Rangwani and the Quizmaster

The Spectator was at The Terraces and as usual, trying to make sense to his fellow Spectators, imbibers of great distinction. By the way, The Terraces is our usual drinking bar which is of the size of an average grave, but, on account of the fact that it is our only watering hole where we can drown our sorrows and yet get lots of merits, some of them freebies in the form of beer and snacks from the owner, tips from generous patrons and generous left overs from the well-to-do, we cannot go anywhere else.

The Terraces, though small as it is, is frequented by many people from different walks (and runs and drives) of life, for almost everyone who comes here use different modes of transport. Some come walking and go away in taxis, hitch hiking, being carried on the bicycle back carriers, in wheel barrows, or even on horseback.

My usual friends at the Terraces include the notorious Rangwani the long one, (remember that story of the gun-totting-irate-patron who tossed Rangwani's small pieces of cow offals in braai fire after accusing the defenceless and helpless offals sliced from an unfortunate cow, for urinating on his precious chunks of meat and splashing innard juice all over the braai place), as well as many others who come and go in and out of the Terraces like yoyos. Some disappear never to be seen, after having had a job being done on them by one of those ladies of the night who frequent this place. Rangwani is more notable inthe Terraces because of his entertaining antics.

Stories that are discussed at the Terraces include many varieties, some constructive, some destructive. Usually, we at the Terraces dismiss with scorn those we deem destructive. It is a small and interactive place where different type of people throng.

Despite the small size of the place, the hive of activity taking place here makes the place very newsworthy that guys from the local press house frequent the place with their gadgerty in search of a scoop that can make them vie for the top pressman of the year award. In fact I hear the editor of the local daily has made the beat of the Terraces a must-visit for action-packed and business-minded journos.

Because of the hordes of people whose lievlihood is anchored on this place, this makes it also a usual resort from the royal boys from the nearest cop-house. They visit here frequently, and the nature of their visits here is varied.

We at the Terraces have failed to understand their swinging moods. One cop comes, say in the morning, and tries to coax a fellow or two into parting with their hard earned cash in fulfilment of a cop's enjoyment, I mean by buying the cop a beer or two.

However, due to a variety of reasons, some of these requests are not met forthwith.

I suspect everytime that the cops fail to satisfy their drink egos after having their requests, or demands turned down, their wraths are crossed and the next minute we have a squad on horseback and in the big police vans.

To anyone who have had the unfortunate incident of being raided on a bottle store happening on them, they will tell you that hell has no fury like a scorn policeman. Before you know you are surrounded by the baton wielding cops and any efforts at explanation, including offers of ransom can be negotiated, either on the spot, in the van or at the cop house, depending on the mood and the state of affairs.

Those who have no currency for negootiation will find themselves thrown in the filthy slammers which were last cleaned some few years ago at the cop house. If you are unfortunate enough to check-in into the slammers on a Friday after lunch, unless you cough up a sizeable amount of ransom then see you the rest of the world the following Monday.

But this is after you have tried to explain your case to any interested cop coming on duty who will not hesitate to ask you again and again what offence you have committed that is seeing you in the filthy lodgings. At that moment, they will be wondering how come you did not talk and agree on the terms with the previous cops that has seen you rot in the cells.

It is against this background that every one who frequent the Terraces have developed a sharp sixth sense in which any stranger must be a suspect, for you do not know from whence they come. However, the likes of Rangwani never care a bit about those guys from the cop houses because he can boast that he is never going to appear on their wanted hit list.

Cops never are concerned about him because nothing will come out of that pathetic figure. A glance or two at Rangwani can even tell the strangest of all the people that see him of the futility of trying to squeeze a dollar out of Rangwani. It is like trying to milk a stone of water. Even robbers would care not to attack him if they saw him because of his pathetic and helpless state.

It is rumoured that robbers once got hold of him and held him by his legs, tossed him upside downand shook him vigorously in the same was one would shake a salt shaker that is wet on the openings. After nothing valuable was found on him, they let him free and warned him not to disturb their operations by venturing into their territories. All they found on him were cut pieces of newspapers in his pockets. What the newspapers were for, nobody knew.

During one of our usual arguments, Rangwani was of the opinion that the conutry's law making body re-visit some of these laws as some of them were seen to be harsh to us at the Terraces as well as our fellows in other drinking areas. "I wonder why the parilament is stuffed by people who have no respect with beer to the extent that they make laws that harrass us at the Terraces", complained Rangwani. "Why did they make Monday a working day? Every Monday, almost everyone is nursing a huge hangover," asked Rangwani.

The more we tried to reason with him that even if was to be declared in a decree that Monday was to be a weekend legally, still the problem would spill into Tuesday. Logic seems to be very elusive to this man. "Still, if the problem persisted, they would have to make the Tuesday a holiday."

The argument dragged until only Friday was left, whereupon, in an attempt to justify his myopic thrust towards the holy waters. Unashamed, Rangwani 's advice was for the authorities to spill into the next week, beginning on Monday.

"So, that would mean the weekend would be having seven days, in fact, nine to include the first Saturday and Sunday," I giggled.

"Exactly, that is what I am trying to imply," enthused Rangwani. "Can't you see our jobs are intefereing with out drinking". I could see that Rangwani had had too much of the merry waters and hearing him speak, I knew that his tirade was a long way before it could come to an end.

Undecided, whether to listen to him further or not, I pretended not to be taking heed of what he was saying, but he kept on poking me to make sure that my attention was undivided, but diverted only to him.

His subject, suddenly, takes a new twist abruptly. "Tell me, you call yourself the Senior Spectator, at what rate do you take in your prescription?" he asked me. I was jolted at that same time.

"What kind of a question is that? Which prescription are you referring to? I am not on antiretrovirals, am I?" I was getting angry. I was never expecting such a stupid question.
"Sorry, by prescription, I mean these boodles of hooch", he corrected himself. (He wanted to say bottles of honey as honey is huchi in the Zimbabwean vernacular).

So, I remembered, he was referring to beer as a prescription. His life depended on beer as a patient must stick to their prescription religiously, so must he to beer.
I laughed at him and started felling pity for him. "It depends on the occassion and the availability" I answered.

"Well, after calculations and ponderings, I have discovered that I must have a bottle of lager an hour. ." He smiled at me and never waited for me to probe further why that less. "Twenty-four pints against twenty four hours in a day. That is why the guys at the brewing house in Southerton pack twenty foru of them in a crate. From six am to five am the next morning, I will have drowned a crate and made them enough money to pay their overheads." Silly reasoning, I thought.

"I see, Rangwani, that is why the only job you can think about is being a politician," I wanted to offend him. But Rangwani, the tall one does not get offended so quick, especially fom remarks made from the direction where he thinks the next bottle may come from.
"From your biology leassons in form four, tell me, how many food groups do you know?" I asked him, I wanted to vex his mind. Nut knowing Rangwani as I do, I expected a horrible answer that is worse from a grade two pupil's attempt.

After scratching his head, he answered confidently. "Six, these are vitamins, proteins, carbohydrates, caffeine, nicotine, and sex."

"Hey who told you about the last three. The are not a food groups." I tried to correct him discreetly so that noone else would hear and learn of his foolishness.

"Ah, yes but they are. I know it. If it was not, how come I myself am not taking any those first food groups I mentioned But the last three, I take them many times a day, but see how fit I am" Rangwani was this time flexing his tiny muscles for everyone at the Terraces to see.
"Hey, I know that five beers has as many calories as your sadza. They are good for the health. I was told this by a doctor. I swear by my two sons named Barley and Hops, who sleep in the keg. That is the truth and nothing else but the truth".

I had to rest this subject for I feared the worse. I ordered four more beers and left them to his mercy whilst I pretended that I had to attend to a problem at home. I disappeared. from the Terraces. At that same time someone shouted "Police!" Looking at the direction of the road, the cops were hot on their heels on a raid at the Terraces. What happened later would be a subject of further discussion.

Am outer here.