Whenever I tell people that we have the best juju in the Great Lakes region, they actually think I am pulling their leg.
Well, it was last week when I decided to go and partake of the capitalistic fallacy (some people call it Christmas day--though I think it's the biggest hoax) in the village.
I decided to leap on one of those flying coffins that people enter while alive but then come out dead, depending on what speeds the driver was doing. I managed to get to my village safely, got to see my people before we decided to go shopping at a nearby market.
Our mode of transport was some rickety makeshift metal concoction that for lack of a better word I will call a bicycle. On reaching the market, the rules of engagement fell into play. We were not allowed to enter with the bicycle; so, my relative parks it outside, removes the pump and off we go shopping. We bought everything that we needed but to our surprise, when we got outside the market, our bicycle was missing--if this was Masindi, we would think Kabakumba had a hand but this was Nebbi!
I panicked and wanted to call police but was stopped by my relative; he told me he didn't trust the police. So, he knelt down where the bicycle had been parked before, muttered a few things to himself and started pumping the ground using the bicycle pump. He did this for about 30 minutes and the next thing we saw was some very obese man being pushed in a locally made wheelbarrow (gadi-gadi) towards us.
There was also another person following on a bicycle. It turns out that this obese man had stolen our bicycle and by pumping the ground, my relative was inflating him using 'blue tooth!'
To deflate the thief, he just went to the bicycle tyre, pulled out the spoke and in a whiff; the thief went back to normal size and was warned never to do this again! Later, we went home and massacred those chickens we had bought from the market. We even arbitrarily arrested some innocent goats that we sentenced to death for trespass!
When the night fell, I decided to hit the disco being the energetic one. Now my people are interesting people; they only listen to lingala music, only drink ESB and for some reason their perfume has a pungent smell that emanates from the armpits. I hear our girls love this perfume so much that you only have to hug her to get laid. I never hugged anyone!
Later, at around midnight, I realized that the little money I had, had been used to buy for my people in the disco some alcohol; so, I decided to head back to my relatives home. The night was as dark as the skin of a Dinka, the only thing visible was being seen with the help of the dim headlights from the boda boda cyclist.
In my village, my grandfather's grave lies in the compound; so, I told the boda boda man to wait for his money. He them beamed his headlights to follow me. I walked straight to the grave, knelt down and knocked on it and said ... 'papa.. papa.. mechabo...... mimu mvadi ofee' (Daddy, daddy, I have come back... open for me and also come and pay the boda guy).
Trust me, the next morning we still found the boda man's bike parked with its light on. Problem is I don't know where he ran to.