Tuesday, March 06, 2007
The SMS
THE SMS
By
Patrick Achitabwino
Men, you can never be clever with these gadgets called cell phones. Nokia what, Motorolla what, they all come in different names, with a highly unimaginable power to break marriages at a lightening speed. Not even marriages built on the granite foundations of church oaths have the power to withstand the breaking power of mobile phones.
Imagine, come night I am a slave, praying incessantly that this ‘spare wheel’ whom I met where only the heavens know does not call. Principle number one, turn the phone off the soonest you are home. But I learnt a bitter lesson, the night my uncle passed away at Kumwamba hospital, none of my relatives could get me on my mobile phone. The stupid thing I did was turning it on in the morning when I was too thirsty for two cold ones only to be greeted with a funeral text. Turning phones off at night is bad, too bad men though we men are often left with no choice but to turn these gadgets off.
You see what, at times I believe that all men are fools, forgive my tongue if you are so honest a husband. You know, my neighbour, a grey-bearded school teacher, Che Jalasi had even to formulate and paste a commandment on the head board of his bed. He confided to me over a bottle of Kuche Kuche that it reads: my wife, never touch my phone without my consent.
This other night, my neighbour told me with a smoke stabbed in between his fat lips, that his wife tried to mess up with his phone. Oh, men, Che Jalasi went mad, for a week his tongue never tasted any food cooked by the hands of his wife, let alone bathing the water warned by her. The only thing they did as a family was going to church together on Sunday though they never talked to each other.
You see what, later I learnt that Lucy, my beloved wife for five years, and mother of our two lovely daughters, Ezelyn and Michelle, scans the inbox messages in my phone every night.
It was too hot this night, and by hot, I really mean too hot. I was sweating. I think the sky should have been sweating as well. And as if the sweltering hotness was not a stab in the rib, the rude call of nature threw me out of bed.
Men, guess what? Lucy was strong-eyed, my handset clasped in her hands. She had turned it on and by whose grace did she get the SIM card code I will perhaps leave never to know. I grabbed the phone off her hands. I noted her targets, firstly, messages received and sent; secondly, calls received; and thirdly, frequently called numbers.
I changed my style. If this spare wheel is named Chrissy, I would save her name as Chris or Gladys as Gladwell. I learnt the trick from this church elder friend of mine. These church elders, chat with them over a bottle of wine in some dark spaces, you will learn a lot.
As I sit, with my head buried in my trembling hands as an ostritch that buries its head in the sand, I curse the day I bought a mobile phone. For behold, the heaven is my witness, it has brought much miseries than joy in my life. You will shed tears with me, Lucy is never the same woman she used to be. She will never forgive me and I will never forgive myself.
It is with great pains that I recall what happened. This rude call of nature whisked me out of the house. You know these houses that are only graced with pit latrines. It was raining cats and dogs, as the threatening lightening and thunder kept many a people trembling.
Having relieved myself, I unsuccessfully dribbled past the pouring rain then sped into my house. The moment I stepped my feet into the house I realized something was wrong. Plates had been smashed down, pouring soup was snaking over the carpet. I gazed at my wife, tears were spiraling out of her eyes. She had my mobile phone in her right hand.
I wrestled the phone out of her hand then checked in coming calls so too the inbox. There was no any call received let alone a message. I wondered what broke hell loose. Having found no reason in my brain I rushed into the bedroom, hunger pelting my belly. I closed my eyes in a desperate attempt to woo sleep to catch me down but sleep was no where close.
Faintingly I heard a knock. It was the housemaid. “Madam is breathing restlessly,” she said. For a moment I hesitated. Lazily I walked to the sitting room only to find Lucy down on the floor, unconscious. I sprinkled water over her head but she was no closer to gaining consciousness. Michelle was just crying as there was nobody to breast fed her.
At over a hundred kilometers an hour I cruised to the referral hospital, tears welling in my eyes. White uniformed nurses ushered Lucy into the intensive care unit. For as long as I could remember I did not switch my phone off at night for the first time. I called many people than I can recall. I was there by her bed all night long. At the slightest moment she opened her eyes I smiled but she did not.
“Mr. Machaka,” a spectacled doctor with a stethoscope hanging around his neck stood calmly before me. “Your wife suffered a massive high blood pressure that led to minor stroke. I am afraid to say that the stroke has paralysed her limbs. We will offer her clutches so too a wheel chair.”
As tears spilled out my eyes, so too was Lucy in tears. She was waving me off her bed. She told me it was all over with me. She told me I had crippled all her life dreams. I told her she was the only one and that I could do anything to make her happy.
The morning that followed was a nightmare. Her parents thundered into the hospital, oozing with anger. Her dad shoveled me off the bed. I was lost. I was still unaware of the crime I had committed. Lucy called for my mobile phone and confidently I handed it to her. Then I saw her parents gathering around the phone. I knew something was wrong, their eyes turned blood red. Her dad threw it unto me and ordered me out of the hospital.
Reality caught with me, I had missed the messages outbox. The message that caused the predicament read: “I told you I made a wrong choice. You unmistakably have all the qualities for the woman of my dreams. I cannot wait for long to replace the woman I have with you. Just tell me when you are ready and thy will will be done. Sweetheart.”
God is my witness, I did not author the message. I am a victim of generosity. You know what, this other day I was having a cold one at Thirsty Pub a friend of mine requested to text his girlfriend through my phone. I knew the lady he was to text. She had totally wrecked havoc in his family.
Men, what can I do? Her parents have sworn never to see me. They took her to their home. All my calls are barred. I journeyed there this other day to confess that I was innocent but a flying panga knife missed my neck by the grace of the almighty. I have since stopped attending calls of these spare wheels let alone do I gather courage to propose to them. I am lost. I can not live without Lucy. Memories of the day we stood before the priest and vow that we would be together till death does us part are fresher in my mind. Dear friend, I only hope you will join me in prayer for truth to be out. These cell phones I will live never to treasure them.
By
Patrick Achitabwino
Men, you can never be clever with these gadgets called cell phones. Nokia what, Motorolla what, they all come in different names, with a highly unimaginable power to break marriages at a lightening speed. Not even marriages built on the granite foundations of church oaths have the power to withstand the breaking power of mobile phones.
Imagine, come night I am a slave, praying incessantly that this ‘spare wheel’ whom I met where only the heavens know does not call. Principle number one, turn the phone off the soonest you are home. But I learnt a bitter lesson, the night my uncle passed away at Kumwamba hospital, none of my relatives could get me on my mobile phone. The stupid thing I did was turning it on in the morning when I was too thirsty for two cold ones only to be greeted with a funeral text. Turning phones off at night is bad, too bad men though we men are often left with no choice but to turn these gadgets off.
You see what, at times I believe that all men are fools, forgive my tongue if you are so honest a husband. You know, my neighbour, a grey-bearded school teacher, Che Jalasi had even to formulate and paste a commandment on the head board of his bed. He confided to me over a bottle of Kuche Kuche that it reads: my wife, never touch my phone without my consent.
This other night, my neighbour told me with a smoke stabbed in between his fat lips, that his wife tried to mess up with his phone. Oh, men, Che Jalasi went mad, for a week his tongue never tasted any food cooked by the hands of his wife, let alone bathing the water warned by her. The only thing they did as a family was going to church together on Sunday though they never talked to each other.
You see what, later I learnt that Lucy, my beloved wife for five years, and mother of our two lovely daughters, Ezelyn and Michelle, scans the inbox messages in my phone every night.
It was too hot this night, and by hot, I really mean too hot. I was sweating. I think the sky should have been sweating as well. And as if the sweltering hotness was not a stab in the rib, the rude call of nature threw me out of bed.
Men, guess what? Lucy was strong-eyed, my handset clasped in her hands. She had turned it on and by whose grace did she get the SIM card code I will perhaps leave never to know. I grabbed the phone off her hands. I noted her targets, firstly, messages received and sent; secondly, calls received; and thirdly, frequently called numbers.
I changed my style. If this spare wheel is named Chrissy, I would save her name as Chris or Gladys as Gladwell. I learnt the trick from this church elder friend of mine. These church elders, chat with them over a bottle of wine in some dark spaces, you will learn a lot.
As I sit, with my head buried in my trembling hands as an ostritch that buries its head in the sand, I curse the day I bought a mobile phone. For behold, the heaven is my witness, it has brought much miseries than joy in my life. You will shed tears with me, Lucy is never the same woman she used to be. She will never forgive me and I will never forgive myself.
It is with great pains that I recall what happened. This rude call of nature whisked me out of the house. You know these houses that are only graced with pit latrines. It was raining cats and dogs, as the threatening lightening and thunder kept many a people trembling.
Having relieved myself, I unsuccessfully dribbled past the pouring rain then sped into my house. The moment I stepped my feet into the house I realized something was wrong. Plates had been smashed down, pouring soup was snaking over the carpet. I gazed at my wife, tears were spiraling out of her eyes. She had my mobile phone in her right hand.
I wrestled the phone out of her hand then checked in coming calls so too the inbox. There was no any call received let alone a message. I wondered what broke hell loose. Having found no reason in my brain I rushed into the bedroom, hunger pelting my belly. I closed my eyes in a desperate attempt to woo sleep to catch me down but sleep was no where close.
Faintingly I heard a knock. It was the housemaid. “Madam is breathing restlessly,” she said. For a moment I hesitated. Lazily I walked to the sitting room only to find Lucy down on the floor, unconscious. I sprinkled water over her head but she was no closer to gaining consciousness. Michelle was just crying as there was nobody to breast fed her.
At over a hundred kilometers an hour I cruised to the referral hospital, tears welling in my eyes. White uniformed nurses ushered Lucy into the intensive care unit. For as long as I could remember I did not switch my phone off at night for the first time. I called many people than I can recall. I was there by her bed all night long. At the slightest moment she opened her eyes I smiled but she did not.
“Mr. Machaka,” a spectacled doctor with a stethoscope hanging around his neck stood calmly before me. “Your wife suffered a massive high blood pressure that led to minor stroke. I am afraid to say that the stroke has paralysed her limbs. We will offer her clutches so too a wheel chair.”
As tears spilled out my eyes, so too was Lucy in tears. She was waving me off her bed. She told me it was all over with me. She told me I had crippled all her life dreams. I told her she was the only one and that I could do anything to make her happy.
The morning that followed was a nightmare. Her parents thundered into the hospital, oozing with anger. Her dad shoveled me off the bed. I was lost. I was still unaware of the crime I had committed. Lucy called for my mobile phone and confidently I handed it to her. Then I saw her parents gathering around the phone. I knew something was wrong, their eyes turned blood red. Her dad threw it unto me and ordered me out of the hospital.
Reality caught with me, I had missed the messages outbox. The message that caused the predicament read: “I told you I made a wrong choice. You unmistakably have all the qualities for the woman of my dreams. I cannot wait for long to replace the woman I have with you. Just tell me when you are ready and thy will will be done. Sweetheart.”
God is my witness, I did not author the message. I am a victim of generosity. You know what, this other day I was having a cold one at Thirsty Pub a friend of mine requested to text his girlfriend through my phone. I knew the lady he was to text. She had totally wrecked havoc in his family.
Men, what can I do? Her parents have sworn never to see me. They took her to their home. All my calls are barred. I journeyed there this other day to confess that I was innocent but a flying panga knife missed my neck by the grace of the almighty. I have since stopped attending calls of these spare wheels let alone do I gather courage to propose to them. I am lost. I can not live without Lucy. Memories of the day we stood before the priest and vow that we would be together till death does us part are fresher in my mind. Dear friend, I only hope you will join me in prayer for truth to be out. These cell phones I will live never to treasure them.
