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