#Timbitii: The cow ate my Christmas

In the year of our Lord 2003, December to be precise, there was a very big wedding. You must know it, if not, google.

Now, this wedding was a must attend for all people, because, back then, the ship that brought the word ‘invites-only’ had not docked yet. Everyone was measuring suits and dresses to catch that wedding. If that last sentence did not make sense to you, then neither will the rest of the story. You can sign your attendance here on your way out _____. Goodbye.

Anyway, where were we? Everyone was measuring clothes. Now, as you know, the Man Beater is scarcely excitable, and the Rose doesn’t overstand the family head. So I was in utmost danger of not catching the wedding of the century, effectively becoming the laughing stock of the village, and the seven ridges around. But having been known to recover from hopeless situations, like the Hezzeh Siege, I knew there must be a way out. So I sat and thought. I could say I thought and thought and thought and thought, but recently I heard someone asking what became of the prefects who wrote people on the noisemaker list X 1million, so I desist.

In the end I came up with a plan, which I laid before the Budget committee. “You see,” I told them, “I understand we are in a very tight financial position as a family and the hyped wedding is just another wedding and it is not mandatory that me, or anyone for that matter, attends, or attends in a new suit.” By that point the MB looked sure that I was mixing him up, but he let me have my day in court. He is democratic you know, though above the law.

Thus, I continued, we need to have a good plan. See, dad, you have promised me a gift if I pass my KCPE, remember. And you mum, I know you are planning to buy me something for Christmas, not forgetting I will need a new outfit to report to school. I ignored the ‘says who?’ look from the MB and continued. So, that said, how about we buy me this wedding suit, then have it cover all the other instances? That way, we decongest our Christmas spending, and also avoid going down in history as the family that had no honour for the biggest wedding in the land.

Long story short, after a lot of back and forth, I ended up at Ndimitú’s Quick tailors who were neither quick, nor exactly tailors. Then later, much later, on the Friday which was the wedding eve, I received my suit. Not exactly a suit, but two garments of the same material and colour. Three, counting the ‘three piece.’ (Somebody tell me what we call that ka-coat worn inside, the one with a ka-shiny material at the back, half coat perhaps?)

The Rose insisted that it had to be washed, but I was skeptical. One, it was clean, I opined, and what if God forbid, it rained at night?  It’s not going to rain, she promised. I was far down in the chain of command, so, like a death row prisoner whose day has come, my suit spent the night outside, hanging. And I spent that night inside, hanging. Hanging on to the hope that my suit would dry by morning; that the Good Lord would not be teaching tap A and Tap B practicals that night.

So you can understand why I was outside at 530 Saturday morning. Literally the crack of dawn. In that arm-wrestle between light and dark, I could clearly tell something was amiss. One, only the three piece was on the line. Two I could see a dark figure like twenty meters away. Then it hit me!

Holy cow! Rather, evil cow! Wangechi!!! On this night, of all other nights, the bloody motherfucker had broken out of her boma and feasted on, of all things, my bloody fuckin’ wedding suit. I can step up when men are called out because I did not scream at that moment. Rather, I collected the two pieces of chewed garments and walked back to the house.

Chain of command aside, I summoned them all. Put on those lanterns!!! Heck, go pick the tandíka’s in the kitchen and the granary if you must!!! Tell me, what is this? Look what that cow of yours has done to my suit! Say, can’t you put up a simple structure to restrain a hungry cow? And you, can’t you for fuck’s sake buy salt lick for your cows? Do you know why cows chew clothes? It is due to mineral deficiency, now you know! If you cannot afford to rear a cow, sell the bloody thing! Right now, I want you all to sit down and decide amongst yourselves how I will attend the wedding. Afterwards we can discuss how that cow will be slaughtered.

As everyone looked at me with a pitiful face, the Man Beater just gave me that ‘Goods once sold…’ look and ‘Boy, did you just talk to me like that, I will hold it for now, but you just earned yourself a lifetime dose of daily spanking!’

I attended the wedding alright, but in a totally makeshift outfit. Of the three garments, only the three piece was wearable. The pants were totally disfigured, the coat was chewed such that one side looked like a sieve. Rose insisted there was no way I was wearing it, but I still smuggled it out.

So now, all of you who have always referred to me as the clown at Njagi’s wedding, there you have it. It was not by choice, I was a victim of circumstance. And Cosii Mkenya, you don’t have to always remind of how during entertainment, the MC called me out “Mugambi and your team, get ready, right after the singers, you will present your play.” For crying out loud, couldn’t he see that was not a costume?

PS: Njagi, please pretty please, I beseech you to burn all photos of your wedding in which I appear. If you cannot, please take them down from your wedding photo album. Classify them like nudes; for your eyes only.

If you support this petition, please sign here ___________. Thank you.

#tbt #iRestMyPen

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4 thoughts on “#Timbitii: The cow ate my Christmas

  1. Too hilarious…especially the part you put the chain of command aside and vented your heart out.Too hilarious! Love it.

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