The scene. Gyaldem. She is in the cafe with her book, That Thing Around Your Neck by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, signifying that this is a highly intelligent, sophisticated and erudite person who not only bes “erudite” but also probably uses the word in conversation.
And properly, not mbu, “Yo, that jazz was mob erudite, gwe you be there.”
(That is how I use it. I am intelligent, but definitely not sophisticated.)
Mandem approaches Gyaldem with intent to vibe.
Mandem: Hey, hi. I couldn’t help but notice you from across…
Gyaldem: Hold on… hold on… (licks finger, turns page, continues reading.)
Mandem: My name is …
Gyaldem (Sighs, takes off glasses, closes book with finger marking page and begins): I don’t think you should be giving me your name, or it is going to end up in my whatsapp group. In a heavily-memed chat beginning with “Would you believe this nigga?” Anything you say can and will be used against you, dude.
Nothing personal– I am sure you have noble and decent intentions, but it’s your timing. Look. I am reading. And I am reading Chimamanda. When you couldn’t help but notice as aforementioned, did you notice that?
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, the reigning World Heavyweight Champion of African Books. She is the new Achebe, the current Soyinka and the ongoing Ngugi.
This woman has the best words and the sentences in Africa, the US and UK, dude. The only reason her supremacy doesn’t cover the whole world is because when you translate her works to Chinese, they lose some of the potency, which gives native Mandarin writers an advantage. But if it wasn’t for that, if she was Xi Mamanda, she would be the best in China as well.
This is where you find me. Sitting here sipping this delicious mocha latte with my mouth and sipping Chimamanda with my eyes. What is going here is the sustained imbibing of very high quality intellectual and culinary stimuli. Everything that is happening to me is leaving me very impressed.
If you are going to interrupt this, if you are going to require that I stop consuming the Chimamanda-quality words and take in yours instead, they should be equally articulate, erudite and insightful, if not more so.
In fact, perhaps you might want to actually say the word “erudite” in your vibing lines.
And properly, not mbu, “Yo, that jazz was mob erudite, gwe you be there.”
Ima let you respond but let me first finish what I was saying.
If you do not have any paragraph, sentence or phrase that is higher in quality, composition or volume of trenchant, canny, well-observed social insight than Chimmy line, then you might as well be asking me to put down my mocha latte and share a mug of chai mukalu with you.
Nothing wrong with chai mukalu. Chai mukalu is fine. It is bracing when it must be, soothing when you need soothing. It is the perfect accompaniment to cassava kibuga, fresh dry chapus or Richy maziwa.
Chai mukalu is fine. But it is not as multilayered and full-bodied and rich as this caramel mocha latte which teases me with hints of secret spices and
new flavours with every whiff and sip. This spiced latte is a whole adventure.
I’m just saying, it’s levels to this shit (RIP Meek Mill when you die.)
So, before you speak any further, self-analyse, carry out a quick inner quality test and make sure you are not asking me to stop the mocha and hit the mukalu. Be certain that you are offering me conversation that is worth having me put down this book.
Otherwise, come back when I am reading some cheap, gutterpress trash like The Anita Everything Collection.
And now a word from our sponsors.
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Mr E. Bazanye 