CANDID TALK: How “flying” kids put the Uswahilinite in trouble
Maryam, the wife of Hussein the Uswaz wag thinks that I have a very “bad” heart. In this god-forsaken Uswaz, my having a bad heart does not mean that I need the attention of a cardiologist at Jakaya Kikwete Heart Institute. No!
It means that I am capable of literally “murdering” children. Maryam has been raising a red flag that since I have only one child, I have since become a witch. As a result, children are shunning me like one does to a bottle of cyanide. Juma’s and indeed other Uswaz children who used to throng in my house (I mean two-room shack) to watch some Kanumba movies on TV junk are no longer showing up. My efforts to stop the rumour spreading by bribing her ever-thirsty husband have not borne any fruit.
Last Sunday, what was meant to be a gesture of good will turned into a nightmare that ended in me cooling my heels for a half a day at Uswaz Police Post. I had just woken up in one of those exuberant moods – willing to make everyone happy. As usual, my neighbours were going about their jobs – Mama Mwakilambo was sweeping the compound, Bisho Ntongo was busy washing dishes. Men, as I, were idly basking awaiting their women to bring breakfast at their feet. Children, as usual were playing their games. That is the standard behaviour on a cool Sunday morning.
I had just finished brushing my “fangs” and was headed for the passport-size bathroom-cum-latrine wrapped in towel with nothing underneath. As it has always been, children were milling around me, all eager to play with me. I had until that day become very popular with the kids, each one of them eager to be tossed in the air – you know the game.
Kids were frolicking around me, each waiting for their turn to take a free “flights” and their parents were cheering on. All that time, I had forgotten that I had a towel wrapped around me and besides the towel covering my lower torso, I was animal-naked.
As it is, exposing one’s naked to the parading Uswahilinites including children is nobody’s cup of tea.
Maryam’s boy was high in the air when I sensed towel unwrapping. Of course the dilemma was whether I should catch the “flying” kid or grab the towel before my nakedness was paraded to the entire Uswaz.
I chose the latter and the boy came flying, hitting the bare floor. Suddenly, joie de vivre turned into accusations. In Bisho Ntongo’s own words, that was the most stupid thing a grown up man with beards could do.
