How unkind can some people get? Many insist I am hardly accomplished at carrying out the most simplest of chores. They even go to the extent of calling me domestically disabled. They aim for humour by portraying me as a hopeless and helpless goof.
Things got so bad that I decided to ‘seek professional help,’ although of a different sort than is usually suggested to me. “Nuts to you,” I told them while elaborating that they could go and do what the monkey did with nuts. In my estimation anyone who goes to a psychiatrist should have his head examined.
I harboured an ambition to be an artist once. But I could never draw. I mean I could not even manage a straight line even with the help of a foot-ruler. You see the line becomes terribly slanted. Okay if I had the slightest talent to draw I would have made a career of being an editorial cartoonist and drawn funny caricatures of certain crooked politicians, tycoons, bureaucrats and policemen.
And I would have made a montage of them in a sort of rogues’ gallery. And I would not have given a tinker’s cuss if they had sued me because I would have told the entire shebang: “If the face suits you then slap it on!” But I still have not given up hope of becoming a modern artist at least. All you have to do is to splash paint on a canvas, then wipe it off with a cloth and sell the cloth.
All right then, it is an empirical fact that I cannot sing either. If I ever had to sing for my supper I would be a starving scarecrow. Or come to think of it listeners may have paid me more than a superstar’s fee to put a brake on my vocal chords. The truth is I can’t even rap. If I did my audience would not clap they would slap!
It is not that my voice is all that bad. It is rather attractive for an accomplished presenter. But the problem is that I cannot carry a tune in a bucket. So for a long time I have had the good sense not to sing in public. I save my singing voice for solo performances in the shower.
The family maintains that the neighbours inquire politely if our pet Labrador Retriever, Flash, who is usually quiet, has suddenly taken to baying out loud. Very funny! Well let me tell you for the last time, if I am going to sing like everyone else, then I don’t need to sing at all.
Again I concede I am a mutt at Mathematics. I get half scared to death when totting up numbing numerals. You could actually call me ‘mathophobic’. I could never have attempted a financial job if my life depended on it. I always considered mathematics a devilishly daft subject.
So I thought why the heck should I have to follow a darn stupid formula? Pure mathematics, my foot! My kind of maths is of the most impure kind because I spew out the most profane oaths when confronted with counting my change. Anyway why bother when you can always use a calculator to tot things up. You may have surmised by now that I am not really much good at anything.
According to my detractors I am a total failure as a handyman too. Home improvement, I concede, can be a nightmare for me. They say I could not knock in a straight nail. So I tell them to get an experienced carpenter to really nail it, if you don’t want me screwing everything up.
If only they would pass me a hammer I would show them how an ugly human head could be nailed into a wall with the same dexterity as fixing an animal trophy. They also claim I am the most feared cook East of Killinochchi. They maintain I cannot fix anything. Not even a slap-up dinner. Some ungrateful guests have spread a malicious rumour that with my cooking it does not do any good to invite people over for dinner.
They say I have to ask my friend the High Court Judge next door to send out warrants. It is small consolation when they concede that I am a hospitable host. But not when they elaborate on the reason that nobody ever leaves my kitchen hungry. Nauseated yes, but never hungry, they say. And the worst crack about my culinary achievements is that when I go into the kitchen the onions start to cry.
They also claim my chillie omelettes are dynamite. When they hit your stomach they explode on impact. Imagine, when the parish priest came over for dinner the other night he said grace. When he had completed his thanksgiving speech my sister couldn’t resist the crack: “My brother’s cooking is so bad that we usually pray after we eat.” As if on cue granddaughter Keshi 17 and going on 25 quipped: “My dada has a black belt in cooking. One chop and you are dead!”
Do not ask me why but when my car or anyone else’s vehicle breaks down I am constrained to look under the hood. I would not notice if the problem had to do with the radiator or accelerator. Still hand me a hammer and a pair of giant tongs and I will handle it as a make or break emergency. I have nothing to lose either way.
As you can see, I’m artistically, culinarily, vocally, musically, mathematically and mechanically impaired. But it could be worse. So instead of trying to be the all-round handyman I decided that it would be far safer and practical playing popular candy-man.
I was asked to take charge of my little grandson Kingco for an entire day. He actually loves my food. Actually he thinks a combination of waffles and ice cream is the greatest culinary invention of all time. But I took him over to the old Victoria ‘Meda-Midula’ and asked him to finish up his hot dogs before he tucked into his sweets. I bought him a pack of delicious candy bars for dessert.
He could not resist and kept unwrapping them one after the other. I left him for a while on a park bench while talking to an old acquaintance. He was munching what must have been his fifth delectable strawberry morsel when a man came across from the opposite bench and said: “Hey, eating all those sweets is not good for you young man. It will give you tummy aches, blacken your teeth, and make you fat.” Little Kingco replied: “No probs, mate! My great-grandfather lived to be 102 years old.”
The man asked, “Did your great-grandfather eat six candy bars at a time?”
Kingco coolly answered: “No, he minded his own darned business!”
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