Abomination, when my children married!

I do not fancy Nigerian movies so much but am forced to watch them while at home since my grandchildren dictate and control what the house watches. And you guessed right, Nigerian movies are their favourite. But whenever I am home and listen briefly to those hard talking Nigerians with a heavy West African accent the common word is “ABOMINATION” I never even once thought what I saw as fiction ever happening to me. I was wrong. My favourite and youngest grandchild Steve is asking what the hell is wrong with me. The shooting game is finally catching up with me fortunately at an old age since I might retire to my creator soon. Ladies and gentlemen, who do you blame when your scattered children all over the world start marrying each other and you have never seen them since their birth? During my long life, I have travelled 90 percent of this equally old and tired world, of course in line of my work. So don’t start labelling a sex tourist although everywhere that I have visited I believe I have sowed a seed, or two. I have shared with you about my trip to Stockholm Sweden in the 60s when I had gone to cover Martin Luther King Jr’s Nobel peace prize award and the Swedish usher whose child I fathered. In the same period, I travelled to the South American nation of Brazil where I met this girl whose names I can’t even remember (somebody remind me since I have shared this with you the ardent readers of this column). I left my own blood in those two countries although I kept in touch with Drowsky in Sweden, who kept updating me about our child. The Brazilian never bothered about the African pervert. I never saw her and my kid. Last Christmas I decided to spend my pension with stubborn Steve from Mombassa and that’s when it dawned on me that my two children had married each! Drowsky as old as my self had come to Mombassa with his daughter and son-in-law when we met at the beach. Steve was playing soccer on the beach while I was sipping a Tusker and enjoying his innocent young being when somebody touched my shoulder from the behind. “Hi Shooter, you are still alive?” I could not believe my eyes when I saw the Swedish lady. “Drowsky, what on earth are you doing here?” She explained that she had accompanied “our!” daughter and her husband on holiday after their wedding. She was now forty years and I had never seen her…was I ready to see her? I said no and her mother understood my point of view. However, I requested to meet privately the husband to my daughter and Drowsky agreed. That evening we met in a quiet restaurant a distance away from the hotel where they stayed. When I set eyes on my son-in-law, a fever ran through my entire body and I knew something was amiss. “Hello sir, my name is Ferreira Augusto,” the young man introduced himself. When he opened his mouth to talk, I knew he was from our great lineage. Our family lineage has a gap between the upper teeth, left handed and the tiniest ears. Yes, he did talk like my grandfather and his entire body language and voice was of my young brother. “Where do you come from?” I was forced to ask. “My mother is from Brazil. As for my dad, I have never seen him but mum told me he was Rwandese from Africa and his name is shooter.” Both Drowsky and I fell fainted when the truth hit us. When we came to, we found him in a suspicious mood. Drowsky and I are still looking for the best way and words to undo this abomination. What is for sure is that we prefer our kids being brother and sister than….yeah, than that! I sigh a pained sigh! Email: angarambe2@gmail.com