Thursday, October 29, 2009

The Mystery of the Back-Stabbing Assegai Coded Symbol

I have just done my head in writing my latest essay for the Open University. Trying to think of something funny to put on my Blog after trashing my brain cells writing words such as, ‘dramatising phenomenology’, and clever-clever parts of sentences like: ‘… manipulate the child’s emotions which are in the stage of being trained and nurtured, whilst they are in a constant state of perturbational flux.’, isn’t that easy.

Don’t worry if that sounds just like gibberish, you are not alone.


I am presently reading (for leisure, rather than by order of the Open University), Frank McCourt’s third and last (he has kicked the bucket), memoirs, called Teacher Man. Obviously, by the title, it is about his career as a…teacher! And, an English one at that - considering he is Irish. Since I am also seriously contemplating going on and getting my own teaching certificate, the memoir, whilst not in the class of Angela’s Ashes, is of course for me rather fascinating. In one attempt to teach grammar to a bunch of ‘Ye oldie style New York ‘Hoodies’’, he has an eureka moment. And, this bit: ‘They were beginning to understand what grammar was. If I kept at it I might understand it myself.’ - did I sigh with relief or what? Salvation!


Anyway, staggering around feeling enlightened with enlightenment is always very enlightening, but I was now searching seriously for my sense of humour, which sadly, is not required in academic papers. Not unless you are doing a PhD in Toilet Humour of the Roman Empire. Er, oddly enough, I studied that as well.


So, as poor old (rephrase that to rich), Dan Brown gets serious stick from ‘those who know’ regarding his literal style, such as Richard Eyre’s polite review of The Da Vinci Code: ‘quite astonishingly badly written…It’s as bad as a bad novel by Jeffery Archer. It’s so bad that even Erich von Daniken would scorn its prose.’ - I thought, how bad can you write some tosh that is still worth reading to the end? (I am not referring to my entire Blog - just as a matter of interest,) Now that is a challenge. When I write my tosh, it attempts to incorporate techniques I am now supposedly well qualified in, but have unfortunately completely forgotten.


So, here is my attempt. It is rather a short novel for such a difficult subject, but c'est la vie! Actually, I scribbled the first draft in a matter of an hour, but when I read through it, I was shocked to see it wasn’t bad enough. So, with great skill, I have attempted to make this as insanely inapt as possible, but not to verge on the ridiculous, and, just like a Dan Brown novel, it has its roots in truth. It is up to the reader to look between the lines for that, - because in the words of Wolf Mildew: ‘The lie is out there.’




The Mystery of the Back-Stabbing Assegai Coded Symbol

Chapter, and only chapter, One.


Chigutu, Zimbabwe 2009, Wednesday, 17th of August, 14.43 and 7 seconds.


Professor Reverend Rabbi Doctor Theodore Blackman III (PhD, Harvard in Klingon Language for Advanced Studies in Extra-Terrestrials), eyes bulged out his square jawed, craggy face upon his six foot twelve frame of tensed muscle and bone, as he sniffed appreciatively at his fear sweated armpits. He gasped with horror, eyes squinting against the perpetual beating African sun, as he addressed 7 of 9 Assistant Commissioner of the Zimbabwean Republic Police responsible for efficient looting and disposal of stolen merchandise and ultra-violence,


‘Lordy me, the man lying on the ground (dressed like a farmer) appears to be wreathing in agony. Why is that?’


7 of 9 Assistant Commissioner of the Zimbabwean Republic Police Mathew Mark Luke John Mugabe (27th Cousin far removed), rearranged his gigantism frame inside his exploding Gucci suit of pure Scottish tweed. He gazed complacently the gently revolving end of the assegai making pretty circles in the Havana cigar smoke he was puffing at (a personal present from Fidel Castro), and spoke in a deep and scary type voice,


‘I believe this is a sign, but with my limited education due to the former colonial racists that once ruled and fed my people, I do not know what it says.’


Blackman’s face, that had gone white, returned to its normal colour of white as he gained control of his fear filled palpitating anus.


‘He appears to be pinned to the red soil ground through his lower spine’ he carefully analysed.


‘It is a spear called an Assegai, not a pin,’ replied Mugabe, picking his yellow teeth with a Yemen styled Rhinoceros horn handled knife.


‘Yes, yes’, replied Blackman, ‘and look - he is a whiteman! This is a sign, a symbol that if I can fathom it out, I will be rich.’


‘And I get 80%,’ chortled Mugabe, ‘tax free in Obahma dollars,’ he muttered into his bottle of imported South African Castle beer.


Blackman stared around at his surroundings of rows of rows of six foot nine growing maize. He could see nothing of interest besides a few starving nine year old war veterans from the 1970’s liberation war, helping themselves to some mielie cobs.


Just then, Rhodesian born, 73 year old farmer John Brown’s eyes fluttered into life for a brief second before they died.


‘I know now,’ said Blackman as his professional gaze took in the shocking detail of the farmer’s naked and beaten to a pulp feet. ‘His shoes have been stolen!’


Mugabe glanced guiltily at his new ‘veldskoens’. The evil man flared his broad nostrils wider than a Rwandan gorilla and squirted a stream of vile smelling, nicotine stained phlegm at the still twitching form’s feet.

‘So much for being smarter by wearing Bata’


Blackman contemplated for a while, scanning his amazing academic memory for similar comparisons amongst the ancient rituals of the Aztecs.

7 of 9 Assistant Commissioner of the Zimbabwean Republic Police Mathew Mark Luke John Mugabe (27th Cousin far removed), burped, and scratched at his brown eye with a grubby finger, still covered in sadza from last nights meal.


‘Listen Blackman, this whiteman is dead, but before he died he donated his farm to me. You are trespassing.’


Blackman looked into the blackman’s bloodshot eyes that reflected his fear, and instantly released his bowls into his Sainsbury’s £4.50 ‘Made in China’ by child labour, bright pink silk trousers.


‘You do not frighten me Mugabe, there is still the law on my side,’ declared the brave but rather stupid professor, defiantly in a very defiant tone.


Mugabe raised his Russian made, folding butt Kalashnikov 47, from where it had been hidden in his rear pocket, and with much ado about nothing, emptied the entire magazine of thirty rounds into Blackman’s torso.


‘Law? In this country - that is just whiteman’s lore.’


The End.



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