The prank that saw me smash my junk on the wall

 

By Peter Kathumia

In Summary

My little girl, Jenny, too has been pestering me to buy her something that at least does not embarrass her in front of her schoolmates. I have refused to brook to such nonsense because during my teens, my dad would have knocked out my teeth if I as much as hinted that I wanted anything that was of educational value. If she feels that she must have a smart phone, she can talk about it to her mother.

I do not know why I have such hatred for anything digital, especially mobile phones. To be honest, while everyone is swiping on their new smart phones, I am stuck to the old button junk of a phone that would not have amused Isaac Newton. My-one-and-only woman, Bisho Ntongo loves her new iPhone that she bought paid for through her nose – she borrowed from her bank to finance the purchase of gleaming vanity.

My little girl, Jenny, too has been pestering me to buy her something that at least does not embarrass her in front of her schoolmates. I have refused to brook to such nonsense because during my teens, my dad would have knocked out my teeth if I as much as hinted that I wanted anything that was of educational value. If she feels that she must have a smart phone, she can talk about it to her mother.

I know that the Chinese making some fake screen-touch stuff but they have to convince me why I should use them.

My phone is so ugly and elementary that even a kindergarten toddler can operate it without a hitch – the type that resembles police radios with a “thumb up” antenna. Besides, I just cannot understand the many mind-boggling features that these androids come with that require the mind of a computer expert. That is not why I smashed my Chinese junk on the wall the other day. I confess that the reason for doing this is not justifiable and it is indeed an embarrassment.

As it is, I have no phone after smashing it because over a flimsy reason of petty jealousy. A shrilly ringtone started me from where I was writing this third-rate column. Of course, whenever the junk rings, I expect the voice of one of my editors on the other end of the line breathing fire over undelivered stories.

This time, my editor’s was not on the other end of the line. Instead, there was a man threatening to sue me for stealing his wife.

You see, I had never at one time thought that Bisho Ntongo could belong to another man – not once. The man identifying himself as Caseuss Rwugerera claimed to own Bisho Ntongo – both her body and soul. Interestingly, the man even claimed to have paid several breathing cows to Bisho Ntongo’s father.

Bisho Ntongo claimed to have no knowledge of such dealings. Got so furious and for some strange reason, smashed the junk on the wall. A few minutes later, my buddy Dr Winchinslauss Rwegoshora (PhD, MA, BA) called on Bisho Ntongo’s number, laughing himself hoarse over the prank.

He had changed his voice and accent to sound like one from Katerero.