In our village lived a young man, not much to look at and not very bright either. He, for some strange reason, dreamt of owning a pair of jeans. And as he got them, he came up with this blissful fashion statement idea: he folded his right jeans trouser leg up to above his knee, neatly and impressively straight.
Soon his fashion was noticed and he became the talk of the village. True enough, in the village next door, just across the Jajja Nalumansi’s matooke shamba, there was a young woman, recently married to a boring and much older sweet potato trader, who heard stories about this dude and had her fierce little heart set on seeing that naked right knee for herself.
It is difficult to pin down the circumstances how the two met. It could have been in the market on Saturday, or by the fish stalls in the evening. Or by the church, or really anywhere. But they met nevertheless and the naked knee interested the young lass so much that her heart jumped, and never stopped jumping at the sight of it.
As one thing often leads to another, our lad knew it is his fashion causing the fiery glances this next-door belle was throwing his way. And he was affirmed in his belief that this folded jeans trouser leg, this statement, has to be upheld and perfected.
As one other thing led to another, so did these two finally find themselves in the village next door, inside the house she just took over from her husband’s third wife who still kept her eyes and ears on the ground through her setup of loyal servants.
The second the door closed behind them and they were engulfed in the darkness of the smoky, woody interior of the home, a servant run to deliver the high alert to the trader, who instead of being away on business, was away on his third wife’s business in the vicinity.
By the time the doors burst open to let the husband fire the first bullet in the general direction of the bed, our lad was still folding the jeans trouser leg neatly on the chair, way before any activity happened with the young, hot but now already dead trader’s wife. Our lad lived just long enough to read on her face two simple words “you idiot” before his head was open from the top like a coconut by another bullet.
This is exactly how folding your trouser leg can bring misery of catastrophic proportions.
