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.

"Doctor, why did you kill me?

The Spectator had to be called in one of the days from the usual chores of downing in one or two from his favourite waterhole at the Terraces in order to attend to a dispute that was ensuing at the local hospital.

A hospital, of all places is the most unlikely place to expect a dispute arising, lest one is accused of being unsympathetic to the ailing, the sick, or even the recently dear departed. But, being a person whose duties are required everywhere else because of his negotitiation skills, he had to leave the likes of Rangwani (remember the tall one of the "gun-totting braai act" fame), to enjoy the merry waters on their own.

The hospital (I hear somebody talk about the House Of Sick People In Towns And Locations), is a place where people whose deteriorating bodies and souls need a little bit of panel beating and resuscitation. To those who are lucky, they emerge out of the place better than they were when they walked in, but to the majority, this a place of condemnation, where one's relatives do not want to end up with a cadaver in their homes. Thus they deposit you in this huge house and visit you everyday with a hope of finding you expired and thereafter converge somewhere, wail at the top of their voices before arranging you in some wooden box and lastly planting you in the ground with a hope of you coming back after some decades as a spirit to haunt the living.

Our friend Shortie became unfortunate enough and found that his waning health was failing him. Without anyone to oversee to his health, only his landlord was there when he needed help. And help indeed came as Shortie was taken to the hospital by the benevolent landlord who wanted to make sure that Shortie would not die. This, the landlord had to reiterate to the health authorities never to let this man die.

The landlord arrived just in time before Shortie was about to expire from an unknown ailment (please note, this ailment is not liquor nor ladies-related). The landlord, seeing a potential danger in Shortie's death, cranked his old Peugeot 303 jalopy, loaded Shortie into the boot of the car and rushed him to the hospital, just some few kilometres away. Luckily, Shortie and his landlord found the good doctor in the vicinity and the learned professional started scanning all over Shortie's body with his gadgets. At that time, the landlord realised that, in such good hands, Shortie was not going to kick the bucket after all. The landlord, however just wanted to make sure that the doctor would not let his tenant die.

"Doctor, do not let him die, oh" This statement was repeated again and again by the landlord to the extent that the doctor became concerned about the man's good heartedness. The landlord's face had sympathy and consolation written all over his face. The more he saw the landlord's face, the more determined he became that Shortie must survive.

"Are you going to pay his medical bills sonce you are his only relative?" asked the doctor. "Just make sure that he survives doctor, we'll see what we can do doctor" answered the landlord. althoug the doctor did not approve of the landlord's relpy, he however went ahead with his work nevery worring about the medical bills.

"What is the problem doctor? Please do not let him die oh, doctor!" started the landlord again, now almost crying. "If he dies, doctor, I will hold you accountable!" the landlord was almost shouting now.

"Why?", asked the doctor. "Is he your firend, son or son-in-law?"

"No doctor, this man is my tenant and he owes me six months rentals. If he dies now, who will give me the money. Please do not let his die" the landlord was now crying to the utter amazement of all the people who were around. Everybody around laughed, but the landlord became more confused.

The doctor did not show any emotions, for the profession comes with surprises. At this time, the doctor must have thought, I must concentrate on my job and nothing else and fulfil my mandate, that of making sure that lives are preserved, whether the owners of the lives owe something to other or not.

At that same time, poor Shortie awoke, miraculously from the dead, rose from the bed he had been wheeled on. Looking around the unafamiliar room, he came face to face with his landlord and the doctor. It then dawned on him that he was in a hospital, and this man with stethoscopes around his neck was the doctor, and that it was the doctor who had resuscitated him.

"Oh doctor, why?" was the only statement Shortie could utter.

The doctor became fabberghasted when he noticed that the landlord was jumping up and down and rejoicing whilst a creased, frowning face adorned Shortie, the owne of life the doctor had just saved over the events. The landlord was shouting to Shortie, "I told you, you would not die. I knew it, you were not going to die. Now, see, you are back to life, thank the doctor and me"

But it was Shortie's reaction which baffled all, "Oh doctor, why did you bring be back to life. You should have allowed me to die, oh, doctor. You have ruined me, doctor" Shortie was becoming hysterical. In no time at all, the ailing man was back to his feet, pacing up and down, blaming the health delivery system for not allowing other people to enjoy their peace.

"You should let me die, now!" shouted Shortie. Shortie became uncontrably shaking in a fit of rage. The doctor, understanding very much the nature of human minds after what Shortie had gone through, sought better ways to make sure that the situation had been contained. He whispered something to Shortie's landlord and the nurses around. He appeared to have give up to Shortie's demands to end the debt-ridden short man.

The beautiful nurse who had been in the doctor's company all along then disappeared and brought an eerie-looking injection with a white, clear fluid. Turning to Shortie, the doctor said, "Right, I am now granting you the last wish. Say goodbye to everybody around. Have you written your will, because in the next six hours, you will be dining with angels above" The doctor said this with pride, and looking around to smiling faces in the room. He then injected the fluid into Shortie's buttocks, waved goodbye and was about to exit the room when some new people entered the room.

Everybody looked towards the door as the new entrants into the room banged the door open without announcing their arrival. It was a man and a woman, but looking at the man, it was obvious that this man was Shortie's brother as both were anatomically disadvantaged in terms of height. Shortie did not want to see his brother either as he sat there, motionless, otherwise contem,plating that in the near future he would be meeting his maker.

"Doctor," started the new short man, for we shall call him thus since we do not know his name, "What is the problem, he is my brother, I had come to visit him at his home when I heard that he had been ferried to this hospital"

The doctor took his time to explain to this new man "Well, your brother was brought in here literally dead by his landlord. But, unfortunately, your brother had asked that we terminate his life as he owes his landlord six months' rentals. And I had done just that, and in six hours, your brother will have died. I am sorry" said the doctor sympathetically.



The new short man turned to his brother's "But, brother, how can you do that? You should have told me that you were having problems paying rentals, I would have come to help you pay the rentals. Turning to the landlord, the new short man asked "How much is he owing you?"

"It is ninety dollars only since he was paying fifteen dollars a month, but I had asked the doctor that this man should live. I was even prepared to waive the debt. I do not know why he killed him" answered the landlord, apologetically.

At that same time, the new short man produced a wad of crispy United States' dollars and gave them to the landlord. "Here is two hundred dollars, and this had included the rentals for the coming six months. But since my brother will be dead in the next six hours, I am now paying only what he owed, which is ninety dollars only. Can I have my change?" said the new short man, extending the arm with only one hundred dollars, whilst the rest of the cash found its way into the back pocket.

It was Shortie who spoke first. Appearing mesmerised, he shouted "Oh doctor, so you have killed me! But why, how come you kill a person simply because he owes somebody some money. Is that what you were taught at University, that is if you have been there at all" Shortie was irate, livid and uncontrallable. He was folding the arms of his long, white shirt, signalling that the battle lines had been drawn and he was more than ready to tackle the man who had terminated his life some few minutes ago. It was just a matter of time before he would expire, thought Shortie.

The doctor had to run for dear life whilst Shortie was in pursuit. The situation was olny calmed down by the hospital authorities who were later told that the learned doctor had not killed Shortie after all. He had injected a harmless liquid into the poor man. Shortly before his departure, Shortie's brother had also decided to cancel the deal he had struck with Shortie's landlord after for no apparent reason, withdrawing all the cash he had handed over to the landlord.

The landlord and Shortie came face to face again with no solution having been reached.

Am outta here.