Journey to the Moon

Yey!! ๐Ÿ˜€The weekend’s rolling on, everybody. ๐Ÿ”๐Ÿน๐Ÿฅ‚๐Ÿจ๐Ÿ– ๐Ÿ›ต๐ŸŠโ€โ™‚๏ธโ›นโ€โ™‚๏ธ As always, it’s time to eat and drink and take a small tour to the moon.ย  Pick your collection basket and let’s go. ๐ŸŒœ๐Ÿ˜Š

Here we go. Below is a brief narrative poem to spice up your weekend. Seems Jason’s grandmother (in this story) wanted to pour scorn on our weekly tours to the moon. Shall we allow her, buddies?

Journey to the Moon

Once upon a time,
in a land full of vines,
lived an old evil woman and her grandson,
a little cute boy – barely ten,
in a lonely hut, in a village in the sun.
The old lady said to her grandson one day,
“Jason, take me up on a tour to the moon.”
“To the moon?” asked the little innocent boy.
“Yes, to the moon –
to talk to our ancestors and to find some fruits.”
“With what road shall we?” asked the lad.
“The long road, uphill and downhill –
through the thick forest,
for what good is on the empty land but dust?”
So they took their baskets and some water,
and uphill they went,
and downhill they went.

And whilst they trudged through,
a fierce tiger came leaping forth.
“Fight the monster my grandson. Save me,
for I am weak and weary you know.”
So Jason stood up wild at the front,
and came forth the tiger, perched and famished;
it leaped onto him and pulled him down,
and the evil woman roared with laughter, saying,
“Now Jason, go ye to the moon
and greet thine departed parents.”
Terrified, Jason screamed blue murder,
but the monster roared in glee, beholding its fine food,
then quickly an idea came to him:
he scooped some sand into his hand,
and threw into the tiger’s eyes,
leaving it struggling to see.
And turning to his grandma said he, with tears,
“Granny, did you want to kill me?”
“No my grandson. I love you and never can.”

So on they moved and found some fruits,
and while they cut with their knives,
the old wicked lady held her knife silently over her grand’s head,
ready to slay her own kin,
but something pounced onto her. Something.
Alas! It was the tiger;
and when Jason turned and looked,
oh no, he was late,
for the spectre had pulled out his granny’s heart
and was feeding on it lavishly, wantonly,
so he turned and hurried home crying
to announce his grandmother’s journeying.

(C) 2022 Lamittan Minsah, All rights reserved.


Did you enjoy? Kindly like and leave your thoughts in the comments section below. From Laminsa Indies, have a fabulous weekend.


Funny clips by Brennan Baby

Some people were born with creams of joy on their tongues and shells of laughter in their physical expressions. Such is one young Brennan Ekoyu (in video above), popularly known to his fans by his acting name Brennan Baby.

Brennan comes from Uganda, East Africa, and makes short funny videos on high school intrigues. Owing to his high creativity and hilarious ways of depicting the behaviours of high school girls and female teachers, Brennan enjoys a huge following on his Tiktok account and has won the attention of various advertisers and media houses in his country.

To learn more about his background and inspiration, kindly watch this video. Don’t forget to subscribe to his YouTube channel and Tiktok account to support his vision. Keep it up, Brennan!

Brennan Ekoyu, alias Brennan Baby.

Swallowed by a Red Object

The closer they drew, the bigger the light appeared.

Yey!! ๐Ÿ˜€๐Ÿ’ช๐Ÿ˜€. The weekend’s here, everyone. I hope you’re having a whale of a time. ๐Ÿšตโ€โ™€๏ธ๐ŸŠโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ‹โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿง˜โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿคผโ€โ™‚๏ธโ›นโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ›€ As always, it’s time to eat ๐Ÿ›๐Ÿฒand drink๐Ÿฅ‚๐Ÿนโ˜• and take ourselves on a little tour to the moon. So, let’s pack a few belongings and go. ๐ŸŒœ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฏ๐Ÿ‘ฉโ€๐Ÿฆฝ๐Ÿšถโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿƒ.

I remember how on weekends like these we’d have bashes out of campus, go to the movies or watch a tournament (though I wasn’t quite a great fun of football as I was with other games like… do I even know? ๐Ÿ˜„). These days, all that’s left of it are just memories. But I still do enjoy a little time out on weekends with friends of the same feathers.

Today, however, I thought of something else, the stories Mum told us often on weekend nights as we sat in front of our main house after supper. My mum, I have to admit, is a skilful storyteller and her stories often seemed real, at least to me.

One Saturday night, she told us a story about a group of scientists that was trying to discover what existed beyond the galaxies.

She said the astronauts left earth in a speedy jet to explore the space. They first landed on the moon and seeing nothing bizarre apart from weightless sand and stones, sprang forth to Venus and then on to Mars.

“At first, they thought there were aliens in the space,” said Mum. “But that seemed not to be the case. So they proceeded to the darkest parts of the space.”

She then turned to me and asked, “Do you think there’s any creature living out there, in the space?”

“Yes. Certainly there is, Mum. How can’t there be?” I answered, feeling almost sure.

“Does anyone else thinks so too?” she posed.

“I don’t think so,” answered Maureen, our eldest.

“Me neither,” asserted Moses, the third born.

“Well, let’s see,” she continued. “After some time of traversing the space, they began to see a blinking red light in the distance. They thought, “Mmm… that must be something noble.” Then one of them suggested that they go see what it was.

“The closer they drew, the bigger the light appeared. It resembled an enormous ember, red and scary.”

“Wasn’t the area around it hot,” I asked out of a full deck of curiosity.

“No. If it were, they’d be burnt up already. The crew decided to draw even closer, just close enough. Then one of them spread out his hand and tried to touch the side of the object.”

“Did it turn out it was hot or what happened?” asked Casha, the youngest then, her bulging eyes indicating the level of curiosity she had.

The space contains strange things like these mysterious debris disk and ring that were discovered around the obit of a star.

“What happened, my children, is that the astronaut was quickly pulled out and swallowed by the object.”

“Holy cow!” I exclaimed. “You see, I said it, there are aliens in the space.”

“Mum, were they all swallowed up?” little Casha asked.

“No. But three more, two women and a man, tried, and they too were swallowed up. Then the remaining, who was a woman, decided to return to earth to reveal what had occured.”

“So it was an alien, right?” I asked.

“Whether it was or not, we still cannot tell, for scientists have been secretly sending away people to check on the object, but all who try to touch it return not. And no picture has ever been released of it too. It’s one of the top secrets and mystery among astronauts, and I’m telling you this just because the information was leaked to my grandfather who narrated it to us.” She then sighed and put in plainly, “Thatโ€™s all for today. It’s late, my children, letโ€™s rise and go into the house.”

You know, I have been meaning to ask her whether that was simply one of the other stories she made up or it was indeed a top secret among the astronauts. And why would they keep such a secret to date anyway? For fear of being considered failures or did something strange occur and this was used as a cover up? Haha.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend and let’s meet here again next weekend for another installment. ๐Ÿ˜€

A Fat Fall

He had them kept everywhere – in his locker, box and the small bag he loved to carry on his back…

Yay!! ๐Ÿ˜€๐Ÿ˜€ The weekend’s rolling on sweet, everybody. I hope you’re having a whale of a time. ๐ŸŠโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿ„โ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿšตโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ›€โ›นโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿคผ As always, it’s time to eat and drink ๐Ÿ›โ˜•๐Ÿฅ‚๐Ÿง‰ and to take ourselves on a little tour to the moon. Let’s go.๐ŸŒœ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฏ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฝ๐Ÿƒโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿƒ

Today, I thought about a high-school mate who loved eating like I had never seen before. I won’t refer to him here by his real name; let’s just call him K for now. By the way, it’s only until recently that I came to know that eating too much can be really addictive and so hard to stop.

K was tall and fat, the size of a pregnant hippopotamus, and had a scornful face full of pride and arrogance (ain’t trying to victimize fat people). If he caught you looking at him, even ordinarily as we all know the eye looks at whatever and wherever it wishes, he’d hull a terrible insult at you, probably insinuating that you were mocking him with your looks.

And when it came to food, he was both a glutton and gourmand. Nothing sweet would cross his eyes without him craving for it madly, not chocolates, not chips, not mandazis, not chapattis, not cakes, not sausages, not hums, not juices, not tea, not milk… all… every junk and healthy food. He had them kept everywhere – in his locker, box and the small bag he often carried on his back.

Oh, haven’t I told you yet, the only devil K knew was anyone who dared touch his food. Isn’t that quite snarky though?

So, there’s this evening we had come from the dormitories, everyone holding their plates and rushing to the dining area before the halting bell rang. As usual, K had bought other sweet stuffs to complement his meal and had dismissed anyone who sought to have a taste of them. Strange thing even, he had covered them up in a black polythene bag unlike he did on other days and kept us guessing what they were. The menu that day was rice and beans which most of us happened to love.

I remember it had not even rained for a whole month and the ground was tough and rugged. The pathway to the dining area was often a little sloppy and dusty. K and other students were walking briskly behind me when another student approached from the opposite direction with hot news.

“Hurry up, guys. The principal’s standing near the service line, and the bell’s just about to ring,” he cautioned. “So you risk being heavily punished. Hurry up, y’all.”

At his words, we started running. It was on rare occasions that the school principal positioned himself at the dining area to discipline students. And when he did, it was because he had noticed a particular trend of laziness he wanted to get rid of himself. He was the most dreaded figure in the whole school.

A few seconds elapsed and I heard a funny hiss behind me, followed by a terrible attention-gripping thud. The other students began to laugh. When I turned to check, I too couldn’t contain my laughter. K was all over the ground, his arms and legs spread apart and his food stuffs scattered on the dust.

“Oh my, what a fat fall!” a student from the group mocked and we all laughed, even more.

“Pick it up, K. Arise and shine, for thine light hath come,” harped another. But while we chortled, K remained lying still on the ground.

“Come on guys,” I raised the alarm, “our friend could be really hurt while we’re all here reeking with laughter.”

We moved closer and helped him up. He didn’t want to look at us. So when he had stood firm, evidently physically unhurt, he covered his face with his palms and smiled. He was embarrassed. His white shirt and jungle green trouser were covered in dust. The food he had not wanted to share too was now lying in waste, a bottle of strong tea and a chunk of ugali he had kept at lunch. ๐Ÿ˜†๐Ÿ˜…๐Ÿคฃ๐Ÿคฃ. Oh man, we all broke into laughter again when we thought of it. Why wasn’t it chicken or smokies this time round?

The bell rang.


Thanks for reading till the end. Have a fabulous weekend.


I was both the coolest and strictest pupil in school.

Yeey!๐Ÿ˜ƒ The weekend’s here, everybody! As always, it’s time to eat and drink ๐Ÿน๐Ÿฅ‚๐Ÿป๐Ÿœ๐Ÿฑ๐Ÿ› and take ourselves on a little tour to the moon ๐ŸŒ•. Let’s go. ๐ŸŒœ ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฏ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆผ๐Ÿƒโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿƒ.

Today, I thought about some primary school intrigue as I sat chatting with a friend. I love journaling my childhood memories so that, Godwilling, my kids may refer to them one day.

I have to admit that I was quite a pesky kid growing up, not pesky in the way of discipline (oh I was a very disciplined kid growing up ๐Ÿ˜€) but pesky in terms of how I related with fellow kids.

Because of my “softness” and integrity (ain’t putting my manners on a plinth ๐Ÿ˜†๐Ÿ˜…๐Ÿคฃ), my teachers appointed me a prefect in class three. I was made the class prefect.

Prefecting those days entailed enforcing discipline among fellow students. Our main role was, therefore, to identify lawbreakers and report them to the class-teachers or teachers on duty for disciplining. We were also allowed to impose light punishments in cases where the offense committed was not so glaring and grievous.

Personally, I was an iron hand in a velvet glove, and I knew it. My teachers knew me as the softest and politest boy in school, but my classmates knew the other ruthless side of me. Perhaps you’re now wondering what it was. Well, this is it: I loathed, and I mean loathed, noisemaking during class.

So, incited by a female desk-mate, or desky as we often called them, I’d constantly write down the names of prattleboxes and take the lists to the class-teacher who would, in turn, punish them. And this, is what my fellow pupils detested. They wanted to have their own freedom, to tell stories as loud and as much as they wanted, in the absence of a teacher of course. Oh baby, I wouldn’t allow that!๐Ÿคฃ Not the Lamittan I know.

Learning in silence was fun, and noisemaking wasn’t going to spoil it. ๐Ÿ˜€

The boys were irked by this state of affairs, and so I was boxed. Boxed was a slang we used to refer to a situation where one was considered awaiting punishment by fellow pupils on the school closing day. Closing days at the end of every term were ideal for fighting because no one would report you to the teachers, unless at the onset of the new term, a month later, which was a rare case. I swear, though, that I didn’t know a darn thing about I being boxed.

Towards the end of the term, after sitting the exams, I began hearing rumours that the boys were planning to go hunting after closing (it was unusual but acceptable since after school, everyone went their way). I heard that all the boys were to go. When I discovered that it was a plan spearheaded by Shem, a hefty and boor mannered boy who was also a notorious noisemaker, I began to smell a rat.

Then finally came the closing day. There was a raft change of plans. All students were out playing pastimes at the playground and around classrooms. I was with my fellow prefects at the closing arena, in the accompaniment of a group of other students too, watching as different groups planned their presentations, when I was summoned. A boy came running for me nearly breaking a knee. His names was John, and he was rather short and tiny – suitable for those sorts of dirty errands ๐Ÿ˜†๐Ÿคฃ.

“Lam,” he called. “You’re needed at the gate. One of our classmates has been hurt and your inspection and help is required.”

“Who’s that and what has happened?” I managed to ask, feeling a bit nervous.

“It’s… wouldn’t you just come and see for yourself? We’re just a few.” He looked anxious too and this, perhaps, was what made me give in to his treachery. I would later learn that this was a means of getting me out of school for the punishment.

When we arrived at the gate, I met a group of angry-looking boys, each carrying a cane and ready to cast their irritation on me. Shem was amongst them. “Let’s not do it here, bwana (mates),” he cautioned the boys. “This is close to school and chances are we could be seen. Let’s carry him away into the forest, tie him up with a rope and lash him.” ๐Ÿ™€๐Ÿ˜ฟ

The other boys agreed. And they were just about to grab and carry me away when the bell rang – blessed Christ! All I heard was an “ooooh” from the gang as we scattered and ran back to school to assemble at the arena for the closing session.


It’s weekend. Have some fun.๐Ÿค—

How to meet a Kalenjin man half-way on a date

Written by Sandra Chumba

Kenyan Marathon Athlete Eliud Kipchoge (Courtesy of Google photos) The Kalenjin tribe of Kenya is known for producing the best marathoners in the world.

A famous saying goes in my country that if you haven’t dated a Kalenjin man, then you have no dating experience at all. I am not talking about the Nairobian slay kings with piped trousers, carrying lip balm and pink tissues in their wallets. No, it’s the eligible village bachelors.

Yes, especially those from Eldama Ravine, Nyaru, Aldai in Nandi County or Kerita in Uasin Gishu. And hey, don’t start throwing stones; I haven’t started yet. The first rule to consider when preparing to go on date with these gentlemen is your dressing code.

First, as a potential wife, you SHOULD put away your expensive rugged trouser or favorite off-shoulder top. You see that beautiful kitenge dress at the bottom of your briefcase? Yes, that one that you wore during Chemutai’s pre-wedding will be ideal for your date.

Kitenge dresses like the one worn by this lady are honorable and historic in most parts of Africa.

Alternatively, a black skirt that stretches below your knees will do. Use flat shoes and don’t forget to carry your good handbag and a lesso (sash) too. Dare not put on make up; it is an abomination to them, a complete put-off to these dignified gentlemen. Just keep them away until you return to the city. With your Vaseline, Arimis or Fair and Lovely brand of body oil, you are good to go.

You will find him at the randezvous waiting, pacing impatiently. If he is from Tripkatoi, Torongo or Kowochii, he will be clad in an oversized pair of trousers, sports shoes and his favorite UDA cap, looking pretty much like Kipchoge. If he is from Nandi Hills, on the contrary, he will be in those pink, maroon or blue coats they wear nowdays in every pre-wedding (thank God they did away with their brown-jacket uniform).

I have nothing against our brothers from Elgeiyo Marakwet or Baringo lest someone accusses me of mentioning them severally. It’s just that their mode of dressing quite baffles me – another day’s story.

So, perhaps when on meeting your man, you imagine that he will hug or carry you the Alliandro style, take a deep breath, my dear sister; lower your expections, because the closest thing he will do is to give you a handshake and off he will be gone, several kilometers ahead of you.

Don’t even expect him to hold and walk with you hand in hand. I don’t know who told these Kalenjin men that walking with your woman closely is an embarassing act. Even when you two finally board a bus, he will complacently sit on the front seat with the driver while you sit at the back, like complete strangers!

As soon as you alight from the vehicle, he will simply start making huge strides away, leaving you running after him. Most probably, his preferred venue for the date will be Silver Line or Maggies in Eldoret.

When you finally catch up with him, you will find him seated calmly in the restaurant with a cup of steaming hot tea in front of him. What you are to do, dear Kalenjin queen, is to wrap the lesso around your waist and sit down. Even before you order a meal, at least five of his friends will show up as if it’s a normal thing. Beware of this group; they are called “deep state” and are there to interview you. So you have to be composed and show the best behaviour.

Be composed and show the best behaviour.

My sister, these Kalenjin men don’t know that a date is supposed to be a private affair. So let not their intrusion bother you; smile, be polite and remember that if they ask you about your prefered presidential candidate, just say “uliam pchirchir kityo“. Most likely, they will forget about your presence and concenrate on their political debate, but it should not worry you – enjoy your meal.

If, after your meeting with this group, your man goes on talking to you with usual enthusiasm, then just know that you passed the interview. Even more clearly, if – after your lunch, or rather the UDA political meeting, his friends call you Pamuru, know that you are safe.

After a few days, most likely, he’ll tell you “kekatin mathe – receive greetings from mother” (just know that what you’ve just been told is the most romantic thing you will ever hear from him). Let not the lie bother you; smile, dear girl, smile – just know that the ancestors are nodding in your favour. Sooner or later, he will say to you, “Imnyeno inye kamache kebee gaa ipikatisie” (where are you, I want to take you home to meet my people). Know that that is a complete marriage proposal and if you are still waiting for him to go down on his knees as they do in soaps, then I am sorry my sister, you will wait for eternity.


Meet the writer.

Sandra Chumba (1995 – present) is a Kenyan with diploma in public relations and creative advertisement. She takes writing as both a passion and a talent and has written several poems, short stories and novels, among others. She loves watching, reading and writing. Click here to connect with Sandra on Facebook.

Editor’s note: This piece is natural and fascinating, both in taste and style. It is real and African, and Sandra’s style of writing is so engaging that the moment you start reading, your attention is grabbed and you keep reading till the end. It enlightens the reader, in the most irresistible and humorous way, of what dating a Kalenjin man feels like and what to expect. Beyond these, it appreciates African beauty and culture.


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The Last Cow

Yey!! ๐Ÿ˜€The weekend’s here everybody. ๐Ÿ”๐Ÿน๐Ÿฅ‚๐Ÿจ๐Ÿ– ๐Ÿ›ต๐ŸŠโ€โ™‚๏ธโ›นโ€โ™‚๏ธ As always, it’s time to eat and drink and take ourselves on a little tour to the moon. Let’s go. ๐ŸŒœ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฏ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆฝ๐Ÿƒโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿƒ.

Weekends are a great time to reconnect with family and friends, and to go partying if you’re a social butterfly, or to turn the pages of that novel you’ve often craved for, or watch a movie if you’re a movie aficionado like me… time to do just anything usefully relieving. But before you turn off your data to spend some time away, let’s have some fun together, shall we? ๐Ÿ˜Š๐Ÿค

It’s weekend; time to eat and drink and take ourselves on a little tour to the moon.

I love talking about my childhood memories because, for some reason, they hold a dear space in my heart. Today’s tour is about a cow that contributed to the person I am today. Don’t you want to know how? ๐Ÿ˜ƒ๐Ÿค—

Well, it goes that when I was in high school, form four (the final class in that level in my country, back then), we had only one cow in our home and her two-year old heifer. The rest had been sold to carter for our school fees.

Her name was Phoebe and I loved her so much because not only was she the only physical wealth left standing but also the last sign of our long-lived livestock keeping culture.

One day, however, she ruined my moods and I would have beaten her to death out of frustration. ๐Ÿ˜’๐Ÿ˜€ It was a Saturday like this, except it had rained devastatingly in the afternoon. Phoebe was pregnant again and had been teethered along with her young daughter in a green grazing patch outside our home.

When later in the evening I went to bring her home, I met a rude shock. She had pulled and cut off the rope that tied her to a tree and had moved into a nearby leafy maize plantation. She was greedily and arrogantly breaking and chewing the maize stalks! Eish! I almost cried. That was nonchalantly inviting trouble.

I picked up a stick and rushed into the plantation to drive her out. I hit and hissed at her in sotto voce tone, lest the owner of the farm who was staying only a few meters away hear us and charge. Of course she responded appropriately by walking out. But when I tried to talk her towards home, she turned and glanced at me, and what resembled a sarcastic smile featured on her face. Then she raised her left leg and tried to kick me but missed. ๐Ÿ„๐Ÿคช.

Before I would think of any proper action to take, she jumped up childishly in front of me and took off. I went after her but, suffering catfish, she was too fast and I wouldn’t catch up.

She glanced at me and what resembled a sarcastic smile featured on her face.

Now here is what disgusted me most. Phoebe turned the chase into a hide and seek! She would playfully run ahead of me and hide in a thicket, and when I found her, she would rush out again and hide in another. What the heck!

I don’t know whether she was deliberately hurting me or thought we were having some real fun. Personally I wasn’t enjoying it even in the least way possible. It had rained “donkeys and cows” and the whole area was muddy, the air scaldingly cold. I didn’t even have a sweater on or gumboots on my feet. I was supposed to be indoor trying to keep warm.

The ‘game’ went on and off until we were both forlagen and she wilfully decided to lead the way home. At that point, I felt like plucking out a tree from the ground and hitting her in recompense for the pain she had caused me that evening. But I forgave her.

Later, my mum would tell me that Phoebe’s sprightly and playful nature was as a result of her pregnancy. I wondered.

The following Monday morning, I was sent home for school fee and mum had no choice. The main exams were just about and, of course, she wouldn’t fancy her kid staying at home. Phoebe and her daughter were the only choice. I watched with gloom as the man she had called to take the two to the market led them out of the kraal and away. I couldn’t withstand it; I walked back into the house heaving with emotions. ๐Ÿ˜”๐Ÿ˜ข


It’s weekend. Have some fun. See you here again next Saturday. Meanwhile keep reading our posts.

Get the pot quickly ๐Ÿ˜…

Traditional African pot

Yey!! The weekend’s rolling on, dear friends, and I’m hoping wherever you are, you’re having a fantastic moment. ๐Ÿ˜Š As always, It’s time to put aside everything the week has had on us and take ourselves on a little tour to the moon. ๐ŸŒœ๐Ÿง‘โ€๐Ÿฆฏ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆผ๐Ÿƒโ€โ™€๏ธ๐Ÿƒ Welcome on board.

Today I thought of something partly funny ๐Ÿคฃ and partly sad๐Ÿ˜” about my younger sister. But just before that, I’ve got some thanksgiving and apologies to make.

I’m very grateful to all of you who have been and still continue to be part of my blogging life. If I were to mention you all by names, it would take me the whole of this day and I’d still be in need of more time. Oh, even God knows how I really love you (actually from the middle๐Ÿ˜€ of my heart). Hand kisses for each of you. ๐Ÿ’‹๐Ÿ’‹

You’ve won my heart by your kindness. Thank you. โค

Allow me, however, to just by name thank Ms Gabriela Marie Milton who’s the editor of MasticadoresUSA for accepting my poems for publishing on their platform. One of them is set to be published on Thursday, 27 January, 2022. Guys, you donโ€™t want to miss this. Even if it means slating time for it on your calendar, kindly visit MasticadoresUSA on Thursday at 10:30am USA ET to share your thoughts about this piece. It’s going to be my first with them.

I also want to apologise to all who’ve been finding it hard to like and comment on my posts through WP Reader. I am very much aware of this anomaly and have been trying to engage WP “happiness engineers”. Oh how I pray that the happiness in their reference title may spread to my site ๐Ÿ˜. It’s sad that this issue has been happening despite I making no deliberate changes to my discussion settings. As they work on it, however, I kindly ask you to visit my site to like and comment.

Keep reading ๐Ÿ“š ๐Ÿ™‚

Now back to our story. My sister Cavana, the seventh born in our family of eight๐Ÿ˜€, was quite a trouble in her childhood. Thank God she’s still alive and kicking about like a sprightly young calf. She was this kind of child whom little serious accidents loved to happen to. At one point, she almost swallowed a stone, at another point she actually swallowed a five-shilling coin.

On another nearly-tragic day while my mum washed clothes at the river, she almost drowned in the water currents. And yet on another day, when she was only months old, she fell from the bed like a light piece of paper and almost broke her bones, hah ๐Ÿ˜…. Dear accidental sister!

Cavana in a past photo (standing right). She’s now 16. I’m so proud of these kids. Evone, standing second from left, is my niece ๐ŸŒบโค.

Well, on the day of our story, my mum had left a packet of salt on the table after lunch. While dad and her got engrossed in an animated conversation, little Cavana – then about three years old, grabbed the packet and poured almost half the salt in her mouth. ๐Ÿ˜ณ Poor kid! It certainly began to choke her right off the bat.

We were playing outside when we heard mum yell bloody murder. When we rushed in to see, we found her holding the little girl in her arms trying to remove the salt from her mouth using her fingers.

“We need water, we just need water,” said Dad moving anxiously about. He took one quick glance at the empty table and then, as if by God’s chance, his eyes quickly rolled past it to a pot of water that stood strategically at a corner in the house.

My mum in a photo I took her way back in 2013. You can see the African waterpot behind her.

“Get the pot quickly,” he popped up, looking at me and then rushing to where the pot stood close to the window. He grabbed it firmly by his two hands and brought it to where mum was. Unluckily, there was no cup in the room and his efforts would have almost appeared fruitless.

He took the lid off the pot and ‘scooped’ much water into his wide palms, enough to wet the kid from head to toes. It was quite clear that drastic times called for drastic measures. But man, I wondered what he was going to do with that water.

Mum moved a few paces away to bar him from pouring the cold water on the little troubled Cavana who had now begun to lose proper eye vision. She held the kid upside down and hit her legs a few times, and then, as if a miracle had just occured, the kid gulped in one huge swirl of air and stopped struggling. Then Mum held open Cavana’s mouth and Dad poured some of the water remaining in his palm into her mouth. She swallowed and, there she was, full of life again, the parents’ wisdom and precipitant response had finally saved the day!!


Thanks for reading till the end. Have a wonderful weekend. Continue reading our blogs for more fun.

The day in my childhood I vowed never to eat raw mangoes again

Yey!! ๐Ÿ˜Š The weekend’s here everybody. I hope you had a fantastic week. Welcome to our weekly funspot, a little tour to the moon, right? Here we go. ๐ŸŒœ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆฏ๐Ÿ‘จโ€๐Ÿฆผ๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿƒโ€โ™€๏ธ

Today I had some early childhood memories, particularly one about eating raw mangoes ๐Ÿซ’๐Ÿซ’ while going to or coming back from school, too much alcohol for our bellies you would say ๐Ÿ˜–๐Ÿ˜‚. No wonder we used to feel drowsy during lessons, oh man!! ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚. But eating raw mangoes with chillies and salt was the best snack our times, as Africans who grew up in the boondocks of course.

It goes then that there was this specific farm whose trees we loved to pick from (well, I wouldn’t call it stealing, we were only kids and thought all the mangoes in the village had been grown for us ๐Ÿ˜„). The mangoes from these trees were very sweet both raw and ripe.

But the owner of the farm was as cruel as a ravenous bear, one with a sore head in fact ๐Ÿ˜€. And the only relief was that the mango farm was outside his homestead. So we’d time when he wasn’t on the lookout and pick just as many as we could.

One evening, however, he gave us a rude shock. My friend Kevin and I had just come back from school and were really ‘hungry’ for the mangoes. So we passed quickly across the fence into the farm and went for one tree that was closer. We headed up straight and diverted to different branches.

It was late evening and slightly dark within the leaves. The only sound that came forth was of the wind passing through and hitting gently upon the leaves. I soon enough spotted a raw fruit close to me and would have picked it when I felt something hold me firmly. ๐Ÿ˜ฎ

I didn’t even turn to check, I just opened my mouth and screamed blue murder. All the myths I had read about giants and pythons living on mango trees had just arrested my thoughts and sent shivers down my spine.

“Stop screaming, child. It’s me,” came forth a gentle voice amidst my scream. I turned sharply and took a glance. Oh satannn, it was the man, the owner of the farm ๐Ÿ™€! I almost passed out, but he held me firmly and looked directly into my eyes. I thought he was going to drag out a knife and skin me alive as I watched.

A few seconds elapsed and then…

“Is it mangoes that you want, kid?” I heard him ask, my mind far away. What sort of question was that, I thought. It was mangoes I wanted of course. “Is it?” he reiterated.

“Yes, yes sir, but…,” I began, abruptly shaken off the trance, but he sternly cut me off.

“Well, take it.” He thrust a polythene-bag full of who-knows into my hands and let me free. I remained staring blankly from the bag to him, back and forth.

“Go, child, go,” he said, “and tell your friends to allow my mangoes time to ripen.”

I sighed deeply, looked sideways to see whether I’d catch a glimpse of Kevin, and seeing him not, began racing down the tree with the bag in one hand.

Kevin was nowhere to be seen. He had probably taken advantage of the man’s attention towards me to escape. He was quite a chicken, I thought as I made my way out of the farm.

When I opened the bag and checked what was in it, I found ripe juicy mangoes piling on top of each other ๐Ÿฅญ๐Ÿคค๐Ÿ˜‹. That was enough for a three-day trek to and from school. I vowed never to ‘steal’ raw mangoes again. But did I?๐Ÿคฃ๐Ÿคฃ

Thanks for reading. Have a fabulous weekend.


Polite note to my readers: I’ve received complaints of readers being unable to like and comment on my post on their phone through “Reader”. This has been happening despite I making no deliberate changes to my privacy and discussion settings. I have reached out to WordPress team for assistance. Kindly bear with me and visit my site to like and post comments for the time being as I get this issue solved. Thank you. โค

Funny Strict Grandpa

Yey! The weekend’s here everybody…๐Ÿฅ‚๐Ÿน๐Ÿฒ๐ŸฅณIt’s time to eat and drink, and take ourselves on a little tour to the moon.๐ŸŒ™๐Ÿƒ๐Ÿ’ƒ

Time to share with friends

How do you plan to spend your weekend? Just let me know. Sweet me, I’m going to ๐ŸŽถ๐ŸŽถ at my local church, go ๐ŸŠโ€โ™‚๏ธ in the afternoon and watch movies with friends in the evening. (It’s surprising I don’t love football, m’hmm… not even a thin piece of me like that thingie ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚)

It’s surprising I don’t love football, m’hmmโ€ฆ not even a thin piece of me like that thingie.

It’s not a new thing with writers to hate football. ๐Ÿ˜‰๐Ÿ˜†๐Ÿ˜…

Here’s a true story to glisten up your face a bit. As I woke up this morning, I thought something about my great grandfather, stories I was told about him by my grandfather who, thank God, is still alive.

My great grandfather๐Ÿง™โ€โ™‚๏ธ was a staunch believer, and an honourable man, as I learnt. But the little funny part of his life was attached to this honour.

People respected him because he was a no-nonsense man, the kind of strictness that made him look even a lot more funny. He had a small bike that he’d use to travel to places (owning a bike those days was equivalent to owning a ๐Ÿš™ these days).

People respected him because he was a no-nonsense man.

He was so strict that I’m told one day while riding on his bike in the company of his friends, the wind blew away his nicely woven fedora hat, and instead of stopping to pick it up, he acted as if nothing had just happened. ๐Ÿคทโ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ˜…

Then when someone trailing behind them shouted at him to stop and pick his hat, he halted awhile and said, “The damn hat knows nothing about time, it can wait or come after me.” He then climbed on his bike and sped on.

What a way to look over things! ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚. Yes, if you’re wondering whether he was that crazy, then you’re not alone – I’m wondering too ๐Ÿฅฒ๐Ÿคฃ.

He must have been a force to reckon with.

In fact, I was even told there’s a day he attended a pastoral meeting (as he was a church leader too) and kept his head drooped and his eyes closed for most of the session as if he was sleeping.

When the speaker asked him why his eyes were closed. He looked up, barely surprised, and asked sternly, “Is it my eyes listening to you or my ears and mind?” and then without much ado, held his chin into his palm again and closed his eyes. ๐Ÿคฃ๐Ÿคฃ

When the meeting neared an end, he stood up and walked to the front, and asked, “Any suggestions on how we can preach the gospel to our fellows born both blind and deaf?”

Of course no one had an answer then, not even the speaker himself could guess. Really, grandpa?? ๐Ÿ™„๐Ÿ˜†๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚

That is the man I’d have loved to relate with growing up. But I’m told it’s now almost thirty years since he died. He must have been an “I-don’t-like-jokes” man. ๐Ÿ˜…๐Ÿคฃ

See you next Saturday with another piece of diversion. Yey, have a fun-filled super Saturday. ๐Ÿ’–๐ŸŒท๐Ÿ’–๐Ÿค—