I am back folks…and Nebuchadnezzar Kirundiro Mwobithania is my new name (Part I of IV)
- February 03, 2018
Yieeess people! It is I,
Perhaps we’ve met before. Perhaps we haven’t. Either way, it really doesn’t matter. And that’s because this right here is a very new me. Born afresh, is the terminology –I think.
Until 30 minutes ago, my name was Kirundiro; Kirundiro wa Mwobithania or Sufferer or KM if you have a lazy tongue. That was the old me. Now, my name is Nebuchadnezzar Kirundiro Mwobithania or NKM or Sufferer in Christ, if you insist.
Pastor John said a Biblical name is a must if the holy waters are to touch my dome in baptism. It is the only way to get true salvation and avoid eternal condemnation or something similar, he said.
I settled on Nebuchadnezzar because they said the bloke was a king. Perhaps I will be king someday.
But the main reason I chose Nebuchadnezzar is the looks I anticipate from the magistrates as they struggle with the spelling. Terrible mood, is what those convoluted names puts the poor judges in. It will be so much fun watching the frustration as the judge wonders if Nebuchadnezzar starts with a ‘k’ or a ‘p’.
We toasted to our forthcoming riches like they do on movies, careful not to spill a drop of the precious illicit liquid in the plastic cups
I hope that is not a sin, or is it? This salvation thing is really fresh to me. Been in it for an hour now and I am hopelessly thirsty for some bitter liquid. Hungry too. But I’m determined to hold out.
If you’ve met the old me, then you must know that I am a founder member of Ulevi ni Nguvu, Maji Safi Achia Samaki NGO or Forget Mututho, Sober is to Fish Society –in case you were born across the seas. The English version was deemed necessary following an impromptu meeting of the board called by our self-imposed foreign affairs director Kirungustu. It was agreed that an English translation of the name was necessary to ease transactions with the expected donors.
Very high decisions…
So Kirungustu consulted his enormous linguistic library and gave us what he called a perfect translation. We all nodded in agreement and resolved to register the NGO the following morning so that the dollars could start flowing immediately.
We toasted to our forthcoming riches like they do in movies, careful not to spill a drop of the precious illicit liquid in the plastic cups. Of course we were higher than the average bar maid.
It was seven years ago. But that our ‘following morning’ hasn’t arrived yet doesn’t mean the organisation doesn’t exist. May be you are member.
But, me, I have to resign now. It is sad, I know, but I had a long debate with the pastor at the pulpit earlier trying to convince him to cut me some slack by leaving out the bitter liquids on the list of sinful things I should leave behind in my old life.
“Even Jesus drunk himself silly and went clobbering people in the church because they were sober and had refused to sell him more booze. Please don’t ban alcohol,” I pleaded, delving into my Biblical knowledge in desperation.
It was a tremendous achievement, I felt, me quoting the Bible like a pro. I silently thanked this dude we were arrested with one day. Preached at the back of the police landcruiser from Commercial to Central Police. Very knowledgeable and resourceful, the dread-locked fellow sounded. Might have been raging mad too, but that didn’t dull his intelligence.
And in perfect harmony, his humongous mouth too unleashed the words in increasingly violent decibels.
Then as we approached the gate to the Police Station, the mad professor declared he was divorcing his wife. But that’s not what cost him free State accommodation. Nope. It is also not when he proceeded to marry himself to an officer he had been referring to as Mueni, his childhood girlfriend, all along. Cop was a man.
Kicked him out of the pick-up at the gate, is what Boinnet’s boys did, following spirited attempts by the crazy dude to kiss his ‘Mueni’. He hit the tarmac on his head with a thud. Thought his dome was burst. But he got up quickly, one hand scratching his balls, the other his dreadlocks in amazed confusion. He then walked off, mumbling to himself, one hand still rubbing his skull, the other furiously scratching his ass.
I was sad to see him go. But he left me with a precious piece of religious information which I quoted to the pastor to save my broth. I felt it would be enough. It had to be. And that’s because it is all I had.
But the man of God was not impressed. Instead of patting me on the back and acknowledging what an enormous blunder he was about to make, he showered my eyebrows with spittle as he spoke gibberish right in my face.
A very delicate situation
I tried to twist my face away from the direct watery assault but his sweaty palm was clamping the top of my dome like a basketball. I wanted to tell him that his breath was scalding my nostrils but realised just in time what a terrible error of judgement opening my yappers would be.
I attempted to prise away the fingers that were bursting my dome but the harder I tried, the tighter his grip got. And in perfect harmony, his humongous mouth too unleashed the words in increasingly violent decibels.
And it was not just empty noise. They were loaded with ferocious sprays of saliva. The smack was particularly vicious each time he said ‘power’. I reckon ‘power’ is his favourite word.
At one point, I opened one eye gingerly to assess my predicament. I was beginning to feel woozy. His eyes were tightly shut too, is what I saw. I reckoned that was the reason he was unaware of the damage he was inflicting on the son of Mwobithania. Had to shut my eye again quickly or face instant blindness, is what I had to do.
But the situation was getting dire. The pain was becoming unbearable. I hate pain. I know you do too.
A really tough skull, is what I was blessed with. Many weapons of significant standing –including police batons, a girl’s handbag, the sharp heel of her shoe, a tractor wheel spanner –have all attempted to pry it open and left thoroughly embarrassed. It felt like the fingers of this preacher man might crash it like it was a gourd. The peril was imminent. Drastic action was needed.
I was determined to blow his pastoral sacks up his intestines and out through his flapping mouth.
I am generally a calm fellow. But this preacher man’s incredibly strong fingers had provoked the same instinct a mob baying for my blood rouses. It’s fight or flight. I’m not a natural fighter. I prefer flight. But the bugger wouldn’t let me. The road never taken is what I have. And he was on the front line.
With my blinkers still tightly sealed, I summoned my energies and directed all of them towards my right foot. My aim was the pastor’s nuts. No man can stand a direct hit on them baby makers. Almost as painful as loosing a juicy smokie to a hawk.
I launched the foot with all the swing I could muster. I was determined to blow his pastoral sacks up his intestines and out through his flapping mouth. Somehow, inexplicably, I missed. Was off my target by several churches.
Struck a nearby plastic seat, is what my flying foot did. The choir abruptly suspended the background music and scampered as the purple missile hurtled towards them. My foot was also still moving towards the ceiling. Presently, it dragged its colleague from under me, denying me further support. The clergyman fingers couldn’t cope.
My back hit the church floor in a thunderous fall. The church fell into a frozen silence. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. Until my gifted kisser opened up in howl of protest. I swear I didn’t tell it to holler. Its own things, is what it sometimes does.
I quickly forced my trap shut. Pastor John helped me up saying God was punishing me for questioning his commands but he promised that all was well. I left the pulpit with a bruised back, condemned to eternal thirst, dripping with saliva and stinking like the pastor’s mouth. I still am.
Perhaps you are wondering what miracle happened that I, the suffering son of my Ma and Pa, agreed to abandon the sweetness of sin. Let me go dust myself and then tell you about the miracle here.