MASTERS OF FICTION AT A VIGIL By Pablo Yagayo It is interesting how one matchstick can start a forest fire, yet you need a whole matchbox to start a campfire. I was recently seated with village folk around a bonfire at a vigil. Everyone was silent except for the crackling firewood which had maize cobs being roasted in it. A glass of waragi, a local potent gin, kept making the rounds. Everyone who took a sip of the gin wore a frown that reminded one of Judas Iscariot. It is apparently the kind of gin whose great taste lay in the bitterness. Those who had a bad relationship with waragi had no option but to find a way of starting up a conversation. We tried so hard to have a rapport but it was not shifting, just like the person trying to light a campfire. Suddenly one of us made a careless comment about people who drink waragi that did not go down well with the drunkards. It sparked off a verbal fire, just like a careless matchstick would start a forest fire. The conflict attracted even those that were resting in the house. It was unanimously agreed that the guy responsible apologises and leaves the bonfire’s confines. He obliged and everyone seemed contented. However, that melee helped create some life at the bonfire. It was that night that I discovered that waragi could turn people into masters of fiction. One guy who was extremely high told us that vigils remind him of his brother who died in an accident. He was riding a motorcycle and was hit by a trailer. Fortunately, his limbs were intact except for some blood that was oozing from his neck. Onlookers advised him to see a doctor but he decided to first take the motorcycle back home. After safely parking the bike, he was in the process of removing the helmet when it came off with the head! He was buried with the helmet. There was dead silence for a moment; you could hear a pin drop. His friend, who was in total agreement with the story, cleared his throat and told us how his uncle once narrowly survived death. He was crossing the road when a speeding car almost ran over him. Miraculously, the car split into two, avoiding him and rejoined back after passing him. I noticed that the glass of waragi that was making the rounds had been replaced by a metal mug that needed a refill after every five sips. The guy seated next to me told us a story of how he rubbed shoulders with death. He was on a hunting trip when he bumped into a lion. It gave chase, but he was so fast that the lion eventually stopped and roared an apology for wasting his time. They offered him the mug of waragi which he tipped back like he was gulping water. He tapped on my shoulder and asked me to share my story. I told them that I had no story that came close to theirs, but they all ganged up against me. They said since I was not drinking their waragi, I at least owed them a story. I had to make up a story fast, for goodness sake. I told of how we were one day flying from Bangladesh to Madagascar when the airplane experienced a technical problem. The captain parked the plane in the clouds and told us that it was not balanced enough, considering that we were entering heavy turbulence. The crew asked all the fat people to seat on one side before we could proceed with the flight. We experienced such heavy turbulence that the engine stopped running and the plane inevitably stopped midair. The pilot had no option but to ask all the men to get down and push. We pushed the airplane for close to a kilometre before it could start. Unfortunately, the pilot thought we had all boarded and raced on without me. I chased after the airplane at breakneck speed, just like my friend who had outrun the lion. The pilot was astonished to see me at the airport waiting for my luggage. All the drunkards stood up, clapped hard and hugged me, before breaking into ‘Tukutendereze’ – a Christian hymn of praise – that had all the idle faithful joining in.
Posted on: Thu, 05 Jun 2014 23:01:30 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015