it.
“Wow and you are too scared and reserved for us. Otherwise, all girls of your age are mothers of not less than three tots. Keep a year longer and depreciation will be sipping coffee, enjoying the scene of your 'baby less' at forty. You'll have to beg me for just one." He rants, like a chant, apologist to none. We love the sadistic jeer.
He twists the story, making fun of my sister's low battery and the power outage in relation to the 'technological revolution' in our village. That sends shivers across the smoky kitchen especially to us, boys in the house. The twins revolt. They can't stand the torture the memories harbour. Sadly, the politician's son is in control, like his father, he's a real piece of work. He thrives in negativity, probably that makes him feel so happy that he forgets his weather struck den, a symbol of political neglect and personal negligence to duty.
He takes the little podium in style, like a well exposed traveller,
“Not so long ago, the village of Muchene only heard of the radio, TV and solar through the old newspapers that the shopkeeper wrapped the precious items such as half bread with. The great news of having such town's treasures in the village were received with open arms ,and a series of thanksgiving prayers in the church the following weeks. Thanks to the first man to sire twins, despite their loose nuts and shared height, he was outstanding not only for ownership of notoriety, but also in having the privilege of having the possession of the first ever radio, TV and solar panel !" We listen keenly, sheepishly rather like townsfolk listening to an ancient tale from a historian.
Jack enjoys the attention and the occasional blast, correction and 'nonsense' from his all-knowing audience.
His recollections on how we stole the radio on adventurous mission to find out where the singers and the anchors hid. That calls for a moment of silence. Not that the discovery was such important, never. The aftermath was. We were beaten and bitten too. Our action was more than a modern day treason. We were a disgrace to the whole village. The elders meeting was immediately convened and our parents had to pay and apologise profusely for our lack of manners. Were we cut by then, we would have been ostracised, thanks to our age and delayed studies.
The tale continues as Grace, my precious controversial cousin serves us tea. She takes charge for a while, retelling how I almost cried as she strained to explain to me how a piece of black striped glass 'brought power' to the battery through some wires. She enjoys my stare to the blackened roof, aware that she's got me, not off guard though. It had took the Thomas in me to see, so that I believed.
Jack has taken three big sips, his big lips are already dancing, re-energised.
"The way we filled your sitting room on Sundays made you feel like demigods. Your dad's instructions were clear, 'no lights while watching the TV', otherwise we were bound to get blind."
He gives us time, to let the village tycoon's wisdom.
Nothing excites than the memory of the black TV promotion to a coloured TV, a in the name of a funny transparent rainbow like plastic piece that made eyes feel some funny itchiness.
"You were admired by girls oh stupid twins, but you were too naive to take the advantage. Now that everyone owns a flat screen, coloured and classic gadgets, you're doomed. We'll have fun scrubbing ashes into your ridges now that we have GMO maize cobs." That's deep, and cruel too.
Lights 'return', our story ends.
#Nomys_Madness.
Sigh. Here's my balderdash...
#### ####
Listening to an orator is an exciting experience, listening to an exaggerated experience by an orator is even better. My neighbour, the young man whose paternity is linked to a veteran politician is such a fellow. His mother sang so well and the politician got impressed to the extent of singing for her too, only that his was a lull that saw the melodious bird silenced by the bulging tummy. The father of the girl, grandfather to our orator was silenced too. A nylon paper bag full of cash for total silence over the daughter's 'little mess'. This led the man astray, drinking dens that saw the grandson inherit nothing but the laudable prowess in both lovable and laughable oratory skills.
Too much narration? Here we are! We are around the three-stoned kitchen, (its ages since we met here, thanks to cold and KPLC) Janie, my shy teeny sister, Andre and Dan, the cheeky twins we faced the knife the same day but I'm their senior, I got the cut first. Also in attendance is Grace, the queen cousin whom the naysayers and gossips claim we share more than blood. And how do I forget the man of the day? Jack, the politician's bastard, who also deserves the b name for his unapologetic crude utterances.
 |
| Of course this is not our kitchen.PHOTO/COURTESY |
It's a bit smoky and sooty too. Jane is whining over low battery and the constant power outages. She's wishful, a little nostalgic of the good old days.
“You dunderheads worked so hard to make me scream on my way to the river. Only cowardly boys of your caliber had fun in making a girl shriek then, sadly none of you is hooked yet, so it appears you're still cowards."
That sounds fun. We laughingly tell her off. And the captain gets the topic of the day out of it.
“Wow and you are too scared and reserved for us. Otherwise, all girls of your age are mothers of not less than three tots. Keep a year longer and depreciation will be sipping coffee, enjoying the scene of your 'baby less' at forty. You'll have to beg me for just one." He rants, like a chant, apologist to none. We love the sadistic jeer.
He twists the story, making fun of my sister's low battery and the power outage in relation to the 'technological revolution' in our village. That sends shivers across the smoky kitchen especially to us, boys in the house. The twins revolt. They can't stand the torture the memories harbour. Sadly, the politician's son is in control, like his father, he's a real piece of work. He thrives in negativity, probably that makes him feel so happy that he forgets his weather struck den, a symbol of political neglect and personal negligence to duty.
He takes the little podium in style, like a well exposed traveller,
“Not so long ago, the village of Muchene only heard of the radio, TV and solar through the old newspapers that the shopkeeper wrapped the precious items such as half bread with. The great news of having such town's treasures in the village were received with open arms ,and a series of thanksgiving prayers in the church the following weeks. Thanks to the first man to sire twins, despite their loose nuts and shared height, he was outstanding not only for ownership of notoriety, but also in having the privilege of having the possession of the first ever radio, TV and solar panel !" We listen keenly, sheepishly rather like townsfolk listening to an ancient tale from a historian.
Jack enjoys the attention and the occasional blast, correction and 'nonsense' from his all-knowing audience.
 |
| The shape was funny but then,sounds mattered more. PHOTO/COURTESY. |
His recollections on how we stole the radio on adventurous mission to find out where the singers and the anchors hid. That calls for a moment of silence. Not that the discovery was such important, never. The aftermath was. We were beaten and bitten too. Our action was more than a modern day treason. We were a disgrace to the whole village. The elders meeting was immediately convened and our parents had to pay and apologise profusely for our lack of manners. Were we cut by then, we would have been ostracised, thanks to our age and delayed studies.
The tale continues as Grace, my precious controversial cousin serves us tea. She takes charge for a while, retelling how I almost cried as she strained to explain to me how a piece of black striped glass 'brought power' to the battery through some wires. She enjoys my stare to the blackened roof, aware that she's got me, not off guard though. It had took the Thomas in me to see, so that I believed.
Jack has taken three big sips, his big lips are already dancing, re-energised.
"The way we filled your sitting room on Sundays made you feel like demigods. Your dad's instructions were clear, 'no lights while watching the TV', otherwise we were bound to get blind."
He gives us time, to let the village tycoon's wisdom.
 |
| If the greatwall was this size maybe we would be in the Guinness book.PHOTO/COURTESY |
Nothing excites than the memory of the black TV promotion to a coloured TV, a in the name of a funny transparent rainbow like plastic piece that made eyes feel some funny itchiness.
"You were admired by girls oh stupid twins, but you were too naive to take the advantage. Now that everyone owns a flat screen, coloured and classic gadgets, you're doomed. We'll have fun scrubbing ashes into your ridges now that we have GMO maize cobs." That's deep, and cruel too.
Lights 'return', our story ends.
#Nomys_Madness.
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