I might have to bid the city goodbye and go back to my village because there is a cycle of unprecedented events there,
My village Chief started small like it was a joke. He said water that swept downhill to his farm had carried weed seeds. Weed is meant to be uprooted. But we never realized his was a different kind till youths started flocking his compound. It is not peculiar for youths to be in a Chief’s compound frequently. But when your elder brother impregnates the village chief’s eldest daughter, the girl with two left buttocks who was found taking a dump at the church podium on a fine Sunday morning, then shit has hit the fan. (Pun intended). When you hear that your village chief is now a bhang peddler, you garra go because the whole village depends on your academic prowess to solve this issue. They do not give a mad girl’s ass whether you are studying Anthropology or Economics in campus; they raised you to learn the entire world’s politics.
I might have to leave this toxic city and pack for the village soon because my father is troubled,
My crack-head brother was on his way from the river with our flock of cattle when he spotted Nyanchama, the two left buttocks girl. The geography of the village is that the path to the river stream passes right outside the chief’s compound. His senses must have seeped right through his porous pothead and he forgot about the cows. It so happens that the weed farm is right next to the path where he was. The cows had a feast while his hands were exploring the geography of the two left buttocks girl. As we speak, the village chief wants compensation for the damage on his bhang. As we speak, my father has already sent word to the chief telling him in no uncertain terms will he be summoned by a bhang farmer and if he feels offended he should go sit on a hot jiko.
I might have to go to the village immediately because scenes are turning ugly,
My father who owns the sole butchery in the village sold weed-meat to church members who are having a camp meeting in the village. The cow that he had slaughtered is among the ones that fed on the Chief’s weed farm. My village members do not care whether I study Computer Science or English Literature; I have to be a Forensic Scientist and solve this matter. Now the pastor is said to be quoting severally from the burning bush scene in the bible. The choir members are all singing about Mt Zion. They are talking of dreams of brighter days, and aliens , and possible ramifications of existence of parallel universes. The weed has taken effect.
I might have to go to my village this moment because events have escalated real quick,
After dealing with munchies and eating almost all of the week’s food that they had carried from the camp in one day, the church members must have had a lot of energy to release. Now, it so happens that the ground they were camping at is just uphill from the Chief’s farm. It also so happens that this is coincidentally where the water that brought weed seeds to the Chief’s farm allegedly came from. The Church members with their newly pumped energy picked hoes, I mean a lot of hoes, hoes of all sizes and shapes and attitude. They also carried other farm tools but the hoes were the most. They set down the campsite and decided to do volunteer work. My village members do not care what I study at campus, but they think I should know theology and come and help sorting the crisis.
I might have to go to the village because reports reaching me minutes ago are scary.
The church members are uprooting everything in every farm they come across. The first one right next to the campsite is the Chief’s. The Chief is sharpening his panga while cursing. My father sips busaa and laughs hard as he tells me this on the phone. Seconds later I receive a text from my crackhead brother:
“Bro, I accidently dropped a blunt in Dad’s busaa pot. The same one he was drinking from when he called you. I am afraid to tell him.”
Bruuuuuuuuh. I garra go. My village needs me!