When a Drunkard Journalist is Out for Exclusive Stories
Pressure of getting exclusive stories for the local village daily newspaper called Semayote Times mounts to the point of affecting two drunkard journalists. Madiaba and Ondiek are veteran journalists whose effort to curb the shortage of exclusive stories leads them into the local alcohol clubs.
HIS collar unbuttoned, a veteran journalist Madiaba, took drunkard poses, one leg outstretched, on the left hand with notebook and pen ready for any exclusive story for their paper semayote Times the next day.
He had one of his legs hanging down. In the other he held false face. He and his friend who is also a veteran journalist Ondiek were alone with the owner of unlicensed local distil chang’aa club who had come up to them, interested.
She asked, “Well, Madiaba, how goes inside? Fell less thirsty after wetting your throat?”
Madiaba muttered, “Mh! The more I wet it, the drier it gets inside and nothing looks like a story for semayote Times on the next day!”
Both Madiaba and Ondiek are known drunkards whose absence in the chang’aa club changes the climate.
At once on their arrival, they could make a word thriller while singing songs to praise their profession, this lead many to buy them alcohol fearing to be falsely written in the semayote Times.
Of all local brews they used to take, chang’aa is the most expensive one, and that is what the veteran journalist Madiaba and his friend Ondiek are organized daily for amusement without cash, just selling words to get a little sip, half a glass and sometimes full, till they get tired.
Madiaba was smiling at the idea of this entire brandy drunk at the expense of another person. He was smiling with the happy ugly face of distorted face of the greedy norm. Ondiek his friend kept pulling him by the sleeve.
“Come on, Madiaba. This isn’t the kind of night to go home without anything to warm you up. What are you afraid of? Isn’t your wife going to warm your bed for you? Or do you think that young news editor of semayote Times will reprimand us for having no stories?”
Madiaba answered, “The other night I couldn’t find the door, I had to be fished out of the trench in front of the house! Could there be other journalists this would have been a story!”
He was still laughing at this drunkard’s remembering. He was unconsciously going towards thatched roofed house owned by gongo distillers to suit the customers, where a light of glowing splint was shining in the window; he was going, pulled by Ondiek and pushed by the wind, unable to resist these two combined forces.
The small room was full of smoke and noise. The more people came in, the more one had to shout in order to overcome the noises of voices and rattling of dominoes on the rocky tables.
The veteran journalist-Ondiek kept pouring and winking to the chang’aa keeper, a big, black faced woman, who laughed as though at that thought of some fine joke, and Madiaba kept absorbing chang’aa wagging his head, giving open to a roar of laughter and looking at his comrade with stupid and unhappy expression.
Although the editor of semayote Times was now fed up with the monotonous of exclusive stories drawn within the local alcoholic club everyday, to them what mattered was admiration they get from other drunkard on top of that rare profession in that village.
All customers were going away. Every time that one of them would open the door to leave a breeze to blow into the café, making tobacco smoke swirl around.
“Game!” the Owner’s declared.
“Well men I am going to bed, I will leave you the lamp and bottles, and there are two hundred shillings worthy in it. Lock the doors when you go, ok Ondiek? And then slip the key under the mat the way you did it the other night,” Ondiek answered, “Don’t worry, it will be all right.”
The owner of the club shook hands with her two customers and slowly went away. For several minutes his heavy step echoed through the little house. The loud creaking announced that he had got into bed.
Ondiek would take the bottle and fill Madiaba’s glass. But suddenly the clock over the local bar struck twelve.
Ondiek got up like an officer whose watch is over. “Come on, Madiaba, we have got to get out.”
As soon as they were in a village street, Ondiek said, “Well so long, and see you tomorrow night! We tomorrow we will give a shit to the semayote Times editor,” And he disappeared in the darkness.
Madiaba took a few steps and staggered, stretched out his hand and met a wall which supported him and began to stumble along. Having lost his driving force, he once begins to sway on his unsteady drunkard’s legs.
He went instructively towards his home, just as birds go to their nest.
Finally recognized his door and began to feel about for the keyhole and tried to put the key in it. Not finding the hole, he began to swear. Then he began to beat the door with his fists, calling for his wife to come and help him.
“Selina! Oh, Selina!”
As he leaned against the door for support, it gave way and opened, and Madiaba losing his support, fell inside, rolling on his face into the middle of his room, and he felt something heavy pass over him and escape in the night.
He was no longer moving, confused by fear, bewildering, fearing the devil, ghosts, all the mysterious beings in the darkness, and he waited a long time without daring to move. But when we found out that nothing else was moving a little reason returned to him, the reason of a drunkard.
Gently he sat up. Again waited a long time, and at last, growing bolder, he called, “Selina!”
His wife did not answer.
Then suddenly, a doubt crossed his darkened mind and unspecific doubt.
“Who was it, Selina? Tell me who it was. I won’t hurt you Selina!” he waited.
No voice was raised in the darkness.
He was now reasoning with himself out loud.
“I’m drunk, alright! I’m drunk! And she filled me up, the dog, she did it, to stop my going home. I’m drunk! It is not my fault, it is of my editor who needs exclusive story,” He sang.
After he waited again, he went on with slow and stubborn logic of drunkard, “He’s been keeping me at that loafer chang’aa place every night, so as to stop me from taking news. It’s some trick. Oh! You damned carrion.”
And, lifting the chair, which he was holding in his strong drunkard grip, he swung it down before him with an exasperated anger. A cry burst the bed, an agonizing, piercing cry. He began to thrash around like a thresher in barn. And soon nothing more moved.
The chair was broken to pieces, but he still held one leg and beat away with it, panting.
At last he stopped to ask, “Well, are you ready to tell me who he was, this must be the next story very interesting for our paper?”
Selina did not answer.
When the day came a neighbors, seeing the door open, entered.
He saw Madiaba sleeping on the floor, between the broken pieces of a chair, and on the bed a pulp of flesh and blood.
Pressure of getting exclusive stories for the local village daily newspaper called Semayote Times mounts to the point of affecting two drunkard journalists. Madiaba and Ondiek are veteran journalists whose effort to curb the shortage of exclusive stories leads them into the local alcohol clubs.
HIS collar unbuttoned, a veteran journalist Madiaba, took drunkard poses, one leg outstretched, on the left hand with notebook and pen ready for any exclusive story for their paper semayote Times the next day.
He had one of his legs hanging down. In the other he held false face. He and his friend who is also a veteran journalist Ondiek were alone with the owner of unlicensed local distil chang’aa club who had come up to them, interested.
She asked, “Well, Madiaba, how goes inside? Fell less thirsty after wetting your throat?”
Madiaba muttered, “Mh! The more I wet it, the drier it gets inside and nothing looks like a story for semayote Times on the next day!”
Both Madiaba and Ondiek are known drunkards whose absence in the chang’aa club changes the climate.
At once on their arrival, they could make a word thriller while singing songs to praise their profession, this lead many to buy them alcohol fearing to be falsely written in the semayote Times.
Of all local brews they used to take, chang’aa is the most expensive one, and that is what the veteran journalist Madiaba and his friend Ondiek are organized daily for amusement without cash, just selling words to get a little sip, half a glass and sometimes full, till they get tired.
Madiaba was smiling at the idea of this entire brandy drunk at the expense of another person. He was smiling with the happy ugly face of distorted face of the greedy norm. Ondiek his friend kept pulling him by the sleeve.
“Come on, Madiaba. This isn’t the kind of night to go home without anything to warm you up. What are you afraid of? Isn’t your wife going to warm your bed for you? Or do you think that young news editor of semayote Times will reprimand us for having no stories?”
Madiaba answered, “The other night I couldn’t find the door, I had to be fished out of the trench in front of the house! Could there be other journalists this would have been a story!”
He was still laughing at this drunkard’s remembering. He was unconsciously going towards thatched roofed house owned by gongo distillers to suit the customers, where a light of glowing splint was shining in the window; he was going, pulled by Ondiek and pushed by the wind, unable to resist these two combined forces.
The small room was full of smoke and noise. The more people came in, the more one had to shout in order to overcome the noises of voices and rattling of dominoes on the rocky tables.
The veteran journalist-Ondiek kept pouring and winking to the chang’aa keeper, a big, black faced woman, who laughed as though at that thought of some fine joke, and Madiaba kept absorbing chang’aa wagging his head, giving open to a roar of laughter and looking at his comrade with stupid and unhappy expression.
Although the editor of semayote Times was now fed up with the monotonous of exclusive stories drawn within the local alcoholic club everyday, to them what mattered was admiration they get from other drunkard on top of that rare profession in that village.
All customers were going away. Every time that one of them would open the door to leave a breeze to blow into the café, making tobacco smoke swirl around.
“Game!” the Owner’s declared.
“Well men I am going to bed, I will leave you the lamp and bottles, and there are two hundred shillings worthy in it. Lock the doors when you go, ok Ondiek? And then slip the key under the mat the way you did it the other night,” Ondiek answered, “Don’t worry, it will be all right.”
The owner of the club shook hands with her two customers and slowly went away. For several minutes his heavy step echoed through the little house. The loud creaking announced that he had got into bed.
Ondiek would take the bottle and fill Madiaba’s glass. But suddenly the clock over the local bar struck twelve.
Ondiek got up like an officer whose watch is over. “Come on, Madiaba, we have got to get out.”
As soon as they were in a village street, Ondiek said, “Well so long, and see you tomorrow night! We tomorrow we will give a shit to the semayote Times editor,” And he disappeared in the darkness.
Madiaba took a few steps and staggered, stretched out his hand and met a wall which supported him and began to stumble along. Having lost his driving force, he once begins to sway on his unsteady drunkard’s legs.
He went instructively towards his home, just as birds go to their nest.
Finally recognized his door and began to feel about for the keyhole and tried to put the key in it. Not finding the hole, he began to swear. Then he began to beat the door with his fists, calling for his wife to come and help him.
“Selina! Oh, Selina!”
As he leaned against the door for support, it gave way and opened, and Madiaba losing his support, fell inside, rolling on his face into the middle of his room, and he felt something heavy pass over him and escape in the night.
He was no longer moving, confused by fear, bewildering, fearing the devil, ghosts, all the mysterious beings in the darkness, and he waited a long time without daring to move. But when we found out that nothing else was moving a little reason returned to him, the reason of a drunkard.
Gently he sat up. Again waited a long time, and at last, growing bolder, he called, “Selina!”
His wife did not answer.
Then suddenly, a doubt crossed his darkened mind and unspecific doubt.
“Who was it, Selina? Tell me who it was. I won’t hurt you Selina!” he waited.
No voice was raised in the darkness.
He was now reasoning with himself out loud.
“I’m drunk, alright! I’m drunk! And she filled me up, the dog, she did it, to stop my going home. I’m drunk! It is not my fault, it is of my editor who needs exclusive story,” He sang.
After he waited again, he went on with slow and stubborn logic of drunkard, “He’s been keeping me at that loafer chang’aa place every night, so as to stop me from taking news. It’s some trick. Oh! You damned carrion.”
And, lifting the chair, which he was holding in his strong drunkard grip, he swung it down before him with an exasperated anger. A cry burst the bed, an agonizing, piercing cry. He began to thrash around like a thresher in barn. And soon nothing more moved.
The chair was broken to pieces, but he still held one leg and beat away with it, panting.
At last he stopped to ask, “Well, are you ready to tell me who he was, this must be the next story very interesting for our paper?”
Selina did not answer.
When the day came a neighbors, seeing the door open, entered.
He saw Madiaba sleeping on the floor, between the broken pieces of a chair, and on the bed a pulp of flesh and blood.
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