Three words! Incidences, coincidences and accidents bespeak the life of I, the poor son of Uswaz live in these shacks. Coincidences are like when in a daladala in which passengers are parked like sardines, a woman rubs her red lipstick on my white shirt collar to Bisho Ntongo’s annoyance.
Or if she rubs an acrid smelling perfume with a smell that causes Bisho Ntongo to sneeze as soon as she comes with a couple of meters from me. Things could even morph into bitter accidents because as a result of the lipstick or perfume, this can be recipe for getting Bisho Ntongo so angry as to knock out my teeth.
Nothing seems to work well for me. Last week, I told you that Bisho Ntongo’s one leg was in and the other out because of a senseless gossip – she has since calmed down after I went on my knees begging her not to leave. You see, as much as I may pretend that all will be well if she goes, I would be cheating myself.
Memories are not lost of the days she took off. I turned became a habitually drunken sod. She had to come back to me. However, the devil being who he is, such incidences and accidents don’t seem to fade.
I was commuting from the mother of all Uswaz called Mbagala last week when someone literary sloshed me with some hot sauce. You see, as we elbow our way into the overloaded bus, many things are bound to happen like bumping like literally poking your nose into the armpits of konda or coming into a kissing distance with this bloke who declared ware with toothpaste and toothbrush.
As I have always noted in this third-rate column, town bound daladalas from Mbagala, at noon ferry those Mamantilies ferrying all sorts of food in buckets have these aromas that make you want to eat.
Anyway, it during such a commotion that I bumped kicked a bucket full of stew, sloshing my shoes and trousers. I had to turn back! What an incidence?