Self-Beautification

When she purchased the beauty kit, it was the culmination of a dream and some hard earned savings used wisely to her heart’s content. Now she could look her best.

O how she loved her make up! And she dearly wanted to put on her new eyelashes. She awaited the first occasion for putting them on. It soon came, as all things come to those who wait. She bathed and sat in front of her mirror and spent a lot of time powdering and pomading. She took the eyelashes and set about putting them on. She couldn’t manage but she persisted and persisted until she was obliged to give up when, unwittingly, she poked herself in the eye. She cried out but the damage was done. Her eyes swelled and stayed swollen for some several days. And her chance to put on her eyelashes that day died.

People advised her not to do it again but, of course, a determined woman cannot be told what to do. She convalesced for several days as her eyes got back to normal. She waited for another occasion that would warrant the wearing of the eyelashes. It came, and like last time, she bathed and sat in front of her mirror and powdered and pomaded and prepared to wear her new eyelashes.

But, of course, after some time, she poked herself again in the eye. And once again her eyes swelled and stayed swollen for some several days.

She is determined, though, despite people's remonstrations. As far as she is concerned, perseverance is the key to looking good. She awaits her next opportunity as her eyes heal.

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

A Perfect Getaway

Had it happened at night, it would have been less astonishing. Not to say it would have been less macabre but just a few notches less bewildering because we are used to hearing such things always happening during the night. Such things are things of the night, of the dark.

But it was bright afternoon, a cool glorious lustrous day, the sun shining a bit lazily in this African winter and the wind swishing with a chill. People lounged in the afternoon sun letting it hit them, absorbing as much as they could to chase away the cold air. Everything avoided the shade and sought the lazy sun. The activities of the day were at their slowest and people were dozing as the boredom drifted into the air from person to person. Even conversations stuttered and spluttered.

But for him, the afternoon was full of excitement and verve. He had been imbibing his favourite brew at his familiar drinking joint and he was fairly tossed. Yet he still managed to secure the services of a woman friend. Pretty soon, they were seen leaving the drinking joint furtively and heading to a nearby rest house; the one with the supply, the other with the demand; the one with the price, the other with the consideration.

After some time, we are fairly certain the supply was supplied and the demand was satisfied and the price was mentioned but…the consideration was not forthcoming.

She was having none of it, of course. She knew all the tricks and deceits in the book. Deeply furious, she dragged him out into the lazy afternoon and a crowd slowly accumulated, all too glad to witness a wonderful distraction. She was hauling him all over the place, demanding in a loud voice her money and the drunk man kept searching his pockets. Her friends came to help her, identifying with her plight. The coven of friendly women proceeded to harass the drunk man, venting all their rage on the tips of their acid tongues onto him. The crowd tittered and were greatly amused.

The coven finally understood that he didn’t have any money on him. So they resolved to drag him to the chief, the settler of all disputes in the village. Grabbing his shirt front, the affronted woman with her friends in tow and the crowd following proceeded to the chief’s house. The drunken man shuffled along obediently.

Suddenly, the drunken man seemed to come out of his stupor and he looked around, roused and seemingly sober.

‘Wait!’ he shouted.

Everyone stopped and there was a hush. The coven of women naturally thought the man was about to come up with the money. They watched him sway on his feet. They watched him steady himself. They watched him slowly close his eyes and they watched him promptly…vanish!

Just like that.

He didn’t run. He didn’t walk. He didn’t duck into the crowd around. He just vanished!

There was commotion and panic and confusion and disbelief. The coven of friendly women were left speechless in the afternoon ambience, their anger and indignation not having found full release.

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

Pass The Calabash

The day was waning, the hard day’s work was done, the night was beckoning and its accompanying pleasures were waiting to be had. Yes, it was time for camaraderie, feisty spirited arguments, dancing, jokes, laughter and the all important ingredient of the beer gourd passing from man to man.

The group of village friends met at the usual drinking joint and sat down in their familiar circle, the flavour of the well fermented malt brew wafting tantalisingly into the air. The blare of the music box spiced the atmosphere, mingling with the loud buzz of conversing voices and occasional whoops of laughter. The calabash passed from mouth to mouth, being refilled from time to time, as the contents were moved from the calabash to their final destination in each man. So time passed and the night rose and the atmosphere became even more intimate and friendly.

In the midst of it, the man who was spiritedly telling a tale while all his friends raptly listened, took the calabash, and took a healthy swig. Since all eyes were already on him, they were startled to see him frown deeply as his whole body paused suddenly, his mouth working rigorously. He spat something into his hand and to his consternation, he saw it was a tooth! He quickly passed his tongue over his teeth, and to his relief, but further consternation found that, definitely, he wasn’t missing any teeth…

There was a silence. ‘Whose tooth was it then?’ The inevitable question floated uncomfortably into the minds of the men and settled like a rock in water in the midst of the circle. They looked at each other as they began to murmur amongst themselves, darting their eyes from the errant tooth to one another till eventually all eyes settled on the prime suspect, the oldest in the group who already had missing teeth and who sat in an embarrassed silence.

The camaraderie that had gathered steam and vibe like a pot of water boiling and promised so much swiftly dissipated like air from a punctured tyre. Each man said his goodbyes and returned home with shudders rocking his body as thoughts of what he had drank haunted him, more so the man in whose mouth, another man’s tooth was found. For him, it is safe to say, the calabash will never be received nor given again; it will now start and stay in his hands.

So says the Sudanese proverb, ‘Be careful when you are sharing a calabash of porridge with a toothless man.’

Peculiar News Compilation

'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'

© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

The Chicken Method Of Catching A Thief

She hired the young men to help her press the tobacco into bales, in readiness for transportation to the auction floors. And the young men happily worked that day, sorting and packing and pressing using the jack the woman had hired. Towards the death of the afternoon, the young men completed the work and asked for their pay.

‘I don’t have money right now but I can pay you by giving you a chicken,’ the woman said.

The young men were not pleased, of course, but they didn’t cause much trouble as they all agreed that the chicken was also a good way to pay them since the price of a chicken was more than what they had agreed with the woman. The woman went into her house and came out the back and told some little children playing to catch the chicken she was pointing at. The children gleefully complied and chased the chicken around the yard with whoops of delight in their voices and yelps of terror on the chicken’s part.

She took the chicken and gave it to the young men who went away with it. She watched them cynically, with a well pleased expression on her face. She eyed the bales of tobacco and sighed contentedly.

And the sun sank, night came and passed and another day arose…

…to a commotion by a man who was shouting at the top of his voice as he passed through the village from house to house something about his chicken. He was livid and threatening the one who had taken his chicken to return it. But the people of the village didn’t know what had happened to his chicken. He vowed vengeance on the thief and issued one last warning for the thief to come forward of their own accord. No one did.

The furious man went away and the village quiet returned and the day wore on when, once more, the man appeared questioning everyone in a peculiar way whether they had seen his chicken. He would ask the question and then cock his head as if listening to something other than the answer. A crowd of people slowly gathered in his wake, sensing that something strange was about to happen. He rounded the village and soon came to the woman’s house.

‘Did you see my chicken?’ he asked her and cocked his head in the peculiar manner.

‘No,’ she confidently replied, even going as far as making her voice wounded and aggrieved.

But then there issued about her a loud persistent clucking sound of a chicken that startled everyone and so frightened the woman out of her skin because it seemed to be coming from her stomach! The man pounced on her, demanding back his chicken. The woman, who was jumping up and down with terror and dread, at the sound in her stomach agreed to pay him but not his particular chicken.

‘That’s okay. Add two more, if you want the sound to stop.’

Peculiar News Compilation

'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'

© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

A Surprise Visit From His Mother

When he emigrated to South Africa, he told his mother that he would like her to pay him a visit once things start working out and he had settled down. His mother agreed that it would indeed be nice to visit him in the strange country and see where he settles.

So he set about working his heart out and after some years he was in a position where he could comfortably say he was settled. It was time to invite his mother to come for a visit. He contacted her and told her that she should come for a visit and that he would send her the transport money. But strangely, his mother told him not to worry about the transport cost, that she would see to it herself. He was puzzled because he knew her livelihood could not allow that. But he shoved aside his misgivings and after giving her all the details about where he lived, he waited for her to visit him on an agreed date.

However, some day before the appointed date, towards twilight, he was startled but delighted to see his mother arrive at his house with some bundles of sugarcanes, peanuts and maize flour together with her little bag of clothes. He asked her lots of questions but her answers were vague. And he became confused. So he decided to call his other relatives back home to get the full story and also to tell them that she had arrived safely.

But the relatives were equally confused by what he was telling them because the woman in question was right there with them on the mat beside the fireplace eating her evening meal! With fright and confusion, the two parties didn’t believe each other. As soon as the son hang up, he went looking for his mother but he found she had disappeared. However, the things she had brought were still there as testimony that she had visited.

Meanwhile, the mother is smiling contentedly and to anyone who dares ask, she answers, ‘I visited my son in South Africa. I am glad he is doing okay.’

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

Please Destroy My House

Man must die. And it is a wondrous thing that we still want to have a say on what happens above Earth when we go into it. Is it a way to stay immortal? Is it a way of denying the finality of death? Maybe we disbelieve that when we die, that’s it; we disbelieve that there’s no more we.

Whatever the thinking is, deathbed instructions still continue to be issued to loved ones. For the lucky few, their wishes do get carried out by those who love them. But, it could also be, that for the majority, the wishes are not honoured.

‘My sons, my last breath comes. When it happens and you are about to put me into my resting place, please destroy my house. Dismantle it and use the bricks to erect my tombstone. This will make me very happy.’ The old man said, his faltering voice sailing slowly out of him like a ship leaving port. His sons, who were gathered around him, listened and, of course, promised with fervour and heartfelt goodwill.

Several days passed and the last breath came. And over the next few days, relatives and neighbours congregated at the house of the funeral to see off the old man. However, the sons had acquired other thoughts as regards their father’s deathbed wish. Why destroy a perfectly good house? It seemed a bizarre and unfair instruction from their sage old father to confer. Hence, they decided resolutely to keep the house.

On the final day when the old man was to be taken to his final resting place at the cemetery, people gathered from all over and surrounded the funeral home. The coffin had been brought out and was in the foreground and the Church had finished their program. It was time to leave for the cemetery.

Suddenly, there was a rambling sensation that could be heard coming from the house. Those who had been leaning on it yelped with fright and run out from the eaves of the house. There was confusion and horror as the gathering watched the house slowly but surely collapse into a heap of bricks, rafters and corrugated iron sheets. Women screamed. Children cried. And the men stood aghast.

The sons were shocked. But they remembered their father’s dying wish, ‘Please destroy my house.’

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

The Love Pentagon

The women were growing more and more beautiful by the bottle. And into the air, the electricity of seduction hovered. An infusion of arousal floated and seeped into the minds of the men.

The beer had flowed and now it was time for other pursuits.

He struck a deal with her and they covertly sauntered off to her room, a little way from the bar. They went into the room and it is not very difficult to imagine the occurrences inside. After some time, the man was seen coming out of the room and heading towards the bathrooms to relieve himself. Meanwhile, another fellow came strolling along and familiarly entered the woman’s room. The door was locked and the occurrences inside are, once again, for you to imagine.

The first man, having finished relieving himself, came back to the woman’s room but was surprised to find the door locked. He could hear sounds from within so he knocked. The woman informed him to wait because she was serving another guy. This shocked the man and he got furious and jealous, more so because he hadn’t finished his business with the woman. So he started rattling the door and yelling and calling on her to open the door. The dude inside didn’t take this lying down and he also got furious. He yanked the door open to confront the irascible man at the door. And found that the irascible fellow was his own pa!

Rage took over from shock and he let out a blow which hit the older man right in the face.

‘Do you want to kill my mother?’ the son roared in wrath.

Shock was also taken over by rage in the father and he too let fly a blow which also landed in his son’s face.

‘Do you want to kill your mother-in-law’s daughter?’ the father thundered at his son.

Things escalated out of control from there, with the woman at the centre of it all, running around helplessly in circles, fruitlessly trying to calm things down and separate the two fighting men. People came, excited and curious about the commotion. They were titillated when they heard the gist of the story and there was much mirth and amusement. They let the two fight it out and squeezed out the most from the hilarity of the situation.

Unfortunately, the other two women concerned got to hear the fun happenings of the night. For them, the mirth and humour of the situation totally zoomed past them. Consequently, the two marriages are, unsurprisingly, on the rocks.

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

The Four Owls

Payday! For working people, that is the Day. A month of sweat rewarded by a day of sweet. It is the encapsulation of an age old means of livelihood; creditors line up, bills are squared, food is bought, clothes are purchased, rents are paid, savings are made, and, for the lucky few, wealth accumulates. For some men, it is freedom and license to binge drink. Smiles appear on women’s faces and kids get their treats. Oh, doubtless payday is the Day.

For him, payday came and he had to cycle all the way from his home to his work place at the sugar plantations; a one hour cycle trek. He worked that day and when the designated time came for the wages to be handed out, he lined up and got his pay. He started back on his way home, very mindful that unscrupulous people could waylay him.

Well, he needn’t have worried about anyone at all. Harm did come but not from man. It came in a way he could never have imagined had it not happened to him. Four owls came out of the foliage on the right of the track and flew about above his head. He was disturbed and looked at the strange occurrence with trepidation. Owls in the daytime? He put some strength into the cadence, trying to put some space between himself and the owls but he was shocked when they dived in and flew into his face one after the other. He stopped the bicycle, now very alarmed and very afraid.

What could this mean? What was happening?

He got on his bicycle again, trembling with fear and cycled with all his might, the adrenaline pumping in his temples. But the advantage of flight is superior to locomotion on hard earth. The four owls easily caught up with him and savagely flew into his face once again and this time he fell off his bicycle and landed face down, injuring his lips and cheek which swelled. They began pecking at him and scratching him. They did this for some time while he screamed and flailed his arms wildly about. Quite suddenly, they ceased and flew away.

Deeply traumatised, he wasted no time but got onto his bicycle and rode helter-skelter for the comfort and protection of his home, having seen the devil. He is now ensconced in the confines of his home, afraid to cycle to work again as he seeks help from ‘wise men’.

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

The Drunk Grocer

On that particular day, the grocer was seen to be in a very jovial and merry mood. His conviviality at the local tavern was a sight to behold and his jolly laughter echoed to the rooftop while his dancing antics excited jubilant cheers from his fellow patrons.

The beer flowed…and it flowed…and it flowed. And everyone agreed that never had a more superb and splendid time ever been spent at the tavern before. They partied late into the night till everyone had had enough and one by one they said their goodbyes with lots of goodwill and bright hopes for a better tomorrow. The grocer also saw it was his time to go back to his home behind his grocery. Extremely sozzled, he, nevertheless, managed to stagger home, falling countless times, singing happy songs along the way.

However, when he reached home, he remembered he had one more task he felt like doing. He opened his grocery and started throwing out the groceries. Alert villagers nearby pounced upon this one in a million chance and went away with the stuff no longer ‘wanted’ by the grocer. It took some bit of time to complete the subtraction of the well-stocked grocery but finally, having satisfied himself, the grocer closed shop and contentedly went to sleep, like a new born satiated baby with a big smile on his face.

He woke up to a beautiful day and the inevitable splitting headache…and to the bewildering and shocking sight of his empty grocery. Of course, he thought he had been robbed; so it was with teeth-gnashing and shirt-tearing anguish and gape-mouthed disbelief that he listened to the truth when it was told to him.

Some lessons are better learnt the hard way.

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

The Harvest That Won't Happen

He spent a lot of time inside his field. When everyone else had done their work for the day in their fields and gone home, he would still be seen inside his. He grew to like the solitude among the stalks of the maize crop, the expanse of the open air with the sun beating upon his brow and the silence of the field. The sounds of distant echoes of life all around him hardly penetrated his seclusion, so absorbed was he in his menial tasks. But, deep down, this extra time spent in the fields was a pretext to delay the time when he would have to go home to his wife and spend time among his in-laws. He was a ‘mkamwini’, a product of the age old traditional custom where a man leaves his home village and goes to stay at his beloved’s home village. In some cases, it works out fine; for him, it was not going all that well.

Hence his preference for the company of his inanimate garden to his very animated in-laws. Naturally, the extra time and care he bestowed on his field, led to his crop being the envy of the village. His extra effort showed in the tidy ridges and the height of the crop and the lush pumpkin foliage that snaked beneath the maize with plump pumpkins dotting the floor.

Meanwhile, eyes were watching and thoughts were being thought and words were being spoken and feelings were being felt. His marriage was floundering and his wife and the in-laws were throwing out unveiled clues that he was not what they had envisioned. Still, they couldn’t help but admire the garden. But there was no easy way for them to have it all to themselves. They couldn’t straight take it away from him because they were the ones who had provided it to him and in the 'mkamwini' system, that was not a line that could be crossed; otherwise the village chief could step in. So they talked it over with their daughter and sister and it was resolved the marriage's demise was the only way to get their hands on the harvest.

It was an easy task for the wife to execute. And very soon, the man saw that his time there had come to an end. He quietly removed himself back to his home village, regretfully leaving his crop but still glad to close the sad chapter of his life. Harvest time soon came and the in-laws prepared to reap where they had, effectively, ‘sown’. They went into the garden but, to their shock, all they could see was a dam of water. When they came out, there was the garden, inviting and open. But one step inside, a dam of water. They soon realized that their in-law had charmed the field.

The wife was told to do the needful and she travelled to the man’s village to charm him back. He admitted that he had charmed the field at the very beginning to protect the field against thieves who harvest where they had not sown. But he refused to go back with her, telling her that he would rather the crop should rot right there in the field.

Thus, all fields in the village have been harvested except for that one luscious field where slowly the rot is setting in…

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

The Dove In The Flour

In this part of Africa, the ‘dengu’ of maize flour is the heart of the house. ‘Nsima’ the staple cooked product of maize flour is the buffer between a full stomach and an empty stomach. And everyone on Earth knows that an empty stomach is not a desirable condition at all.

The ‘dengu’ of flour is always covered and protected. Cats are watched warily; you don’t want them helping themselves in the flour and then covering up their act inside the flour to occasion a nasty surprise later on. So are cockroaches and other insects observed in the same way. In short, if you attack a family’s basket of maize flour, you are declaring war. Worse, you will be suspected of witchcraft.

So imagine the horror of a certain family when they discovered a dove in their basket of maize flour. A dove! Cats, cockroaches, gheckos, moths, ants, chickens, pigeons, nasty and disgusting as they would be to find in the basket, are still understandable because they are unacknowledged inhabitants of our houses. But a dove! It is like walking into your bedroom and finding a car parked on your bed. But find it they did.

At first, they rationalized that, as improbable as it was, it was just possible that it had strayed into the basket. So the man of the house caught it and kept it in a box where it lived for two days. On the third day, he found it had died.

That was when things started getting weirder. The day after the discovery of the dead dove, a strange bird flew into the couple’s bedroom. The woman of the house was alone and she was startled. It flew around the bedroom and perched on a rafter. She got afraid and started screaming. People came to the rescue but it disappeared from the bedroom in a way no one could fully explain.

Two days later, the man of the house went to the field to work his garden. And a flock of strange birds, which fit his wife’s description of the bird in their bedroom, attacked him. He ran for his life back to his house. When the couple related the strange occurrences to friends and neighbours, they all agreed that the death of the dove must be the cause.

The family subsequently went on to experience several other visits from the strange birds at odd and unexpected moments over several weeks and, needless to say, they were heavily traumatised. Then all of a sudden, the visits stopped but by that time the uneasiness the family felt was intense. They thought it was a lull rather than an end. The man of the house resolved to seek help from ‘wise men’.

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

Another Road To Riches

Man is innovative, that is certain. And all innovation...well some...leads to riches. The road to riches, therefore, could be said to be the most innovated product ever.

So, it is not surprising that he innovated his way to riches by digging up a coffin and storing it in his house in order to. . . innovate his way to riches.

Well, sometime later, there being no secret under the sky, he had no choice but to seek help from the ‘wise’. Because, you see, during its short stay in the house, the coffin mysteriously became stuck and try as he might he couldn’t get it back out. . .

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

The Mother

Some years ago they buried the woman in the village graveyard. She left behind a child who was thrust into the care of her sister, the father having absconded his duty by leaving for town.

One night, recently, as the child and the sister's children were eating their evening meal outside by the fireside, the sister attending to other things inside her house, the children were delightfully startled to see the woman who had been buried, join them at the fireside and start eating with them. One of the sister’s children rushed inside to tell her mother the news. The shocked woman rushed outside and sure enough there was her sister, who had died, eating with the children.

She screamed for help and soon people flocked to the house. The woman who had died happily greeted everyone but few answered back, afraid to speak to her. The chief also came and started asking the woman all sorts of questions that would be asked in such a situation. She didn't answer any of them but continued eating until the chief asked her where she had been and she answered as if it were the most obvious thing, 'Home'.

'Where is home? Show us.'

And she stood up. That was when everyone gasped. She was pregnant! She hadn't been when they buried her. Or had she?

'Who made you pregnant?' the chief asked incredulously.

'My husband, of course.'

'Your husband? The father of this child?' the chief asked, pointing to the child who was all eyes looking at her mother with fear.

'No. Not him.'

'Who then? Where is he?'

'At home.'

'Home? Where is your home?'

'That way,' she said pointing in the direction of the north.

'Please show us where you live.'

And without preamble, the woman just started walking in the direction she had pointed. The chief scrambled quickly a party of some brave men, armed with some panga knives and spears and rushed after her and fell in behind her, keeping their torches trained on her. She walked at a brisk pace and with confidence while they followed with their hearts in their throats, ready for action should any unwelcome surprise spring up. The woman's sister had refused to accompany them.

It turned out to be a very long walk, during which they started getting concerned and thought of turning back. But the figure in front, who now didn't respond to any questions, was reason enough to still forge ahead. So they persevered and followed her still. And at around 2am, they came to a house in a clearing towards which the woman confidently strode. She knocked and after some time, a man came out and she introduced him to the chief and his party as the husband. They had never seen him before.

The chief had a lot of obvious burning questions he wanted to have answered but the woman and the husband's answers were so vague, it dawned on the chief that he needed to establish the truth another way. So he resolved when morning came to meet the other people of the village to ascertain how this couple came to be here. With some hours to go before dawn, the chief and his party made themselves comfortable outside the house. Fatigued from the long walk, they all slumbered.

They awoke to the first fledglings of dawn and the chirruping of birds to find the house was still there but in a state that looked as if it had been uninhabited for a long time. They looked for the couple but they were nowhere to be found. Consequent enquiries from the other inhabitants of the village revealed that the house belonged to a man who had died two years earlier...

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

A Road To Riches

The art of being a charlatan is as old as sin itself. And the gullibility of those driven to seek their esteemed advice is so vastly amazing that Satan himself is probably being constantly surprised and wonderfully amused. And when charlatanism and witchcraft are mixed, the force for illusion and deception is multiplied tenfold; credulousness multiplies proportionately.

Throw in desperation and delusions of grandeur and the results can be tragically hilarious and incredible. Over the course of time, countless people have fallen prey to the promises of charlatans and quacks; and the lesson has never been learnt nor will it.

He was no exception. He wanted to get rich. And when the charlatan witchdoctor promised him that, yes, he would get rich, he salivated. The normal reservations that came into his mind when he heard the witchdoctor’s procedure, he rationalized by his belief that the procedure was so extraordinary, such that it really would work.

He was to drink the mixture the witchdoctor was to give him and after he was dead, his wife was to pick the maggots that came out of his body and store them. After a week, he would arise and the maggots would be cash.

He went home and told his wife all about the procedure; she did take some convincing but eventually she bought into the plan, the allure of wealth being too strong. He drank the mixture and after some time, sure enough, the convulsions started, the froth came out of his mouth, his eyes rolled backwards and...he was dead.

The wife wrapped his body and buried it in the other room and waited for the maggots. When the maggots came, she braved the smell; she picked them and stored them. But the week passed and the corpse did not resurrect nor did the maggots turn into cash. The stench became unbearable and the suspicious villagers came knocking at the door...

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

The Strongman

You wouldn’t have wanted to pick an argument with him, give him an insolent look or attempt to steal anything of his, or, much less, make moves on his wife. He was a man of few words; he preferred action. He expressed his words in the puffed up faces, split lips, lost teeth, broken ribs and aching bodies of all who crossed him. He wrote his words with a violence that earned him a nasty reputation around the countryside.

But where initially there had been grudging respect from the men and shy admiration from the women, now began a discontent against him because, lately, he had become exceedingly aggressive and indiscriminate. So people covertly resolved to deal with him. But how?

The fateful day came when one unfortunate soul got into an altercation with the Hercules. He was being beaten so badly that people saw that if they didn’t intervene, death was just a few blows away from the poor soul. Some men then rushed to the wife of the Hercules; maybe she could convince her husband to let up. The wife listened quietly and quickly got up but, to their surprise, she didn’t run in the direction of the fight but behind their house, where she rummaged about in the bushes. She found what she was looking for; a weird bundle of cloth and sticks and…the Lord only knows what else. She swiftly untied it and calmly walked back into her house and closed the door.

At the fight, the change was immediate. The Hercules staggered with a look of surprise and alarm on his face. The poor soul, who had by now been beaten so badly, even felt it because he was able to parry the next blow, and in a last-ditch attempt, he threw his arm in a wide arc, conking out in the process. The arm hit the Hercules and had the effect of cutting his forehead. Thereupon, one brave soul, also feeling a change in the tide of strength, rushed the Hercules. And poor Hercules got beaten so badly in turn...

It is still not clear what prompted the wife to betray her husband. Could it be that she also suffered at his hands? Could it be her secret sweetheart who had taken the heavy beating? Could it…? All we can do is speculate as she remains close lipped and the Hercules is now just another ordinary guy who can be beaten any time of the day...

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2018

The Distinguished Guest At The Funeral

The gathering is a sombre affair. People are speaking in hushed murmurs and whispers. Faces are appropriately closed up with expressions of prim gravity. The heartbroken cries of the women slice the solemn atmosphere, scratching agony and sorrow into the heart of the ear...

The ceremony of the funeral of the young man is at an advanced stage and the sad crowd respectfully stand up as it is now time to escort the deceased to his final resting place at the graveyard. As per custom, the men rush to carry the coffin and gently place it in the back of the pickup truck that will transport it at a dignified and serious pace to the cemetery. The driver starts the car and moves forward and the assembled people move in step.

Suddenly there is shouting in front and a commotion arises spreading like a ripple in a pool throughout the crowd. Shouts of confounded disbelief; excited yells of baffled incredulity; sceptical scoffs of cynicism; hysterical screams of terror from the women and girls. Women are seen running away; men are seen scattering into nearby fields; but some brave souls are seen rushing forward...

...after a figure that is a little ahead.

What is happening? Who is he? What has he done? Has he stolen something?...

Soon it becomes clear what has occurred. The figure in front is none other than the deceased young man himself. There he is! Running towards the graveyard at great pace. The courageous men running after him also quicken their pace and run hard and fast. He runs into the graveyard with the brave souls at his heels. And for a space of time, time is suspended as people hold their breath. After an unbearable pause in the stitch of time, people see the brave souls coming out of the graveyard. They report that as soon as they entered the graveyard, they lost sight of the young man...

When things settle down somewhat, there is still the coffin lying in state in the pickup. The body is still there but now everyone is sceptical of it and fearful. Nevertheless, it must be disposed of. The crowd, what is left of it, enter the graveyard and with constant, jittery looks around, swiftly conduct a much shortened version of the burial. Even the gravediggers do not do a proper job of covering up the coffin...

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2017

The Married Guy Lovestruck... Not With His Wife

A love enchanted dude was caught by his wife making moves on her mother!

He was telling his mother-in-law that she was more beautiful than her daughter and he was regretting not meeting her, the mother, first.

The wife was irate and the mother was upset too. Together, they ganged up on the poor love struck fella and gave him a tongue lashing as only women can give which consequently drew the whole village's attention.

Awkward...

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2015

The Dead Old Woman Who Refused To Be Buried

Grave diggers were left very exhausted and wonderfully puzzled when a grave for an old deceased woman kept filling back up.

They would dig up to neck level and then, inexplicably, would find that the grave was only up to knee level. Several attempts to dig the required six feet deep proved futile. So in anger and bafflement, they buried the old woman at knee level.

Needless to say, everyone is uneasy because knee level does not give a good guarantee that the old woman shall not rise again...

Peculiar News Compilation

'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2015

The Man With The Pocket Whirlwind

A certain dude was heavily beaten up at our Lunzu Trading Centre in Blantyre, Malawi, on suspicion that he was moving around with a 'kamvulumvulu' (tornado or whirlwind) in his pocket.

Every time he passed by this particular market, people would notice a whirlwind. And, unaccountably, they would notice some of their money would go missing. It took several such strange occurrences like this for people to put two and two and then six and six together to come to the all perfect conclusion that the whirlwinds were being 'thrown' by the man..

So he needed to be taught a lesson to take his magic elsewhere. Next time they saw him, the irate crowd accosted him and duly proceeded to sort him out...

Peculiar News Compilation
'The Telling Is Mine; The Story Is Not'
© Dingiswayo Allan Sambo 2015