How Miss Telephoning The Devil

had those days when nothing in your best night ever seems to want to go right those moments when even those liquors with their glowing names dressed in those flowing picturesque Italian calligraphy in those shapely bottles won’t ease the pains and rigours of daily life for you need to sip of several bottles for them to slow the brain to hand you a shoulder to lean on. Problem being even your pockets are doing the lean before you even think of telling the waiter to drop one round on the fellas.
In Africa and Uganda in particular struggle is a daily theme to the bubbly life we live and such pains are shared not through Bluetooth but by sitting around a brown clay pot sucking off tubes filled with fermented brew that we selflessly share with the crew till morning when the night infects the grass plains with wet dew and fog lost in the mist.
It’s our version of come party for you be here or be nowhere. I was introduced to this habit by grand pa in my infancy when he dropped a few seeds of ferment to determine my name when we were still living peacefully like Buddhists in our humble village in Soroti far away from civilisation in Uganda’s dusty cities that never sleep. When my legs got strong enough and my fingers learnt to grip the tools that feed out stomachs I was introduced to farming the savannah grassland with the rest of the family. During harvest we spared a good chuck of it to celebrate with the rest of the community and we didn’t go flying to the city spending all the pennies we had but instead made our own beer from the yeast and millet under the watchful eyes of mama. It was the norm in each home and during my puberty it became a way of getting cosier with the girls in the neighbourhood. All we did was gather the local brew in those thick pots and invite the girls to grace the occasion by flashing their brown thighs to the pot. The beer would take a long time to knock us off our feet since the devil would be impressed that we could be telephoning him with the fairer sex in tore as we sucked that local brew in long brown tubes. The groups ranged from 5-10 depending on your social status and number of problems you had to telecast the man below. The clay pot sitting snugly on the floor picking signal from the devil as he sipped from his side underground, our bellies played processing unit and the brains acted as the RAM. Once you started to stagger we naturally assumed that your problems had just reached the big man below and answers were expected when you sobered up.
I don’t know where the phrase came from but we are told that the boys on going to the city their eyes opened that actually not everything in that sweaty fridge you can afford so they innovated by bringing their local brew alcoholic trend to the city. The men in the city on seeing this they imagined the village boys were telephoning the devil to switch their blessing to them since they had nothing and so every time it was organised in the neighbourhood they called the police and we all know what happens after those beret rocking boys is history. Also the witchdoctors used to spit that stuff onto their patient as a way of summoning the dead man from underground. It was like sending him an SMS the preachers were not fair too in their summons one proclaimed
‘See them little street bones squatting around clay pots mumming shit to them. All they be doing is telephone the devil from his leers. This summon I once believed in it because the dude’s threat to local brew got my dictionary diarrhoeat every metaphor that mistakenly drop onto this blog site

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