WHY A SPADE IS A BIG SPOON By Pablo Yagayo A story is told of a new preacher who stood at the church door greeting members as they left the Sunday morning service. Most people were very generous in telling the new preacher how they liked his message, except for one man who said, “That was a very boring sermon, mister man.” A few minutes, the same man appeared again in line and said, “I don’t think you did any preparation for your message today, Reverend.” Once again, the man appeared, this time muttering, “You really blew it. You didn’t have a thing to say, Pastor.” Finally the preacher could stand it no longer. He went over to one of the deacons and inquired about the man. “Oh, don’t let that guy bother you,” said the deacon. “He is a little slow. All he does is go around repeating whatever he hears other people saying.” I don’t know whether it’s [our] culture, politeness or for goodness’ sake that some people never mean what they say. They say what they mean in your absence. At almost every funeral I have attended, there is a drunkard who says things about the deceased that might not go well with the mourners, yet they seem to agree with but are quick to dismiss him just for goodness’ sake. They rough up the drunkard and either lock him into a room or tie him onto a banana stem until the deceased is laid to rest. It’s during the mourners’ procession back home that they start to discuss and justify the drunkard’s utterances as true and back them up with evidence. I attended a funeral a couple years ago of a man who was known to be a habitual tax evader. They called the local council chairman to speak on behalf of the government. Everyone was waiting to hear what he would say about him. It was a public secret that the deceased was a rogue, cheater and never paid debts or tax. The chairman broke down in tears saying, “The government has lost a very influential person. The gap he has left will never be filled.” I could see mourners uncomfortably nodding their heads in agreement. An old lady seated right behind me kept wondering whether they were genuine or crocodile tears. She kept wondering why the chairman was sugar-coating the man’s nasty behaviour. The old lady started narrating in a loud whisper how the deceased one time beat the local defence unit that had been mounted to crackdown tax defaulters. He then wrote a letter to the chairman saying, “Stop wasting people’s taxes looking for taxes. Just board a taxi and leave our village alone.” The chairman wound his speech by giving a bag of cement as contribution from the government. “I knew he would give cement instead of money or beans to the bereaved family,” said the old lady. “He wants him sealed and cemented in the grave forever. He doesn’t want to leave any gap unfilled.” I’ll never forget the day I was watching a comedy show and a stand-up comic successfully messed up his act – what they call ‘dying on stage’ in comedy. The audience jeered, booed and cursed him like he was the worst plague to ever hit the earth. To my surprise, some of the revellers that I saw tempting to throw bottles at the comedian were the same people at the end of the show patting his back saying, “You nailed it. You are the real deal. Uganda finally has talent.” Why do people find it hard to rebuke others with love than hypocritical praises, knowing very well that their entire body and soul are burning with hate and rage? I was attending a typical Kiganda function and the emcee kept appreciating the presence of a white man but would then go ahead and speak ill of him in Luganda. If I remember correctly, he said, “You are very welcome to the Pearl of Africa where milk and honey flow in the village path. Thank you for investing in our country.” In Luganda, he would then say, “Abayaye bazekukwana obuwala bwaffe. Kuula mwanawattu, omuzeeyi omumalemu amannyo,” meaning, “These thugs are here to take our girls. Take all you can, my dear child, until you leave him with nothing.” Later, during the second half of the function, the chairman of the function introduced the white man and begged him to speak to the gathering. The mzungu politely got the microphone and spoke fluent Luganda. “Bassebo ne banyabo, mwebale kunzikiriza kuberanamwe olwaleero, okusingiraddala emcee eyayogedde ebintu ebiyitirivu obulungi,” meaning, “Gentlemen and ladies, thank you for inviting me, and in a special way, I thank the emcee for his kind words.” He spoke for 10 minutes in Luganda, and by the time he was done, the emcee was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared into thin air. The chairman had no option but to ask the mzungu to continue as the emcee.
Posted on: Fri, 26 Jul 2013 08:53:01 +0000
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