I’m afraid someday some woman might walk up to my humble abode and announce that she thinks I am the father of her kid and in tow, she will have this mean looking brat staring up at me with hate written all over their eyes as if to ask, ”so you are that inglorious bastard?’
Being the soft spoken lad I am,i will fumble with words to counter this accusations and swallow a lumpful of air in the process. Perhaps if I will not be nursing a hangover from the Devil himself, I will let them into my humble abode…and serve them coffee,and if i will be broke..’strong tea’ ,because it never killed anyone after all.
I would proceed to look at the kids head as he sips the tea,while the mother will stare at me like an Israelite woman waiting for manna, fishing for a reaction or response.
As I study the kid, I will notice his teeth are chisel shaped, his hair down in a curly kitty manner, and he has an oblong shaped head, unlike mine. I will study his nose and see that it resembles Pinnochio’s, sharp and pointed. The kid will bear more semblance to the mom than me, and I will feel ripped, even cheated, seething with anger I will turn to the direction of the woman, and somebody will tap me just then,”Billy kwani leo huendi kazi?”
And I will realize i have overslept again because of yesternights booze, my dear bottle.
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