A dog used to roam in my father’s compound (it’s his
compound because I am past that age of recklessly using the word ‘our’). The
dog had a name. Sura Mbaya. I will not dwell on how it got the name, because,
just every dead human being, I am obliged to speak glowingly about it. Sura
Mbaya did not act like a typical dog. To it, every stranger was a familiar, or
he was just looking for someone familiar. People that roam in my father’s
compound weren’t actually it first master. The first master went to jail for
stealing cows. May be that’s why it looks for him in every stranger, only
barking briefly before it remembers that it may be chasing its master and
begins wagging its tail, as if to say in dog language, ‘I was only kidding.’or
it may have been thinking that each stranger would give him a better name, or
petition its change.
Well, Sura Mbaya was only good at three things- eating,
shitting, and propagating its seeds. How did I know about the last one? It
would disappear for days on end, and come back with bruises all over its body, but
with a contented look in its eyes. From my experience, the dog world is a tough
jungle because the bitches do not know anything about money. Instead, it’s
about who has the strongest teeth, a menacing growl, and most importantly
resilience. When the bitches emit the odour that tells other dogs that it’s
that time of the year, a million dogs pick the oduor and follow it like that star
that led them to where Jesus was born, only it leads them to where a million
dogs, and one female have congregated for a night of brutal fights.
The lucky dogs, those which had had less fights during the
day because their owners care about their conjugal rights, got their chances, quickly
made out in their usual style that the dogs have been using for years, so much
that human beings have aped it. I envy these dogs, except the brutality
involved. There’s no one to tell them how it has to be done, because their
females are yet to wear trousers and demand that dogs too have to take care of
the cubs. But even when dogs attain that level of civilization, dogs will be
dogs. Dogs will do their things and forget about it, and wait for the next time
the female emits that oduor.
But woe unto us humans, we have to woo. I am not against the
wooing, it’s the best part of living. What I am completely against are these
human beings who want to tell how to do it. Experts. No, sexperts. Ever since
the invention of the best thing after fire-the internet-you cannot rummage
through the anonymous yet savage corridors of social media without stumbling
upon headlines that explain how bedroom conquests should be done. Like, over
time, we’ve grown progressively stupid in that department, so much that they
owe our ancestors the need to re-educate us.
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