End of the road for Mr Rutatumbuliwa
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THE chain of nonblessed human beings (a.k.a social animals) who have sneaked millions of lies onto my blessed ears would stretch from the Ubungo Bus Terminal in Dar to Tanga.

Just in passing, there’s nothing ‘terminal’ about the Ubungo Bus Terminal, unless the word relates to a critically ill patient in the Intensive Care Unit of a hospital.

To call a glorified bus parking yard which hosts a few fish ponds when it rains heavily as a terminal is halftrue, as opposed to half a lie. I can confidently swear that, if my ears were innocent human beings, they would sue the social animals, but I wouldn’t dare do so while holding a copy of the Holy Bible.

My reservoir of truthfulness isn’t wholly dry, Mwanawani and Mwanaisha. So, I’m half-way embarrassed to report that, once in a while, my tongue accidentally utters a few harmless lies.

My enemies had manufactured a rumour to the effect that my ears and those of a rabbit resemble as strikingly as two cockroaches born to the same mother.

They include an ex-MP who had been fed with a lie that I was eyeing his seat in order to draw hefty sitting allowances, if I chanced to become a member of a house whose ‘h’ is capitalized (H) and which is known as ‘August’, though it has nothing to do with the eighth month of the year.

There’s probably some truth in the rumour, and there-in probably lies the explanation for my funnyshaped ears being resistant to pressure that would burst normal ones.

The other blessed evening, I shared a table with a fellow senior citizen at a nonblessed (but not necessarily cursed) joint bearing the stylish name Tokomeza Kiu Bar. His surname, Rutatumbuliwa, rang a bell because it relates to my tribe of banana worshippers.

What didn’t ring a bell was why, both on earth and in heaven, he bore the name, which, put liberally, implies that, he was immunized, by 100 per cent, against being shaken, through, say, being sacked from his job.

At some stage, while we chatted and sipped what blasphemous fellows call holy waters, I almost jumped from my seat out of fright. Tears were dripping from Rutatumbuliwa’s eyes onto his glass.

I got trapped in the so-called Catch-22 situation. I wondered whether I should weep alongside him in solidarity, but expelled the idea, after remembering that he was an outright stranger who didn’t deserve such a strange favour, barely half an hour having elapsed after we had met.

He wiped his tears and apologized for weeping in public, but explained that, he had been driven into doing so by what he described as ‘exceptional circumstances’. I consoled him by jolting his memory to the theme of a song by a late iconic South African musician Lucky Dube, that even big boys cry.

My advice helped . He recomposed himself and narrated to me something along these lines, while holding a miniature copy of the Holy Bible: “I swear in the name of Judas Iscariot; sorry, Jesus Christ, that I am overall a super gentleman, contrary to the belief by many people that I am a crook. I have never cheated anyone out of a single cent since I was born about sixty years ago.

If my neighbourhood pastor were to be suddenly taken ill at the altar in the middle of delivering a sermon, I would automatically be singled out and assigned to complete it…”

He paused to sip a bit of beer, during which my ears, through an inner voice relayed via the mouth, told me that this was a semi-holy man worth befriending, as he would impart a positive spiritual influence on me.

A minute or so later, two men stormed into the pub, one of whom drew a pistol and shot dead the man my ears had tricked me into believing was fairly holy. I did something patriotic known as helping the police, but my assistance was nearzero.

For, I didn’t know even the first name of the deceased, as I don’t, of the capital city of Mongolia, and as I didn’t, the identity of the killers. Plus, my friendship with Mr Rutatumbuliwa was probably the shortest since the creation of Adam and Eve.

He was notorious for tricking people into buying pieces of expertly polished stones he purported were diamonds and had boastfully nick-named himself Rutatumbuliwa - someone who would never be exposed and silenced by the victims.

I was angry with my ears for cheating me, but can’t contract anyone to slice them off; and who would agree to do so, anyway, and at what fee?

Moreover, due to shock arising from seeing the mirror reflection of an earless Wilson Kaigarula, I would collapse, die prematurely and most probably reconnect with Rutatumbuliwa in HeHe: Heaven-Hell !

This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. 0713-450-63

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