I have scary news. See, I don’t think I should share this with you. Initially, this was supposed to be a humour column. You know humour columns? You read them, find nothing funny, correct the grammar, and vow never to read them again. This column was supposed to be one of those. How it metamorphosed into a historical critique and perspective of civic infrastructure is beyond my limited comprehension. So, as is the custom, I must begin all correspondence with you, dear reader, by submitting an unconditional apology.
My wife though, a direct descendant of Temüjin, (known to history as Genghis Khan), feels I need to share what I know or in this case what I know you want to know. Still, to be fair, it is very private information. Moreover, it’s both personal and embarrassing. Also, it’s not a grey area. It’s a black or white piece of news. News that cannot be altered, it’s final in its presentation. Like, when you say, “this person is dead”. Once dead, he’s dead. He can’t come back to life.
When a person has an ugly secret, like an extra mole or pimple, you must by social law try to cover it up. However, if someone gets to know about your extra pimple, then the best defence left for you to indulge in is to attack. Shout about your extra pimple from the roof tops, highlight it in your D.P. Have a page dedicated to it on your Facebook. Set up its own set of followers on Insta. Thus, take the power of exposing your secret, away from the perpetrator. In this case, the perpetrator, (as usual), is my wife.
Oh, and the extra pimple? Well, here it comes. Please stand up and hold on to something. Preferably, not an elderly relative. If that’s your thing, can you please make sure, it’s two elderly relatives. Safety in numbers. Coming back to the awful secret, the hidden shame, before my wife publishes her column, here then is my extra pimple. (For those who are highly impatient, please do understand that the pimple is a metaphor, and if you kindly keep quiet for two minutes, I’ll spill the beans, or in this case, bean). On August 7, I turned 53. Yes, that’s right. Five decades and some change. Now, I’ll give you few minutes for all the chuckling to pass. Please take your shots. As my son Mikhaail reminded me, “No point in crying, it could be worse, you could be 54”.
With a heavy heart, I have confessed this shameful news candidly with you. I hope this is both therapeutic, and brings us closer. Oh, and please don’t send greetings or abuse. Instead any material gift will be deeply appreciated.
The writer has dedicated his life to communism. Though only on weekends.
