You all know me. I’m a brother who loves free food and free booze. So when I get an invitation card to a function, I don’t worry too much about what the fuss will be about. Between you and me, I don’t care whether it’s a birthday party, a wedding anniversary celebration or a tear-jerking memorial to remember a comrade who made the premature trip to The Other Side of Town. After all, food is food. For me, the main thing is to check the card out to make sure that inscribed at the bottom is that all-important abbreviation: RSVP.

Now RSVP, in case you just got off the bus, stands for Rice and Stew Very Plenty. That tells me that not only will I have more than enough to eat, but there’ll still be some grub to take home to feed the ever-hungry ever-expectant brood at home. So we do the sensible thing and carry a few lunch-boxes with us when we get such an invite. But then, I’m sure y’all know that because you all do the same, even though you won’t admit it in public.

Which brings me to next weekend’s party at The House of Mukundambolo. The indomitable ba-na Cherry, the undisputed queen of makwebo and my good friend Archibald Franklin’s wife will be inaugurating a new handbag. Word on the street is that the Honourable Minister for Commerce, Trade and Industry is expected to be the guest of honour. And for good reason. Ba-na Cherry’s handbags are legendary around here.

I know what you’re thinking, but let me assure you that hers is no ordinary receptacle for carrying cosmetics, pieces of tissue, registration cards and mankwala. Ba-na Cherry’s handbags have always served multiple functions: filing cabinet, bank vault, arms cache, secret weapon, investment centre, toolbox, passport office, bureau de change, debt collection agency, stock market, warehouse. Bloody things come complete with a combination lock and a host of security features and weigh at least a tonne, though from the way the Sister carries them around, you’d think they were feather-light. The last handbag she had was the size of a suitcase. We hear that the new one she will be launching next weekend will be larger.

Trust ba-na Cherry to do things in a big way. While we are on the subject of my good friend’s wife, I might as well tell you that she has been in a foul mood lately. Sister reckons that in spite of successfully creating an enabling environment for economic growth in The ‘Hood, her contributions are neither being acknowledged nor rewarded. She is particularly miffed that she wasn’t given the Businesswoman of the Year award. But what’s really upset her is that the award went to no other than Belita.

Y’all know Belita, don’t you? It’s hard to describe what she does for a living. For lack of a better term, let’s just say she is a service provider. Or a care giver, if you like. This is one Sister with more curves than an African gourd. Her skin is the colour of roast chicken. And her eyes? One Brother once said they were as clear as dew drops on an African morning. Belita may be a hit with the Brothers, but the Sisters around here hate her guts. They call her the neighbourhood Jezebel when her back is turned. They also call her a husband stealer, as though it is possible to snatch a husband the way you’d nick a tin of corned beef from a supermarket shelf when no-one is looking.

To the best of my knowledge, she has never been charged for kidnapping. Nor has she been ever convicted of theft. But that has not prevented a few irate wives from sending lightning bolts her way, but for some reason, they’ve all missed their targets. So for now, Belita continues to inhabit The Land of the Living.

But as you can probably tell, I am digressing (as usual) instead of telling you how and why it came to pass that Belita, for all her transgressions and her iniquities, got to walk away with the coveted Businesswoman of the Year trophy.

It all started when Belita, in readiness for the African Union summit which was held in Lusaka a few years ago put a sign outside her crib as her contribution to the national hospitality effort. The sign, which was for the benefit of the international delegates, read in part: Zambia the Real Africa. Available services for AU male delegates: (1) 007. US$75, inclusive of one stein of intoxicating cold liquids and a plate of high-grade, export-quality Chalimbana groundnuts. (2) African Renaissance. US$150, inclusive of an African continental breakfast, a bowl of Soup ya Mbuzi and a massage. (3) Eclipse Super Deluxe. US$175. No special glasses needed.(4) Presidential Makali One. US$500, inclusive of red carpet, emperor-sized bed, champagne breakfast, belly dancing, washing of feet. Security guaranteed. One week only. For inquiries, call within.

I don’t know exactly what she did, but by the time she was through with them, a few of the delegates missed their flights. For us in The ‘Hood, though, it was all good. You won’t believe the amount of dollars she was able to attract to The ‘Hood for the duration of the conference. Since then, Belita has become one of the most sought-after natural resources in The ‘Hood.

And it was on account of these accomplishments that the Brethren decided to bestow the award on her, elevate to the status of Chamber of Commerce and give her freedom of the city.

But enough about freedom. Let’s talk about something more important. Superstition. You see, as a true-blue African and a son of the soil, I take my superstitions very seriously. So, no, you won’t find me walking under a ladder. And yes, I may descend from a clan of proud warrior-fishermen, but you won’t catch any of us going fishing on Tuesdays. And so when Friday the 13th comes, I go underground to take shelter from bad omens.

Not that going underground even helps much. I remember how a few years ago on Friday the 13th, I received, in this age of e-mail, a telegram from The Motherland. Apparently, a certain geriatric clansman of mine who had been made dumb and immobile by paralysis for almost two years opened his mouth and uttered several incoherent words. One of the few coherent words he uttered was - Edem! Now back home in the tiny fishing village on the edge of the Atlantic where generations of Djokotoes have been plundering the oceans and the seas since the dawn of Time, folks read a lot of meaning into things like that. In plain and simple English, these inexplicable developments are called omens.

Thing with omens is that you don’t know whether they are good or bad until something good or bad happens to you. And believe me, there are hundreds and thousands of quacks out there who, for a little money, will tell you what they think the omens mean.

Anyway, against my better judgement, I had to make the long and winding journey home, with the hope that something terrible was not about to happen--you know, something as calamitous as an earthquake, a great famine or the eruption of some volcano that had been dormant since our disobedient forefather, Adam and his partner in crime liberated an apple from The Garden of Forbidden Fruits.

I arrived home to a hero’s welcome, you know, the kind you reserve for the national team when they return from winning a crucial game.

A large number of clansmen and women turned up at the airport to welcome me. If there’d been a red carpet and the booming sound of a 21-gun salute, I could have gotten away with being President for a day! I felt a rush of emotion with all this attention and I must confess, the odd tear formed in the corner of my eye. Here were all these people, I told myself, who’d braved September rains just to welcome a prodigal son home. A few goats were killed and several drops of Schnapps were poured in libation as clansmen invoked the spirits of the ancestors to guide and protect me. I thought they were doing all this for me.

How wrong I was! Apparently, someone had told I was living in the lap of luxury in the Great Zed. My uncle wanted to name his unborn child after me. In exchange for that honour, he expected me to take care of everything from nappies to higher education. The headmaster at my old school told me when they planned to name the state-of-the-art stadium they were hoping to build in the scruffy playground to develop sport talent. All that, he said, depended on my making a generous contribution in US dollars.

Cousin Ashaley wanted me to give him bucks to buy his own canoe. The worst part of it was that he planned to name the boat after me.

I wasn’t amused. Some folks, like Nobel and Pulitzer, have world-famous prizes named after them. Others have islands and mountains named after them. Patrice Lumumba had a university named after him. Parkinson, Alzheimer, whoever they were, had diseases named after them. Less eminent folks get towers, avenues, boulevards, airports named after them. And all I get to be named after are a few planks of wood masquerading as a fishing vessel.

Note: I will be taking a two-week break starting this week. Till then, watch this space.