Sleek and Wild

Special delivery

// May 26th, 2010 // 8 Comments » // Stranger than fiction

Fang Shui woke with a bang. Dang, that hurt! Time-check…oh shit, he’d been asleep for a whole 6 minutes. Not good, not good at all. “Have to deliver package…have to deliver package”…heart racing. He reached out for her….gone! Stupid whore, she left with the best 5 seconds of his life…But no time for whiny tears, have to deliver package…have to deliver package. He felt around for the package…feeling, feeeling, feeling…nothing…he started to feel himself then he thought better of it…get package! Ah, there it is…he picked it up and made a crazy dash for the door, the rickety I’ll-hit-your-tall-ass door. The musky early morning air slapped him a welcome. A mouthful will do just fine, thank you…now to dash…craaap! Local priest, Chang Pot Poi, on his way to mount Pimpei, had bumped into him and he’d somehow managed to spill three drops of white, gooey pooey on Fang Lui’s angry-brown shirt…craaap! Now for the face-off…no priest spills gooey pooey on Fang Lui’s angry-brown shirt and gets away with it.

“No battle cries pastor, I’m going to whoop your lofty (ahem) without making a sound…apart from this just-concluded statement that is.” Fang Lui

“I pray for your soul young ‘un…coz the whooping I deliver was last seen when the Vikings raided Nigeria…” Greying priest

(Pause as leaves flutter to the ground)

(Priest squints eyes, everything fades into the background,save for a lone picture of his lord and savior)

(Fang Lui widens eyes, taking in every detail, even the mole on Priest’s left cheek)

Fang is the first to move, ever so fast…

(now writing in slow-motion mode to get all details of Fang’s attack)

left jab, right legheadedforTheHead then QuickLeftLegHeadedForTheGroin…

Priest dodges the jab, uses his hand to fend off the kickToTheHead but he’s not fast enough to guard against KickInTheGroin…ka! It hits home…Fang waits for a reaction….none. Ah shit, he remembers that the Priest, for lack of use for them, has no balls…evolution. Darwin.

Too late, Priest has already smiled at Fang’s feeble attempt..nobody’s home sucker!

(Priest moves into super uber faster fast mode)

(Writing in slow motion mode to keep up)

(Whirlwind of activity, not possible to keep up, writer only sees Fang on ground, Priest walking away)…

(Sometime later)

Fang comes to….ah shit, deliver package…deliver package…

Office virgin

// September 3rd, 2009 // 15 Comments » // Stranger than fiction

Ahhh, Mike…there you are. Thought you’d be taller…and better looking. But hey, you don’t look as bad as the office gossips painted you…come here, come here. First day at work eh! Excited? Excited? No? Yes? Do you speak English? Why are you just standing there? Come over…I am Boddo, though most of the ladies here just call me ‘Munene’, still not sure why…Boddo? Yes, it’s my real name. You see, my old man was a fisherman and he loved to catch fish. Fishermen usually love to catch fish. So one time, he was lost at lake for many days. To stay sane, if he ever was sane to start with-bless his soul, he caught fish. There is this fish he caught and it talked to him. They became friends. He shared with it life’s issues as a man. It shared with him life’s frustrations as a fish. For one, it had big issues with how it mated. I mean, how was it supposed to have fun if all it did was ejaculate on its woman’s eggs? Ahhh, the frustrations. So they vented and vented and vented and…you get the picture. And that’s how I got the name Boddo. You do not see the connection? Well, the fish was a king in its world, and its name was Boddo. How do I feel being named after a fish? Mike, what kind of hurtful question is that? Anyway, we ate the fish right after it directed my old man back to shore. He later wrote a book about it. Old man and the sea. What do you mean that was written by Ernest? Mike, you are young and you do not know these things…but I’ll have you know that Ernest is a master wordsmith at New Vision.

Come, let me show you around. Don’t you have any ties that match your shirts? Polka dots are kinda off you know. And those trousers seem too tight. I am sure it’s hard to look professional in them. You know you are the office virgin for a while now, so you’ve got to look the part. I have been with this company ten years now. That’s since its inception man. I know everything. Why am I still a receptionist? Life’s calling I guess…now that over there is Kingo. He talks to himself a lot. Sometimes he randomly hits his head on walls, just…he says it helps him quiet the voices in there. And the ladies love him…because of the voices, he is always doing something, and the ladies love someone always doing something…

Oh, that over there, talking rather loudly on phone, is Dina. She’s very seductive that one…we have a prize for anyone who can put off getting with her the longest…I almost got that money. I lasted three hours man, three hours! And then she did this thing with her waist and…and…I don’t quite remember the rest. That Dina…(misty eyes…)
Zonto is that dude staring longingly at that Keri Hilson photo on his desk. He says he’ll marry her. As if. His routine is weird…he stares at a photo of a hot chic for a long time, then he is off to the men’s room; you won’t see him for about 30 minutes…then he comes back smiling. Beats me what that is about…

Ahhhh, meet the office gossip managers. Those three hunched over there, drawing graphs on a paper and trying to solve that Mendelev equation, that is the office gossip machinery. They are currently trying to figure out who was the last person to sleep with Dina. Those three girls will spread gossip about anything…yes, anything. They once made us believe that one of them had won a Nobel prize for etiquette or some crap like that. Turns out she had a prize, a noble prize in an eating competition…the gossips.

That guy on phone is Kafiya. We think his name is a derivative of mafia. He is always ‘banging deals’. He is our in-house deal-banger. He can get you anything. One time, he brought a space shuttle fuel tank to work. He explained to me that his business in narcotics is flourishing because the government thinks he is building a space shuttle. They plan to finance his ‘space exploration project’. I’m not sure who’s crazier; the government or him.

That’s funky janitor. That’s one janitor who cannot clean. But he loves his music. He never takes off those head phones. You’ll find him doing that caterpillar dance move on the poorly cleaned floors after work…

Oh, and some company policy. Never speak to the boss directly. Never look him in the eye. Don’t take more than one glass of water a day from that water dispenser. And company lunch consists of, but is not limited to, pancakes and the aforementioned glass of water. Come late and you’ll get cained. Not by the boss. By Bindu, that beefy guy in the corner. That’s his work.

Rambo

// July 21st, 2009 // 30 Comments » // Stranger than fiction

My entire life has led up to this moment. I am the stone that the builder refused, I am the visual, the inspiration that made the ladies sing the blues. Go boondocks!!!Ok, that last sentence was for Boondocks watchers (sic)…

Yes, my entire life has led up to this moment. That rejection from Molly in P.3, that beating from Bundy in P.7, that run-in with the H/M in S.4, that ka romance in third year, that naughty stuff with hot workmate at the office bitch party…has all led to this. SHE has been captured and I, Rambo, will save her…the Vietnamese descended on the village while I was asleep and took HER away. The goons burned everything in their wake. Everything? Everything…the ka mango tree, home to our cellular network coverage, the granary, stock-pile of carefully mixed proportions of food and weed, the five popular ducks…all gone! Oh those ducks could quack; now they are gone off to a better place. The Vietnamese even burnt my hut; they burnt everything but my bed, Lusty. I always knew that this fire-resistant, noise-proof contraption I got on E–bay would one day come in handy. Of course it had done quite some heavy work at night…

I have to rescue HER from the Vietnamese. How could they take HER away? I could only imagine what they were doing to HER right now…those starved starved war-lords who went days on end without getting any…they were prolly making her fetch water from the well. I had to save HER.

I reach for Mpengo, the trusted radio I always carry around. I re-adjust my tape and press play. Nothing. As expected. Two carefully placed slaps and the song I want to listen to starts to play. ‘Kungfu Fighting’, my theme song for situations that require revenge, swift revenge that grabs others by the balls and squeezes till a face turns green; squeezer or squeezee’s face, no matter. The song blares from the speakers. I pump my muscles up, heave in and out. I get down for press-ups but the position brings back so many memories of HER so I change to sit-ups. I do two then my ample belly gets in the way and I slow down.

“Maybe this getting-ready-for-battle thing is over-rated. I should just go live.” I think to myself.

Princess, by ‘live’ I wasn’t thinking what you are thinking.

“Yes, maybe I should go live. Arnold Schwarzenneger used to do it, and yet I have a better grasp of vowels than he does.”

I look down at my palms. Blistered from all the slaps I’ve dished out on a daily to the guys here who ogle HER. Vietnam, here I come.

I spend days and nights trekking through the forest, following the tracks of the goons that had taken HER. The guys who are about to get served their own balls on a platter. Imagine that; Hey sir, here are your balls, eat up. Anyway, back to my tale of love and lust lost. I finally get to a clearing. I can see them doing some ritual dance involving 5 men, 2 women, a goat and 2 chickens. Don’t ask. The lead Vietnamese is seated far off, obviously aroused. All the others are seated close enough to watch each drop of sweat drop off all the ritual dance participants, men, women, chicken et all. Too bad I have to kill ‘em all. Badass angry me. I can’t see her so I guess she is being held captive in the granary far off. Damn! Now she’ll have to get back on that diet I worked so hard to get her onto in the fat place. Ahem, first place.

Now to get their attention. Why waste a whole village, Rambo style, without warning them first? Secrecy, not nice. Miss Eizzy, secrecy, not nice. I stand up from my hiding place and shout ‘AAARRRggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..’

I run out of breath. How do those guys in movies do it?

Inner geek: (whispering) Ahem, Rambo, I think they use stunt-men.

I shout again ‘AAAArrrggghhhh…’ while running towards my first victim-to-be. One kick in the groin and he’s done for. The ritual dancers are startled; men, women, chicken and goat, all startled. I spot second victim-to-be head for me with wanna-be murder in his eyes. I move too quick. A Cow-Li chop to his neck and he’s with his abusive ancestors. Cow-Li chops are the next best thing after groin-kicks. Both very sophisticated moves passed on by the gods of tai-chi. Moves so deadly you only try them at a neighbor’s home.

By now I have the Vietnamese’s undivided attention. Good. They start to reach for their guns. I dive, stay mid-air for 5 seconds, then I land and grab a gun from third victim-to-be. He tries to wrench it back and I give him the Dagger look. He grabs his neck, choking, struggling for breath. “R.I.P musha fusha!!” I whisper as I turn my attention to the now armed-to-the-kahoonas Vietnamese. Given enough time, I’d distribute dagger looks and they’d all die in pain but time is a classy whore, you just cannot have her just like that. This gun’ll have to waste all of them.

‘AAAArrghhhh…..’ I run as I shoot at them. They shoot back. They all miss. All of them. I hit them, one by one. I keep running and screaming in a deep baritone, the stuff good music is made of. Too bad I’m not here to be pretty and make music…I’m running faster, shooting crazier, hitting ‘em…their bullets wheeze past me. Whizz!!! Whizz!!! Whazz!!! I do not, even for a second, let up on the screaming…whizz! whazz!! Do these dweebs have any formal military training? Why do they keep missing? It’s not like I’m complaining but honestly, how can they ALL miss me? Morons! Blam! Blam!! I hit ‘em…

“abdbckbfcweb, kasdcvieuvcv, jklncoaer!!!!” they scream in their native tongue, angry to go out like girls. Or unhappy to go meet their American-wasting ancestors. They fall, guts flying in one direction, mouths open, still yapping in their tongue… “Rambo, kdje;nevn”

Then the shooting stops. They are all around me, what’s left of them. They’ve prolly already returned as skunks in the other life. I quickly look around. No skunks. Phewks! Then I see him…standing there, holding HER by the neck, knife in his hand.

“Take another step and I’ll slit her throat!” the Vietnamese leader spits.

Finally someone who speaks English.

We lock eyeballs. The birds leave the trees; they decide they’ve seen enough action. Chickens! I consider giving him the dagger look but I feel that’s too dignified a way for him to go. I think.

“I’m going to move really fast and hit you with a round-kick and you’ll fall flat. As you move to get up, I’ll lift you by your johns and tie you up. Then, I’ll leave an army of ants to fondle you”

He laughs. The word fondle does things to him. The hoodlum. I’d been kind enough to let him in on my plans. I do all the stuff, and I rescue HER. Then I lift HER into my arms and start my journey back home. I shush her, telling HER it’s all okay now. But SHE’ll have to go for a blood test.

Identity crisis

// July 14th, 2009 // 25 Comments » // Stranger than fiction

I am a tired of being ordinary. I have had it with having to introduce myself. I want to be able to walk into any place and everyone goes, “Hi Sleek”, and act all excited and start bustling about as though they are doing something more important than thinking about their next secret meeting with HER. I am fed up of the conductor not asking me if I have change when he has a 50k note and only turning to me for change when its 500/=. And the whole going to a shop and they cater to EVERYONE else before finally getting round to me…I have just about had it. After hours of intensive research that involved quite a bit of sweating (don’t ask), I landed on a resource. www.gain-bad-man-status-without-weed-or-dreads.com. The thing spoke directly to me. I now have several options splayed out before me:

1. Join the mafia. No, I’m not talking about the shady outfit the vice president was talking about sometime. The type that stalk you and take pictures of your pigs. The perverts! What do they want with pigs eh? Even when you have skimpily dressed young hoochie mamas running around your swimming pool, beating a beach ball around, playing loud music, wearing shades and occasionally saying sexist things. Hullo!! Take photos of the hoochie mamas, they are of foreign descent and have no passports and are seeking refugee status in certain parts of my house…(evil grin)

I am talking about THE REAL DEAL mafioso. I’ve heard all the stories about them; You know, stories like the one about how these guys are so bad, you break-out in a sweat on just hearing the name of the mafia lord. Word has it the dude once slapped a pig and it died. But Carsozy, seriously, where do you get these stories? With the mafia behind me, everyone would think twice before looking down on me…

2. Get some bling. Real heavy hard-to-ignore, IN-YOUR-FACE bling. The kind that weighs you down. This kind has the twin functions of allowing you to stand out while also building your muscles. Nice. We’ve come a long way since sliced bread

3. Dye the hair. The trick would be finding a color that complements my dark complexion…red, or white? Braiding the goatee wouldn’t be so bad…

4. Get a Taliban look complete with shifty eyes, a foreign accent and the right attire. No, I’m not stereotyping. All I have to do is grow the beard, dress the part, sit in ANY taxi, plug in me iPod phones and spontaneously break into Arabic rap, singing along word after word, with proper intonation, bobbing my head and occasionally saying ‘This shizzo is the bomb!’

5. Get meself a pot belly. Emrys’ where was that pork joint? May need to start the ‘Pot Belly or die’ regime. And no pot belly is complete without trousers hitched high on it; preferably trousers that stretch to somewhere between the shin and ankles…Nevender will hook me up there, word about his stock is all over blogville

6. Become a local artist. Need to get me a name. These rap battles have left me musically exposed…now for a stage name. Sleek just doesn’t cut it for the local scene; I need something with some razzmatazz, and imagery that doesn’t leave you guessing. Something along the lines of ‘Good singer’ but with more oomph. Ladies and gentlemen, I present, Good singer!!!

I need a producer, a hot female willing to work long hours talking, walking and thinking music…and then some. Yes, ‘and then some’ will be typed into the job contract. In the appropriate small print. Ms producer, music will not only be made in the studio, we could make it elsewhere…(wink wink)…I don’t think they’ll allow me to leave the ‘wink wink’ in the contract. Any takers? Producer anyone? Ug girl, you are out; distance issues. But there’s this site under construction that’ll bridge the distance, no, not FB. Apr9? (It’s been a while. Send me mail eh? Ok). Lulu? (Reply my mail eh?). Heaven? (stimulating texts will get you head and shoulders above the rest…big hint)…btw, Tandra, what happened to that site? I’d also like to send my shouts out to my parents, I love you oh so much…

Anyone faced with a decision as hard as mine would take time off to contemplate. I’m still weighing my options…y’all will be the first to know which of the above six thingies I’ll take on…

In other equally stimulating news, the whispers are being given a new breath of air freshener and will be with you in not too long…XXX, out with the porn, in with the whispers coz u are next…(serious face)

Getting them votes

// June 8th, 2009 // 19 Comments » // Stranger than fiction

I am on the campaign trail. The people forced me into this. There I was, chilling at the beach, sipping a bloody Mary, thinking lustful thoughts when the people approached me. They said the constituency badly needed me. That everything had gone to the dogs since I had taken a back-seat from active politics. Me? Active politics? Never been there, have no plans of going down that road. Sorry people, now if you do not mind, you are blocking the sun. And I think one of you either didn’t take a shower or he/she took those ads on TV about certain products washing whiter than white too seriously…they meant clothes you know. Now please people, leave more quietly than you came. Take care not to disturb bihogo, the goat tethered at the entrance. Oh, and don’t mind Diddy, the barking dog, he’ll only bite one of you. The rest of you’ll be safe.

That’s what I wished I could say. I was actually civil with the people. Smiled and said they’d read my mind. Said I’d always wanted to serve my country. Said I was excited about the opportunity.

“I am EXCITE!!!”, me says to them, as Borat would have so aptly put it.

They hi-five each other and get worked up. They tip over my drinks as they move to carry me. Dudes (and that woman at the back there), I haven’t even finished paying for those drinks!!

The campaigns start. My writing isn’t worth jack so I talk Kubiri into writing my manifesto and speeches. Now Kubiri isn’t the best with words but he’ll do; he knows what his peers want to hear; talk of free soap for everyone, occasional visits from a dentist, a movie night in the village square every fortnight (he even slipped in the fact that the movies wouldn’t entirely be of one color; they could be red, green, even blue…the last color so excited the crowds)..I promised the youth a gym complete with all the vehicle spare parts they needed to lift to tone their muscles, I promised the giggly girls beauty spas and a real live Mexican soap acted there in their midst, every evening, I promised the old men a Lil Kim concert (though without electricity this would be tricky one. She can project her voice I’m told)…the manifesto had nothing for the plump housewives since they felt they were way above the Mexican soap bug. Kubiri was doing a survey and it had come down to either promising the house wives a troupe of strippers or a ‘Bachelor’ show starring 50 Cent. It would be called ‘Fiddy picks one or dies trying’….Fiddy would have to pick a house wife to have and to hold or he’d be taken to the guillotine…

All was going well. The streets were pulsating, and Sleek was the name on all lips, even the pretty pretty lips. So nice. We, my team and I, had a grand drink-up planned for voting day. Everyone would be in ‘a state of euphoria’ as they waltzed to the ballot box to place the tick next to my name.

Then the rumors started. Rumors that I was involved in a terribe terrible gangster rap battle with a certain street kid. Rumours that I was planning to take part in a certain orgy orchestrated by a one Rique. Rumors that I had a long history of partying and living on the edge. Rumors that I secretly watched Mexican soaps and Nigerian movies, laughing at the humor in them. That last rumor really hit me bad. I knew that Mboli, my opponent, and his team were hard at work spreading these rumors. They were so hard at work, even the livestock started avoiding me. True story, you’d see the chicken struggling to keep eye contact with me so that they’d know where I was heading and avoid me.

Kubiri, my designated money thrower and speech writer, started avoiding me. “How could you fight with a street kid? That was so wrong!!” were his last words to me as he threw down the wad of money and his speech sketches and walked out…

“I can do this…I can do this…I can do this,” I chanted to myself, jumping up and down and getting worked up. This I’d learnt from ‘How to react when your manifesto writer walks out: An idiot’s guide’. The book was really helpful. I picked it up from a big shot politician…I won’t say who. But you all know him; think big eyes, loud speech, lotsa rhetoric and has a thing for green suits….I set about winning the erection, with or without a team. Pity drinking outta the way, I decidied that a massive drink-up would really help my voters ‘waltz’ all the way to the ballot box.

Drink-up went well…the electorate got blazed. Alcohol has a way of freeing your speech and allowing your feelings to flutter to the top…all the high people kept spontaneously bursting into song, singing praises for Mboli, my opponent…and then it was election day…