SUNDAY MORNING SERVICING

Brethren, our reading today comes from the Book of Nemesis. Yes, Nemesis: the Vengeful God.

“ ..And the Good Lord revealed himself to Moses in form of a burning herb. Behold when he was done inhaling, he went down the mountain bearing two tablets. One tablet was of Mandrax and the other of ecstasy. And all that was in the beginning…”

Now before we jack you for the pastor’s testes money, let us hear the Testimony of Brother Potash. He that was delivered from the Power of Darkness!

It was a beautiful Sunday morning, back when I was still living in the city. Yes back then when I was living a life of debauchery and sin. It was that kind of morning, you know, when you have a can of Napshizzle, two gaffs and a whole fifty seven bob left over from the previous night’s dunda. Hell, I even had a Take Away, and it was not from Munyiri’s Fish and Chips. You feel that vibe, eh?

Now this Take Away wasn’t so bad to look at. I mean I have seen worse, you jua- like those with three epidermis layers: one baby powder, the other hydrocortisone cream- fair and lovely ya kadogo, eh- and the original layer, all rubbery now. (All that below a ‘me-is-roosey’ weaves looks like Michael Jackson got a sex change.) But this one, zii… this Take Away was timam. On point dadi! It had two eyes, a nose, a mouth and two ears- all where they are meant to be.

In between its ears was a grey area, but I could understand, after all Napshizzle and grey matter do not mix. Besides who is perfect? Some got their cleft lips, others have squint eyes and I got my piles. That’s God’s image all up my arse! It is a little wonder then that Sunday school taught me to ask God to give me serenity to accept the things I cannot change. And those things include haemorrhoids and getting drunk and taking away the last moron I see at the shebeen before I pass out.

She smiled at me. Her lower incisors were chipped. That explained the sore lacerations on my tongue. A moment before I had been thinking that I had cut my tongue chewing muguka bila Big G. Suddenly, I made a mental note to get a Tetanus shot and a rabies one too, soon as there was sufficient blood in my alcohol stream.

I grinned at her but it came out a scowl because a bunch of demons were using the few brain cells the alcohol had left me as a Geisha like wanking aid. She turned around lazily but certainly not without effort. It occurred to me then that she was on the plus size. You know the kind that is too fat to fit in a movie seat. (Maybe that is the plus side of the plus size, they save you on movie dates. But I cannot afford the movies anyhow and also I always was of the opinion that only plants should get flowers.)

“sema sweetie…” That was her speaking not me. Now, too many Morning Afters have taught me that if a mama calls you ‘Sweetie’ in the morning, it means that she cannot remember your name. And I am usually not offended because even I cannot always remember what I was prostituting myself as the night before. Was I Potash? Just Potash, the professional bum or was I masquerading as Potash, EDB, XYZ- Project Management Consultant? Maybe I was Aku Kuku Manga, a madinka refugee from South Sudan. (Okay, enyewe that last one is reserved for Odieros. It has suggestions of a Mandingo the size of an AK- 47… oh, I dream of Africa… Shidwe!)

But what does it matter in the morning. The end must have justified the noun. What is in a name anyway, the late Billy someone used to ask. A name is just a tag. But talking of tags, what was hers? It must have been Carol, Susan or Mary. You know, something so unremarkable you could as well name your daughters; A, B or C. It had to be something like that because I can never forget a Mueni, Akinyi or Wakonyo and not just because I had been screaming their names all night, eh! But lenga that storo… kill that vibe mpaka like baadayes…

She put a podgy paw on my upturned cheek. It was as though she was turning the veve glob- tuksin- beneath it. Then her face went solemn like. You know that look a mama has when she remembers that the CD broke. (Eehh, some of you jamaas is asking, what CD? I jua your maneno … wacha tu!)

“You don’t go to church, sweetie?” she queried
“I do. I mean, I even go for Kesha at ‘One Love Licker Store…’ I replied
“Blasphemy… Ngai!” She screamed.
“Huh? Isn’t blasphemy the prerogative of the non-Christian?” I exploded dripping sarcasm.
“What is prerogative?” She asked.
“Oh fuck… anyway, the only godly butt I kiss is a cigarette one!” Quoth the Potash.
“You will rot in hell, sweetie, you will… “The girl yelled.
“Cool at least that will give me an answer to the stock question: What are you up to these days, Potash? Currently, I am rotting in Hell!” I stated philosophically.
And all she could say in response to that was; ““Shidwe Pepo baya!”
“Now you are not only being judgemental,” I remarked, “but you are also blaspheming the devil”

That is the moment she plugged her years and started screaming like a proselyte on the Day of Pentecost.
“Get Up! Get Up!” She was mouthing. “We are going for Morning Service at the Glory Church…”
But I am not the kind to get up on Sunday morning; I just Get it Up!
Morning Glory….

And thus another soul- yet another proselyte- was won over to the Potashian Sunday Morning servicing!