Winter has gripped my locality with a vengeance, and the world outside has been a frosted wonderland of misery. The temperature has hovered stubbornly around -15°C in the last few days, the kind of cold that makes you rethink every life decision—like why you ever left the warm embrace of your bed. A recent snow generously blanketed the ground, but now that lovely white fluff has turned into treacherous sheets of ice, transforming each step into a gamble with gravity.
This morning, I was running late for church, not an unusual occurrence but always an exciting one. As I hurried along, I noticed I wasn’t the only sinner sprinting toward salvation. A cluster of equally tardy churchgoers shuffled hastily ahead, bundled in wool and determination, desperate to slip into the sanctuary unnoticed. The air was thick with shared resolve: no cold, no lateness, no disapproving gazes would keep us from divine intervention.
Amid this frozen chaos, one particular man decided to go for glory. With all the zeal of a marathon runner at the final stretch, he broke into a full sprint, his feet pounding the icy ground like he was storming the gates of heaven itself. But alas, the ice had other plans. He managed exactly two bold strides before physics delivered its verdict.
What happened next was nothing short of cinematic. His feet shot out in opposite directions, as if auditioning for a split in a Bollywood dance number. His arms flailed wildly, trying to grasp at the air, the ground, the meaning of life—anything to stop the inevitable. And then, with a resounding thud that seemed to echo across the icy landscape, he landed squarely on his posterior, sliding several feet for good measure.
The poor man lay there for a moment, blinking up at the heavens as though demanding answers. Now, under ordinary circumstances, this would have been the kind of moment to send everyone into fits of laughter. But this was church. Church! Here, decorum demanded that we suppress our amusement, no matter how much our insides screamed to let it out. Instead, the latecomers and I exchanged concerned glances, our faces twisted into expressions of exaggerated sympathy. A few murmured, “Oh no, is he alright?” while others approached him with the solemnity of mourners at a wake.
To his credit, the man recovered quickly, dusting off the invisible injuries to his pride and rising with a sheepish grin. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, waving off the gathering crowd like a seasoned performer after a curtain call. But I couldn’t help thinking, had this happened anywhere else—say, a place of less spiritual inclination—it would have been a comedic masterpiece. The laughter would have been relentless, and the poor soul would have been the star of every dinner table story that evening.
Instead, we all shuffled into the sanctuary, still holding in the laughter that begged for release, our steps now cautious on the icy ground. As I took my seat inside, I couldn’t help but smirk. The man’s icy escapade, while unintentional, had delivered a lesson no sermon could: tread carefully—in life and on ice.
But as I chuckled to myself, my thoughts wandered back to a much earlier mishap, one far removed from icy sidewalks and late churchgoers. Back in the village, mishaps like this didn’t end with polite concern or quiet sympathy. Oh no. Back in the village, every fall, slip, or stumble was a community event—a public spectacle guaranteed to make legends out of ordinary men.
In the old days, our village was a place of perpetual darkness. Nights were thick and silent, illuminated only by kerosene tin lamps that flickered like mischievous spirits. The world slept under a blanket of shadows, save for the occasional hyena howl or the ominous hoot of an owl. Life was peaceful—until it wasn’t.
Enter the night runner, jajuok or omulosi, the nocturnal phantom who turned tranquility into terror. His modus operandi? Knocking on doors at ungodly hours, startling half-asleep villagers, and sending them into fits of paranoia. His timing was diabolical, often targeting those battling urgent calls of nature. Imagine shuffling through pitch-black darkness toward a pit latrine, armed with a flickering lamp and a prayer, only to hear a loud knock at your door as soon as you left. The fear alone could make you forget why you were out there in the first place.
One evening, my father, a man of wits and nerves of steel, decided enough was enough. He had grown tired of living in fear, and he declared, “Leo, hii upuzi lazima iishe”, “We must catch this rascal!” His plan was simple yet brilliant. He instructed us to close the door without locking it, creating the perfect trap. Then, armed with nothing but his resolve, he hid behind a tree in the compound, waiting for the phantom to strike.
The night hung heavy; a silence so profound it felt like the world was holding its breath. And then, as if my father’s challenge had summoned chaos itself, the night runner emerged. He didn’t creep or tiptoe—oh no! This was no amateur. With the flair of a drama king and the energy of Bonny Khalwale’s bull, Pogba, at a bull fighting competition in Khayega, he charged toward our door. But tonight, he wasn’t content with a polite knock. No, sir! He unleashed his pièce de résistance: a buttocks-first assault, slamming into the door with such theatrical vigor that it practically begged for mercy.
Unfortunately for him—and fortunately for us—the door was not locked but merely closed. In a move that can only be described as poetic justice, the door gave way, and the night runner was catapulted into our house like a human cannonball, landing with a spectacular thud. There he lay, sprawled out on the floor, stark naked, every detail of his anatomy illuminated by the flickering lamp. The silence that followed was broken only by a collective gasp—and then the realization hit us all like a bolt of lightning.
The Omulosi wasn’t some supernatural specter or a mythical beast. No, no, no. It was Ouru Jibli Jabla-our neighbor! And not just any neighbor. Ouru Jibli Jabla was the village’s self-proclaimed sage, the man who sat front and center during meetings, his potbelly protruding like a badge of honor, dispensing wisdom and unsolicited advice with the gravitas of a judge. Tonight, however, wisdom had taken a backseat, and his posterior ambitions had made an ill-advised public debut.
Ouru Jibli Jabla, lying there in all his glory, was a sight to behold. His potbelly, that ever-loyal companion, rose like a small hill, commanding attention as though it were the centerpiece of a bizarre art exhibit. It bounced slightly as he tried to scramble up, a rhythmic motion that could have inspired a drum solo if the situation weren’t so outrageous.
And oh, his neck—or should we call it the great mystery of anatomy? For it was impossible to tell where his head ended and his torso began. It was as though nature, in a moment of whimsy, had decided to forgo the traditional neck altogether and instead blended head and shoulders into a seamless union. Calling it a neck would be generous; it was more like an incline—a gradual slope that made him look perpetually hunched yet regal in his own peculiar way.
His head, the crown jewel, was a round, shiny dome that reflected the dim light like polished mahogany. His cheeks, full and flushed, looked as though they might secretly double as snack storage, while his ears, small and slightly tilted, peeked out timidly, clearly overwhelmed by the grandeur of his overall physique. His arms, short and slightly bent, seemed to hover in permanent surrender, as though they were pleading for mercy on behalf of the rest of his frame.
And then there were his legs—sturdy, unyielding pillars built to carry his rather ambitious proportions. Despite their heft, they possessed an unsettling agility, though the image of Ouru Jibli Jabla running was a visual that could only be described as equal parts mesmerizing and terrifying, like watching a sack of millet rolling downhill at breakneck speed.
There he lay, Ouru Jibli Jabla in the flesh—literally—his secrets exposed, his posterior mischief now the talk of the century. The sheer absurdity of it all sent my father into a fit of laughter so loud it shook the walls. Ouru Jibli Jabla, for his part, tried to salvage the situation with desperate pleas and empty promises, but there was no undoing what had been done.
By morning, the village had gathered to witness the unmasking of the night runner. Ouru Jibli Jabla, tied to the great tree in our compound, stood there like a tragic hero in a play no one had asked for. His face was a portrait of regret, his belly a monument to overconfidence, and his reputation—well, that was as shattered as the door he’d slammed into.
To this day, the tale of Ouru Jibli Jabla lives on, a comedic masterpiece retold with exaggerated gestures and uproarious laughter. The moral? Whether you’re braving icy sidewalks or charging into doors, life has a way of reminding us all: tread carefully, lest you find yourself the unwitting star of a story too funny to forget.
Hi comrade, your stories are superb! Keep it up bruv!
Thank you Wamae!