Bwana, let me tell you, I didn’t step anywhere near the office today. Instead, I wisely retreated to the sanctuary of working from home—a move driven not by laziness, but by pure survival instinct. Yours truly, the man whose sharp dressing is practically folklore, found himself in a situation yesterday. An incident in the elevator.
An incident, if we’re being modest, An experience if we’re generous. And trust me, this one deserves its own chapter in the Book of Corporate Shenanigans.
Now, before you roll your eyes and think, “What’s so dramatic about an elevator ride?” let me assure you, this wasn’t your average ascent or descent. Oh no. What unfolded in that steel box defies the limits of human decency, decorum, and, dare I say, the laws of physics.
What happened, you ask? Sit tight, my friend. Let me take you there. But first, a warning: what I’m about to share may alter the way you view confined spaces forever.
Yesterday, I left my office and stepped into an elevator in one of Toronto’s swankiest high-rise. I was resplendent in my tailored navy suit, Italian leather loafers, and a pocket square that screamed “This man knows what he’s doing.” Little did I know that my day, and my reputation, were about to hang by the thread of someone else’s dietary indiscretions.
The elevator was already partially occupied when I entered. A woman in a crimson power suit stood by the buttons, clutching a designer tote that could double as a weapon. Next to her was a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a pinstriped suit so sharp it could julienne carrots. Leaning casually against the back wall was a younger man, a finance type by the look of him, rocking suspenders like he’d just stepped out of The Wolf of Wall Street.
The last to enter was an older gentleman with a shock of white hair, the kind of distinguished look that said, “I own several horses and maybe a vineyard.” He wore a three-piece suit with an ascot, for heaven’s sake. This elevator was a fashion show for the elite, and naturally, I fit right in.
The doors closed. The silence was heavy, as it often is in elevators. No one spoke. We were all too refined for idle chatter.
And then it happened.
A scent, no, a weaponized stench, rose from the bowels of the elevator. It was thick, hot, and unforgiving—an invisible fog of shame that descended upon us all. My nostrils flared in betrayal. This wasn’t just a passing inconvenience; this was a crime against humanity.
The air felt… personal.
I froze, trying to maintain my composure. My face, I was sure, betrayed nothing. But as I glanced around, I saw it: the subtle, panicked glances. The sideways looks. The darting eyes. We were all thinking the same thing: Who did this? All I could think of were Shaggy’s words in the song “It wasn’t me”.
The woman in the crimson suit subtly turned her head, as if trying to pinpoint the source. The finance bro coughed awkwardly, a weak attempt to mask his potential guilt. The older gentleman furrowed his brow, his ascot quivering ever so slightly. And me? I stood tall, but inside, my sharp-dresser reputation felt under siege.
Everyone was a suspect. Everyone.
But let’s not kid ourselves—being the only black man in the elevator, I knew the unspoken truth. The likelihood of suspicion falling on me was statistically and historically… let’s say disproportionate. I could feel the collective judgment brewing, though no one dared say a word.
I wanted to shout, “I DIDN’T DO IT!” But of course, that’s exactly what the guilty party would say.
As the stench lingered, my mind drifted back to my origin. You know, I’m a Wanga—yes, the Wanga, of the Wanga Kingdom. Surely, you’ve heard of His Majesty Nabongo Mumia, haven’t you? Yes, that King Nabongo Mumia. A true legend. And before you ask, yes, I am a descendant. But let’s not get sidetracked by my royal lineage—that’s a tale for another day, one involving intrigue, heritage, and possibly a goat or two.
Now, among the Wanga, in the hallowed King’s court, there existed a man. Not just any man—a hero of sorts. He had the title of Omunyambi. The very name carries weight, doesn’t it? Mysterious. Noble. A title that demands respect. His role? Well, let me assure you, it wasn’t wielding swords or delivering fiery speeches. No, no, my friend. The Omunyambi’s duty was… unique.
The Omunyambi had one sacred duty: when the King, seated on his throne or striding through the palace halls, stealthily released a royal toot—and let’s not pretend for a moment that kings are immune to the digestive realities of beans and boiled eggs—this brave soul would leap into action. With the grace of a court jester and the solemnity of a priest, he would step forward, hand on heart, bow deeply, and declare, “Forgive me, noble lords and ladies! It was I!” To add flair, he might even fan the air dramatically, as if wrestling with his own imaginary guilt. All this so the King could sit there, stoic and dignified, as if his digestive system were above such mortal mischief. Truly, the Omunyambi was both a martyr and the palace’s most unsung hero—though perhaps not unsmelled.
At the time, I’d thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard. But now, trapped in this elevator of shame, I understood the nobility of Omunyambi’s sacrifice. Could I, too, rise to such greatness?
The elevator lurched as we passed the 12th floor. No one spoke, but the tension was unbearable. The woman in crimson was now glaring at the finance bro, who had the audacity to look smug. The older gentleman shook his head ever so slightly, as if to say, “Vijana wa leo” Meanwhile, the salt-and-pepper man stood motionless, his expression that of a seasoned poker player.
And me? I felt the weight of the moment. I was the only one capable of diffusing this silent standoff. My reputation was on the line, sure, but so was the peace of this elevator.
I cleared my throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began, my voice rich and authoritative. “We are gathered here today under unfortunate circumstances.”
All eyes turned to me. The finance bro raised an eyebrow. The crimson woman tilted her head, intrigued. The older gentleman adjusted his ascot, as though preparing for a declaration of war.
“Let’s not pretend we don’t know what has happened,” I continued. “An unprovoked act of biological aggression has been committed in this confined space.”
The silence was deafening. My heart raced. But I couldn’t stop now.
“Back in my homeland,” I said, my voice thick with fabricated gravitas, “there is a position of great honor: Omunyambi. This individual steps forward in moments of, shall we say, olfactory crisis, and assumes responsibility—even when the crime is not their own.”
The finance bro snorted. The older gentleman muttered, “Good heavens.” But the woman in crimson crossed her arms, clearly weighing my words.
I took a deep breath. “And so, if none of you will confess, I shall do it. I will be your Omunyambi.”
There was a stunned silence. Then, like thunder breaking a storm, the salt-and-pepper man erupted into laughter. The finance bro doubled over, tears streaming down his face. Even the woman in crimson cracked a smile, her icy demeanor thawing for the first time.
The older gentleman, however, merely nodded, his expression one of deep respect. “A noble gesture,” he murmured.
By the time we reached the lobby, the air had cleared—both literally and metaphorically. As the doors opened, we spilled out, still chuckling, each of us feeling lighter than before.
The woman in crimson caught my eye as she walked away. “You’re wasted in whatever you do,” she said, smirking. “You should be on stage.”
I smiled back, tipping an imaginary hat. “I aim to serve.”
As I walked out of the building, sunlight hit me like a spotlight on a stage. My jacket was crisp, my pocket square perfectly folded, my dignity—and reputation as the city’s sharpest dresser—fully intact.
The true culprit? They’d vanished into obscurity, but not before witnessing the rise of a modern-day Omunyambi. I hadn’t just survived; I had turned shame into triumph, chaos into legend.
Somewhere, a car honked in salute. A pigeon cooed in admiration. And as I strode into the world, I knew this: I wasn’t just a man—I was a story.
I AM OMUNYAMBI!
