Episode 1 – Oombongo (birthplace of a legend)
Deep in the African rift valley; the cradle of civilization itself and the bosom of mankind, lies the little shanty town of ‘Oombongo’. An ordinary and fairly non descript shanty town with the prerequisite cardboard dwellings; with flaking walls, weeds growing through the roof and miniature vegetable gardens out front growing a pathetic array of garden vegetables; from skinny dry fruits and wickedly nasty bulb roots; black and pot-marked with disease and strife. Ooombongo is a town with a fairly typical sun-hardened populace of the usual pesky urchins, naked, children demanding money for food, and the infinitely lazy, lazy-bums that sit in the shade all day, dreaming up their next get rich quick schemes, or thinking how best they can rob their grandmothers. Bloody no gooders!
So a fairly average African town then, but for one small detail. On the northernmost point of this stinking shit hole sits a little hut. Not by any means a special hut or anything; just your average hut really. However, what distinguishes this particular hut from the others that line Oombongo, and the myriads that sweep across the African planes, is who lives inside. Batunga Knoboo, for that is his name is, as his wife would put it, an old fart and an idiot. But he is widely known as the Shamen (witch doctor) of Oombongo. More like a con artist if you ask me. He’s a do it all and a fix it all; problems with your ears? Batunga will sort em out, nasty boil growing up your bum? Batunga will poke it out? Radio don’t work? Batunga will…well you get my jist.
Batunga shares his little hut with his long suffering wife ‘Kacoooi’. They’ve been married now for 9 years and things have been going down hill from the start. ‘Marriage is made in heaven’ her parent used to tell her. But now, 9 years on, the deep creases on her face; creases as large as the rift valley itself speak volumes and hint at the deep feelings and resentment simmering inside. “Why don’t you get a f***ing propaar job you lazy F***er” she would say to him in Bantu. Sometimes as often as 20 times in a single day. Not that night and day mean much to Batunga; who seems to spend most part of his waking life in a dreamy haze of purple butterflies and day-glow rainbows (courtesy of some magic weed). Ever since he was a little child, Batunga was a bit of a fantasist. He’d spend inordinate amounts of time, sometimes as much as 88% of it, in another reality; floating in some make-believe world of his own devising.
But things are about to change for Batunga Knoboo. Change forever…As he sits on a nearby hill, his legs crossed, eyes closed, and mind in a deep reverie; a light breeze awakens and begins to rustle the leaves in the nearby ‘Kapookoo’ tree. A little bird begins a serenade and chips and chirps; it’s jizz for life infusing the air with a thousand little syncopated sound waves; like little bubbles of sound that twinggggggg the air drums. Then, in the distance, from the adjoining hill a shadow appears, followed by dust that dances like fire-flies raised by the feet of the followers; the procession is about to enter Oombongo and Batunga can smell his destiny…his eyes suddenly flick open like beams…
To be continued...
