There is No Gentleman at Night
- Category: Peering Eye
- Date 28-08-2005
- 374 views
A man who looked like a bishop entered a pub and went straight to the counter. He exhibited a sense of calmness and his cautious strides betrayed a person who held a holy responsibility here on earth, but why he was invading our heathen realm (the bar) struck me like lightening. A man of God has no right to visit a place preserved for sinners: drunkards, prostitutes, drug addicts, gluttons, vagabonds, gamblers, gossips, rumourmongers, and etcetera. This category is very protective of their quarters; so trespassers such as reverends are an unwelcome nuisance.
The suspected invading reverend was spotting a collarless shirt that seemed designed to accommodate a Roman collar. His forehead glistened as proof of God’s constant shower with blessings of money that afforded him correct dieting, unlike many alcoholic fans that never return home till they have downed all the available pints of beer.
The ‘priest’, having alone sauntered into the pub, looked over his shoulders constantly as if to deflect our curious eyes or detect spiteful looks. Little did we know that his bird was right around the corner; a nice-looking dame, dressed to kill. Yes, she was dressed to kill because her skirt was so tight and brief; you would not resist such a temptation as would deliver you to a deadly infection. Being “dressed to kill” would literally mean wearing clothes that would make people admire you, but hers would tempt someone into love matters which today could bring devastating consequences. Or why had she chosen to nearly expose what should be normally kept secret and private.
She kept displaying her disarming smile that cast some uncanny silence on us as we enviously observed her movement. We deduced that she was carefully stalking her victim – the reverend – and he was clearly entangled. She never stood still but kept swinging her body from right to left and to the right again, apparently having rehearsed for long how to do so. Body posture is an art, and walking is not simply a matter of lifting one foot from the ground, then another. For a woman, body demeanour should adopt a particular fashion and rhythm that would impress observers and companions with its features rhyming in style: such as a balanced buttock, projected chest, cheerful face, lulling eyes, sanguine arms, and a flexible waist.
As we huddled at our table, a disagreement arose as to whether the presumed man of the cloth was a bishop or some lousy priest, mooching around drinking joints with immoral motives. It could be a priest, we concluded in rare show of unanimity arrived at by a drunken lot. Why? Because of his nice appearance; his nicely trimmed short hair, very kempt indeed, and a clean-shaven chin. This coupled with his exotic dressings; particularly the noticeably expensive shoes whereupon he walked with calculated precision.
Soon, James the wag, our most notorious chatterbox, turned up like a bad penny, and found us dishing the dirt on the couple. Then the argument shifted from our immoral presumptions to reverential optimism that the two could be genuine, blood relations without anything to hide about their company. Nevertheless, The more we discussed, the thicker the plot grew, so James plucked up the courage to approach and ask the dame for a date, even in the hearing of her partner, the reverend. He was rudely ignored.
The ‘priest’ and his dame secured their orders and made for the exit. We agreed to pursue them to determine who they were, by the sort of dwelling they would end in. James offered to follow them up and bring us a report. They drove off with James at their heels.
He hoped they would turn at the nearest parish in Ubungo, but they headed for Mwenge, then to Mbezi where they later waited at a luxurious mansion as their gatekeeper opened the door. What did James discover? He stopped his car a few meters from the gate, walked to the gatekeeper and inquired who the couple really were. Learning that they were legally husband and wife, he returned to us, hanging his head in shame, and urging that we should be gentlemen next time!
By Venansio Ahabwe
Source: Peering Eye, Sunday Citizen