I have been quiet? No, I haven’t. I am always working. If I am not at Vision, I am at ULK, and if I am not there, I am in my secret chambers where I work as a mercenary. Ghostwriting, editing, hell I may even be partially responsible for some of the adverts that you hate (because they never come out the way I wrote them. Actors don’t know. Such is life).
I have been quiet here.
But unless you are going to hire me, that is not relevant to you this Friday. What is relevant is this other thing that has been up.
I have been working on a third Chandler and Frasier book.
Last year I put out two tiny booklets featuring Chandler and Fraiser, the characters from my Sunday Vision column. They were The Adventures of Chandler and Fraiser and The Further Adventures of Chandler and Frasier.
They were small and cheap even though they were hilarious as heck, and if you bought one or both, you will amen to all three of those characterisations I hope.
I cannot print any more, though. First of all, I have no money, and secondly, Nasser Road printing is crap.
I am going online next. I hope I will be able to sell the next book to you here, on the internet. That’s what I am working on. Gimme a couple more weeks and dinner will be served. In the meantime, would you mind an excerpt from one of them?
When Chandler and his brother were reunited, it was to share bad news. Frasier’s face was dour and his tone was morose. The flap of his baseball cap drooped behind his head. He usually walked with that off-axis waddle boys of his age affect after watching rap videos starring people named “Lil” Something and tugging their trousers downwards, but even now, a casual observer could tell that this was no ordinary waddle. There was misery and woe in every unbalanced step as he made his way to the mall bench where his brother sat waiting.
“How was Mukono?” he asked.
Chandler ignored the jibe.
“So? How much did you get?” Chandler asked.
“We have bigger problems.”
“There is no bigger problem facing Africa’s youth than endemic poverty. True story. Kofi Anan said that.”
“Who’s Kofi Anan?”
“I don’t know. Probably a football player.”
“Well, These Africa’s youth might prefer poverty to what is in store. They called each other on the phone and you know nothing good ever comes from Dad and Mom communicating.”
Chandler nodded melancholically to acknowledge the sadness of this fact of their family life. It was not easy being from a broken family. Then Frasier continued. “They are getting us jobs for the holiday.”
The following process then played out across Chandler’s face. First he stared at his brother mutely, as if waiting for him to add something to that statement. Then he burst into laughter. Then that laughter turned nervous and ceased. Then he noted. “You’re serious?”
Frasier met the question with a stoic look.
Chandler could not accept this. “Have those two lost their minds?”
“Evidently,” Frasier replied.
Then Frasier proceeded. “You haven’t heard the worst part yet.”
“There’s a worse part?”
“Two. The first is what the job actually is.”
Chandler lifted his sagging jeans a bit so that he could take the bad news in comfort. “What is the job?” he asked when he was ready.
“We are going to be waiters, you man!” said Frasier.
Everyone else on that floor of the mall turned to look at them, expecting to see a doctor standing before them telling them something they had was inoperable.
“We are going to be waiters…” Frasier repeated.
“Nooooooooo!” Chandler repeated as well.
“…at Auntie Rosebert’s restaurant!”
This was supposed to be an upper-middle class haunt, this mall. It was meant to attract a clientèle from a certain social stratum. You know. Snobs. So when Chandler exploded again with “Noooooooooo!!!” many of them prepared to call the police.