Bagu Vaa Imura

Bagu Vaa Imura

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Humor

Summary

This short story creatively captures the horrendously exploding degree of corruption that the African Continent has been so unfortunate to face. The youth have decided to stage a ground denunciation for those milking us dry

Bagu Vaa Imiura: The Remix
Part of the law of nature is that everybody was once a child regardless of what varying dispositions each one had. And I know I once was, a child, born with every advantage and disadvantage a child could have. That stage allowed you to concisely conceive many thoughts, wild, heretical, horrendously enigmatic and sometimes soothingly sensational. I had long ago, growing up as a child, thought that richly rich people do not “blast” ‘this toilet seat business, you know what I mean?’ Crazy as it sounds now, was aptly correct and so cool a thought worth diverging then as a child. Then years later after passing through the mill of Benue State University in Writers’ League, I went to Bagu Local Government Area and saw what you are about to see:
It had rained scantily over the past couple of years and the people have had very minimal output from agricultural activities. Their livestock had starved and become so horrendously lean that Atondo-Akaan who was suffering from a mild case of impaired vision only (according to him) one day raised his axe high up above his head to hack wood only to have his axe physically wrested from him in fair time by those nearby amidst shouts of bewilderment.
“What is it?” he asked. “I was merely going to split some wood” he quickly added.
“Ei! (No!)” An old woman who was at the scene, corrected, “You were going to split a calf, with you axe”.
“Well, what does it matter?” Asked a teenager. “It is, in any case, dry enough to make a good fire” he sneered.
The surprising thing is that the State Governor was from this Local Government. When I went to see the Governor about this matter, his Aid Decamp (A.D.C) sat me in the Guest Parlour after labouring to pass the security-check exams at the gate. Back in, the in-house security guards watched me like a Fisherman would a fish on his hook. Then as God would have it, the Governor had just finished flushing a political-bottle-neck hell of a problem, and was just relieving himself of the horrid assault in the toilet close to the Guest Parlour. “O’ Lord Protector of Heavens, save me from Shit-Bomb-Blast”, I heard “kprakprakprakkkkkkkkkkpppppppppprrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaataatttssaatfaggtrikjhfdazmiuytrexcvioioiimnioonbmnhvtcjhjfxkxcaskjhgdasgnjhtymioikioji” I imagined what the Toilet Tank must be facing the feeling. I heaved a sigh of relieve when the ADC smelt my fears and assured me that it was not Boko-Haram, I should worry not. I heaved another sigh of relieve, this time for God preserving me to see that I was so wrong as a child, thinking that ‘Richly Rich People do not blast’ cheiiiiiiii.
Fifteen minutes later, the Governor was still snorting and shushing in the Toilet, at some point, he hooted as though he were in labour, labouring to give birth. In line with their job description, the security guards deposited at the mouth of the Toilet looked encouragingly as though assuring him to “push, the baby will sooner come out...” LOL, espekuleke!
He stifled himself, dismembering his ass-neurones with interegnumatic concentration as if he had made up his mind to do a four-day job and not come back to the toilet to blast; or was he simply writing a four days carryover from then on? Moments later, the Trail-Carrier wheeled in cottons of silver tissues for the Governor’s comfort.
When the Governor finally came out and was advancing to the parlour, it was immediately clear to me that he had survived a struggle. He was breaking out with cold sweat as though his life had flashed before his eyes while in that toilet. As his ADC santuarred to his feet, clearly, I felt the need to stand as well. He offered me a handshake, considering where he had just emerged, I wondered if that proffer of acquaintance was genuine; however whatever it was, I gladly accented to his gesture. When our hands clocked into a lock for a shake, the Governor’s hand was as cold as dog’s nose.
As we all took our seats upon the wave of the Governor, he demanded to know the reason for my visit. I made sure to select my words carefully to avoid crossing the line.
“Your Excellency, very kindly Sir, I do not mean to prairie but, it’s about Bagu Vaa Imura Local Government.... “ I was interrupted harshly.
“How dare you! How dare you walk into my house and complain of those “Byagu” ambyaguu mba yang eve venda u haan mo ishangen ne!”
His Excellency, Governor Kura Wachicha, in stark fury, labelled Bagu people as ‘heedless aggressors’ whose behaviour was unnecessarily confrontational. He snapped his fingers and said Bagu people must appreciate the fact that the government was grappling with key priority issues, and will only attend to less demanding challenges after the more demanding ones have been effectively tackled. Off the records, he snapped his fingers, as he had often done before, and said
“kwa cho-cho! Didn’t these people refuse to vote for me and instead cast more of their votes for my opponent? Why aren’t they going to him so he can give them “sho-sho amber-nities” (social amenities)? Kwa cho-cho! Foolish Bagu people!”
As the Governor’s anger was gradually subsiding, I felt a bit calm, regardless of his earlier ranting. In spare of the moment, a woman of significant affluence walked in with a golden retrieval jug containing, what from its silhouette, appeared like juice. The smile she shared with the Governor upon arrival assured me that she was impeccably joyous today; and this incidentally made the horror of my ordeal vaporise, at least, so it seemed. He rushed the juice as if in a hurry to catch a Flight. However, when he finished, he surprisingly turned on a broad smile, as though assuring me, if not his wife, that he was now willing to listen. As I envisaged, he asked me to speak, so I began.

“Thank you, Your Excellency. Your Excellency, the water situation in Bagu Local Government is even worse. I am aware the people have often to endure the sight of muddy water from the mines flowing down through their neighbourhoods, polluting the landscape even, yet they have to walk long distances to get drinking water. They are often seen returning to their homes at nightfall with enough water to drink for only a few days. They have to dig pits in the jande that is hours’ caravan walk from the village, and await more hours for the water to slowly seep through, before they can gently, very gently scoop quarter or half kucha-fulls intermittently to fill their pots with the slightly whitish water. Back home, parents measure how much water the children would drink for the day. Mama Ayua once offered her son the tears he shed when the peppery food he was eating, by-passed into his wind pipe and chocked him into loud cries and fitfully restless coughs, To have a bath that would serve for couple of days. Gee-rege and his brother Wanjinga often run for hours round a tree then make a fire and dance vigorously round it in order that their bodies may produce more sweat. When it does, they apply soap to their bodies, and take turns using the edges of split-up bamboo stalks to scuff dirt off each other”.
To my greatest shock, the Governor had slept, and, apparently, had not been listening. The First Lady, struck with utmost concern, gently tapped her husband, however, that was only enough to seal his snore. She tapped him again, only this time very forcefully. The Governor, shocked from the touch, shabbily tightened the noose of his sphincter muscles, and as if in an act of rehearsed habit, made a horrendous wish with his butt – he released a flagellant airborne reaction team – f.a.r.t.s farts. This farts he released must have been composed of about ninety-nine percent nitrogen; seventy-nine percent hydrogen; twenty-nine percent carbon dioxide; nineteen percent methane; nine percent oxygen; and sixty pounds of sulphur. That was weighed in pounds because of excessive consumption of condiment-packed tin porridge beans, amniotically anointed cabbage, cheese, soda, meat pie, magpie, pizza, hotdogs, and king-size eggs which caused the gas the gas from the Governor’s butt to peel the paint off the walls. I secretly imagined that if the Governor were to fart continuously for three more times, it would produce gas with the equivalent energy of an atomic bomb. Was this what his wife – the First Lady, his ADC, driver and securities go through? The smoke that came out of his traditional pipe was better imagined; for this clearly established the link between the cavity of the nose and the mucous membranes that have smell receptors connected to the olfactory nerve. The vomeronasal organ was coarsed to collide with smell receptors and the molecules of the vapours then transmitted the appalling sensation to the brain. The fart came with supersonic velocity; it was the kind of fart that set our teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of our skull, consequently, it made the ADC looked like a meandering man without testicles. It was the kind of fart that will not kill all the chickens in the vicinity but will also choke even the people on the airplane; the kind of fart could propel couples to request for divorce papers. In that world of misery and at my darkest recess of my soul, I mooed over the ordeal of the forty year old woman who was now in her unusual glamorous self, quintessentially cutting an enviable figure in a sequinned frock that scooped low on the angelic neckline and made her stand out amongst the rest in the parlour. If she had been feeling fatigued and dazed,

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Summary

This short story creatively captures the horrendously exploding degree of corruption that the African Continent has been so unfortunate to face. The youth have decided to stage a ground denunciation for those milking us dry

Bagu Vaa Imiura: The Remix
Part of the law of nature is that everybody was once a child regardless of what varying dispositions each one had. And I know I once was, a child, born with every advantage and disadvantage a child could have. That stage allowed you to concisely conceive many thoughts, wild, heretical, horrendously enigmatic and sometimes soothingly sensational. I had long ago, growing up as a child, thought that richly rich people do not “blast” ‘this toilet seat business, you know what I mean?’ Crazy as it sounds now, was aptly correct and so cool a thought worth diverging then as a child. Then years later after passing through the mill of Benue State University in Writers’ League, I went to Bagu Local Government Area and saw what you are about to see:
It had rained scantily over the past couple of years and the people have had very minimal output from agricultural activities. Their livestock had starved and become so horrendously lean that Atondo-Akaan who was suffering from a mild case of impaired vision only (according to him) one day raised his axe high up above his head to hack wood only to have his axe physically wrested from him in fair time by those nearby amidst shouts of bewilderment.
“What is it?” he asked. “I was merely going to split some wood” he quickly added.
“Ei! (No!)” An old woman who was at the scene, corrected, “You were going to split a calf, with you axe”.
“Well, what does it matter?” Asked a teenager. “It is, in any case, dry enough to make a good fire” he sneered.
The surprising thing is that the State Governor was from this Local Government. When I went to see the Governor about this matter, his Aid Decamp (A.D.C) sat me in the Guest Parlour after labouring to pass the security-check exams at the gate. Back in, the in-house security guards watched me like a Fisherman would a fish on his hook. Then as God would have it, the Governor had just finished flushing a political-bottle-neck hell of a problem, and was just relieving himself of the horrid assault in the toilet close to the Guest Parlour. “O’ Lord Protector of Heavens, save me from Shit-Bomb-Blast”, I heard “kprakprakprakkkkkkkkkkpppppppppprrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaataatttssaatfaggtrikjhfdazmiuytrexcvioioiimnioonbmnhvtcjhjfxkxcaskjhgdasgnjhtymioikioji” I imagined what the Toilet Tank must be facing the feeling. I heaved a sigh of relieve when the ADC smelt my fears and assured me that it was not Boko-Haram, I should worry not. I heaved another sigh of relieve, this time for God preserving me to see that I was so wrong as a child, thinking that ‘Richly Rich People do not blast’ cheiiiiiiii.
Fifteen minutes later, the Governor was still snorting and shushing in the Toilet, at some point, he hooted as though he were in labour, labouring to give birth. In line with their job description, the security guards deposited at the mouth of the Toilet looked encouragingly as though assuring him to “push, the baby will sooner come out...” LOL, espekuleke!
He stifled himself, dismembering his ass-neurones with interegnumatic concentration as if he had made up his mind to do a four-day job and not come back to the toilet to blast; or was he simply writing a four days carryover from then on? Moments later, the Trail-Carrier wheeled in cottons of silver tissues for the Governor’s comfort.
When the Governor finally came out and was advancing to the parlour, it was immediately clear to me that he had survived a struggle. He was breaking out with cold sweat as though his life had flashed before his eyes while in that toilet. As his ADC santuarred to his feet, clearly, I felt the need to stand as well. He offered me a handshake, considering where he had just emerged, I wondered if that proffer of acquaintance was genuine; however whatever it was, I gladly accented to his gesture. When our hands clocked into a lock for a shake, the Governor’s hand was as cold as dog’s nose.
As we all took our seats upon the wave of the Governor, he demanded to know the reason for my visit. I made sure to select my words carefully to avoid crossing the line.
“Your Excellency, very kindly Sir, I do not mean to prairie but, it’s about Bagu Vaa Imura Local Government.... “ I was interrupted harshly.
“How dare you! How dare you walk into my house and complain of those “Byagu” ambyaguu mba yang eve venda u haan mo ishangen ne!”
His Excellency, Governor Kura Wachicha, in stark fury, labelled Bagu people as ‘heedless aggressors’ whose behaviour was unnecessarily confrontational. He snapped his fingers and said Bagu people must appreciate the fact that the government was grappling with key priority issues, and will only attend to less demanding challenges after the more demanding ones have been effectively tackled. Off the records, he snapped his fingers, as he had often done before, and said
“kwa cho-cho! Didn’t these people refuse to vote for me and instead cast more of their votes for my opponent? Why aren’t they going to him so he can give them “sho-sho amber-nities” (social amenities)? Kwa cho-cho! Foolish Bagu people!”
As the Governor’s anger was gradually subsiding, I felt a bit calm, regardless of his earlier ranting. In spare of the moment, a woman of significant affluence walked in with a golden retrieval jug containing, what from its silhouette, appeared like juice. The smile she shared with the Governor upon arrival assured me that she was impeccably joyous today; and this incidentally made the horror of my ordeal vaporise, at least, so it seemed. He rushed the juice as if in a hurry to catch a Flight. However, when he finished, he surprisingly turned on a broad smile, as though assuring me, if not his wife, that he was now willing to listen. As I envisaged, he asked me to speak, so I began.

“Thank you, Your Excellency. Your Excellency, the water situation in Bagu Local Government is even worse. I am aware the people have often to endure the sight of muddy water from the mines flowing down through their neighbourhoods, polluting the landscape even, yet they have to walk long distances to get drinking water. They are often seen returning to their homes at nightfall with enough water to drink for only a few days. They have to dig pits in the jande that is hours’ caravan walk from the village, and await more hours for the water to slowly seep through, before they can gently, very gently scoop quarter or half kucha-fulls intermittently to fill their pots with the slightly whitish water. Back home, parents measure how much water the children would drink for the day. Mama Ayua once offered her son the tears he shed when the peppery food he was eating, by-passed into his wind pipe and chocked him into loud cries and fitfully restless coughs, To have a bath that would serve for couple of days. Gee-rege and his brother Wanjinga often run for hours round a tree then make a fire and dance vigorously round it in order that their bodies may produce more sweat. When it does, they apply soap to their bodies, and take turns using the edges of split-up bamboo stalks to scuff dirt off each other”.
To my greatest shock, the Governor had slept, and, apparently, had not been listening. The First Lady, struck with utmost concern, gently tapped her husband, however, that was only enough to seal his snore. She tapped him again, only this time very forcefully. The Governor, shocked from the touch, shabbily tightened the noose of his sphincter muscles, and as if in an act of rehearsed habit, made a horrendous wish with his butt – he released a flagellant airborne reaction team – f.a.r.t.s farts. This farts he released must have been composed of about ninety-nine percent nitrogen; seventy-nine percent hydrogen; twenty-nine percent carbon dioxide; nineteen percent methane; nine percent oxygen; and sixty pounds of sulphur. That was weighed in pounds because of excessive consumption of condiment-packed tin porridge beans, amniotically anointed cabbage, cheese, soda, meat pie, magpie, pizza, hotdogs, and king-size eggs which caused the gas the gas from the Governor’s butt to peel the paint off the walls. I secretly imagined that if the Governor were to fart continuously for three more times, it would produce gas with the equivalent energy of an atomic bomb. Was this what his wife – the First Lady, his ADC, driver and securities go through? The smoke that came out of his traditional pipe was better imagined; for this clearly established the link between the cavity of the nose and the mucous membranes that have smell receptors connected to the olfactory nerve. The vomeronasal organ was coarsed to collide with smell receptors and the molecules of the vapours then transmitted the appalling sensation to the brain. The fart came with supersonic velocity; it was the kind of fart that set our teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of our skull, consequently, it made the ADC looked like a meandering man without testicles. It was the kind of fart that will not kill all the chickens in the vicinity but will also choke even the people on the airplane; the kind of fart could propel couples to request for divorce papers. In that world of misery and at my darkest recess of my soul, I mooed over the ordeal of the forty year old woman who was now in her unusual glamorous self, quintessentially cutting an enviable figure in a sequinned frock that scooped low on the angelic neckline and made her stand out amongst the rest in the parlour. If she had been feeling fatigued and dazed,

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Submitted: February 07, 2017

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Submitted: February 07, 2017

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Bagu Vaa Imiura: The Remix

Part of the law of nature is that everybody was once a child regardless of what varying dispositions each one had.  And I know I once was, a child, born with every advantage and disadvantage a child could have. That stage allowed you to concisely conceive many thoughts, wild, heretical, horrendously enigmatic and sometimes soothingly sensational. I had long ago, growing up as a child, thought that richly rich people do not “blast” ‘this toilet seat business, you know what I mean?’ Crazy as it sounds now, was aptly correct and so cool a thought worth diverging then as a child. Then years later after passing through the mill of Benue State University in Writers’ League, I went to Bagu Local Government Area and saw what you are about to see:

It had rained scantily over the past couple of years and the people have had very minimal output from agricultural activities. Their livestock had starved and become so horrendously lean that Atondo-Akaan who was suffering from a mild caseof impaired vision only (according to him) one day raised his axe high up above his head to hack wood only to have his axe physically wrested from him in fair time by those nearby amidst shouts of bewilderment.

“What is it?” he asked. “I was merely going to split some wood” he quickly added.

“Ei! (No!)” An old woman who was at the scene, corrected, “You were going to split a calf, with you axe”.

“Well, what does it matter?” Asked a teenager. “It is, in any case, dry enough to make a good fire” he sneered.

The surprising thing is that the State Governor was from this Local Government. When I went to see the Governor about this matter, his Aid Decamp (A.D.C) sat me in the Guest Parlour after labouring to pass the security-check exams at the gate. Back in, the in-house security guards watched me like a Fisherman would a fish on his hook. Then as God would have it, the Governor had just finished flushing a political-bottle-neck hell of a problem, and was just relieving himself of the horrid assault in the toilet close to the Guest Parlour. “O’ Lord Protector of Heavens, save me from Shit-Bomb-Blast”, I heard “kprakprakprakkkkkkkkkkpppppppppprrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaataatttssaatfaggtrikjhfdazmiuytrexcvioioiimnioonbmnhvtcjhjfxkxcaskjhgdasgnjhtymioikioji” I imagined what the Toilet Tank must be facing the feeling. I heaved a sigh of relieve when the ADC smelt my fears and assured me that it was not Boko-Haram, I should worry not.I heaved another sigh of relieve, this time for God preserving me to see that I was so wrong as a child, thinking that ‘Richly Rich People do not blast’ cheiiiiiiii.

Fifteen minutes later, the Governor was still snorting and shushing in the Toilet, at some point, he hooted as though he were in labour, labouring to give birth. In line with their job description, the security guards deposited at the mouth of the Toilet looked encouragingly as though assuring him to “push, the baby will sooner come out...” LOL, espekuleke!

He stifled himself, dismembering his ass-neurones with interegnumatic concentration as if he had made up his mind to do a four-day job and not come back to the toilet to blast; or was he simply writing a four days carryover from then on? Moments later, the Trail-Carrier wheeled in cottons of silver tissues for the Governor’s comfort.

When the Governor finally came out and was advancing to the parlour, it was immediately clear to me that he had survived a struggle. He was breaking out with cold sweat as though his life had flashed before his eyes while in that toilet. As his ADC santuarred to his feet, clearly, I felt the need to stand as well. He offered me a handshake, considering where he had just emerged, I wondered if that proffer of acquaintance was genuine; however whatever it was, I gladly accented to his gesture. When our hands clocked into a lock for a shake, the Governor’s hand was as cold as dog’s nose.

As we all took our seats upon the wave of the Governor, he demanded to know the reason for my visit. I made sure to select my words carefully to avoid crossing the line.

“Your Excellency, very kindly Sir, I do not mean to prairie but, it’s about Bagu Vaa Imura Local Government.... “ I was interrupted harshly.

“How dare you! How dare you walk into my house and complain of those “Byagu” ambyaguu mba yang eve venda u haan mo ishangen ne!” 

His Excellency, Governor Kura Wachicha, in stark fury, labelled Bagu people as ‘heedless aggressors’ whose behaviour was unnecessarily confrontational. He snapped his fingers and said Bagu people must appreciate the fact that the government was grappling with key priority issues, and will only attend to less demanding challenges after the more demanding ones have been effectively tackled. Off the records, he snapped his fingers, as he had often done before, and said

kwa cho-cho! Didn’t these people refuse to vote for me and instead cast more of their votes for my opponent? Why aren’t they going to him so he can give them “sho-sho amber-nities” (social amenities)? Kwa cho-cho! Foolish Bagu people!”

As the Governor’s anger was gradually subsiding, I felt a bit calm, regardless of his earlier ranting. In spare of the moment, a woman of significant affluence walked in with a golden retrieval jug containing, what from its silhouette, appeared like juice. The smile she shared with the Governor upon arrival assured me that she was impeccably joyous today; and this incidentally made the horror of my ordeal vaporise, at least, so it seemed. He rushed the juice as if in a hurry to catch a Flight. However, when he finished, he surprisingly turned on a broad smile, as though assuring me, if not his wife, that he was now willing to listen. As I envisaged, he asked me to speak, so I began.

 

“Thank you, Your Excellency. Your Excellency, the water situation in Bagu Local Government is even worse. I am aware the people have often to endure the sight of muddy water from the mines flowing down through their neighbourhoods, polluting the landscape even, yet they have to walk long distances to get drinking water. They are often seen returning to their homes at nightfall with enough water to drink for only a few days. They have to dig pits in the jande that is hours’ caravan walk from the village, and await more hours for the water to slowly seep through, before they can gently, very gently scoop quarter or half kucha-fulls intermittently to fill their pots with the slightly whitish water. Back home, parents measure how much water the children would drink for the day. Mama Ayua once offered her son the tears he shed when the peppery food he was eating, by-passed into his wind pipe and chocked him into loud cries and fitfully restless coughs, To have a bath that would serve for couple of days. Gee-rege and his brother  Wanjinga often run for hours round a tree then make a fire and dance vigorously round it in order that their bodies may produce more sweat. When it does, they apply soap to their bodies, and take turns using the edges of split-up bamboo stalks to scuff dirt off each other”.

To my greatest shock, the Governor had slept, and, apparently, had not been listening. The First Lady, struck with utmost concern, gently tapped her husband, however, that was only enough to seal his snore. She tapped him again, only this time very forcefully. The Governor, shocked from the touch, shabbily tightened the noose of his sphincter muscles, and as if in an act of rehearsed habit, made a horrendous wish with his butt – he released a flagellant airborne reaction team – f.a.r.t.s farts. This farts he released must have been composed of about ninety-nine percent nitrogen; seventy-nine percent hydrogen; twenty-nine percent carbon dioxide; nineteen percent methane; nine percent oxygen; and sixty pounds of sulphur. That was weighed in pounds because of excessive consumption of condiment-packed tin porridge beans, amniotically anointed cabbage, cheese, soda, meat pie, magpie, pizza, hotdogs, and king-size eggs which caused the gas the gas from the Governor’s butt to peel the paint off the walls. I secretly imagined that if the Governor were to fart continuously for three more times, it would produce gas with the equivalent energy of an atomic bomb. Was this what his wife – the First Lady, his ADC, driver and securities go through? The smoke that came out of his traditional pipe was better imagined; for this clearly established the link between the cavity of the nose and the mucous membranes that have smell receptors connected to the olfactory nerve. The vomeronasal organ was coarsed to collide with smell receptors and the molecules of the vapours then transmitted the appalling sensation to the brain. The fart came with supersonic velocity; it was the kind of fart that set our teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of our skull, consequently, it made the ADC looked like a meandering man without testicles.  It was the kind of fart that will not kill all the chickens in the vicinity but will also choke even the people on the airplane; the kind of fart could propel couples to request for divorce papers. In that world of misery and at my darkest recess of my soul, I mooed over the ordeal of the forty year old woman who was now in her unusual glamorous self, quintessentially cutting an enviable figure in a sequinned frock that scooped low on the angelic neckline and made her stand out amongst the rest in the parlour. If she had been feeling fatigued and dazed,  


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