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Hi its sommy, am coming with my first story,
titled COFFIN OF ERRORS(short story)……..by
Larrysun. This story is a comedy trust me you are
going to laugh your ass out……Stay there, don’t
touch the Dial…..Story [email protected] today http://www.storystar127.mywapbog.comTHE COFFIN OF
ERRORS………EPISODE ONEThe old and bad-tempered Pa Jimoh was dead, to
begin with, but he did not go to his grave. And
this deprivation of proper interment prevented
among mourners any thought of planting over his
head a mango tree. The real cause of his demise,
however, if brought to focus, would result in an
esteem more mirth-inducing to any spectator at
the sight of the incident than to the actual victim
on whom such tragedy befell. Pa Jimoh had
already hoisted himself to the apex of a rather
lofty palm tree before he met his end. His
intention behind this ascent was merely to tap in
the early wine, but instead, he found his own
hand tapping on the delicate nest of snoozing
hornets. Not many mortals, if placed behind a
judgemental desk, would put too much blame on
the piqued wasps for their collective efforts in the
attack on the feeble curmudgeon. And it would be
unfair if this little but fatal brawl between insect
and man was not elucidated in full detail. The
kind of irritation this swarm fostered could only
be imagined after putting oneself in their thorax.
Just imagine yourself a wasp making passionate
insect love to your spouse in your apartment
erected feet high on the branch of a palm, then
suddenly poof! your castle was demolished by the
single stroke of a hand. And this destruction
came not just from any hand but from the hand of
Man; that specie with whom you have never been
(and possibly will never be) of benign
companionship. In this instance, the last thing a
patriotic wasp would care about was decency; no
male wasp would scramble to a wardrobe
searching for a pair of trousers to cover its
privates, and neither would a female scream for
her pants and bra. What would they do? They’d
call on immediate neighbours whose mansions
had also been reduced to rubble and launch
immediate attack on the human intruder. Initiating
the divide-and-conquer techniques, some wasps
made their own attack on the human’s skull;
thereby, in the process, reshaping the dimension
of the tapper’s occiput into that which was totally
different from the Creator’s initial design. But this
was not what resulted to the old man’s demise; of
course, something more brutal sufficed. While
some wasps families were busy assaulting the old
man’s skull, others lodged themselves into the
dark comfort of his rather oversized pair of
trousers. The poor man wouldn’t have launched
into that extraordinary wail even people far away
had sworn hearing if those bees had shown
kindness on their intruder. The offensive had
found it incubent to sting him on the delicate
tissue of the sac dangling between his thighs,
while some were satisfied by only sticking their
probosces on the flesh of that tender rope that
always come with the sac. The agony could only
be best described by someone who’d experienced
a nearly equal attack. So, it could be deduced
that the latter attack was more brutal than the
former, for it was at this moment that the old man
forgot about the precarious position he was in;
he’d disremembered that he was still perched
against the stem of a tall tree. And because the
pain was getting unbearable, Pa Jimoh let go.
Witnessing the brutal event could cause one to
see only figuratively the morals behind the
anecdote that ‘the higher you fall the higher you
bounce’, and the old man literally bounced when
his slim body came in contact with the earth. And
these mean insects returned to build another nest
only after accompanying their victim to his final
destination. A rather eccentric writer may be
inspired to coin a catchy title from this tragedy:
‘Death by Sting’ would go the title. . Pa Jimoh
was really dead. There was no doubt whatsoever
about that, for he truly and undeniably died from
half a thousand stings and a broken vertebrae. He
knew about his own death? Of course he did. How
could it ever be otherwise? Because Pa Jimoh
died a virgin, there was really not wet eye for his
funeral. The reason behind his decided celibacy
would forever remain a mystery even to the most
seasoned of all detectives aliveTHE COFFIN OF
ERRORS……..EPISODE TWONow, the mention of Pa Jimoh’s funeral brings the
magic of the pen back to the first line of the
immediate paragraph before this. Pa Jimoh was
really dead. This must be distinctly assimilated or
there would be nothing of consequence to fathom
from the extraordinary sequence of events that
succeeded his demise. And when a man dies and
is still refused the peacefulness of a grave, then
most people will agree that there is something
still amiss with the world, as it has always been.
Jimoh, being the last of his race, was of no known
family member to claim his corpse, let alone
rewarding him with a befitting burial. It was only
the kind indegenes of Ogbomosho that took it
upon themselves to plant the loner, but they
refused to do it without a coffin available. It was
part of their culture in the remotest part of the
village not to bury any corpse in the soil without
first locking it in a casket. But the only coffin-
maker they knew had his shop in the city, which
was many kilometres away from the village.
Having no other known maker of coffins, the
village elders gathered together their resources
and employed the service of Saka, a gifted coffin-
maker. These elders exhibited their generosity
over the tapper’s corpse to a commendable
degree. If they’d allowed themselves the pleasure
of considering Pa Jimoh’s manners in his lifeh they
wouldn’t have made any step at burying him;
they’d rather have watched the corpse rot and
become meat for fowls of both air and land, for Pa
Jimoh was known to be tight- fisted in his life; a
squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping,
clutching, covetous old man. He was a well from
which no bucket had ever fetched a generous
water. No beggar who knew him implored of him
to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it
was o’clock, no man or woman in the village ever
once in all his life inquired the way to such and
such a place, of Pa Jimoh. Even the blind men
appeared to recognize him; for when they sensed
him coming ahead, they would tap their canes
and make their ways to their doorways. It almost
seemed as though whenever it came to situations
pertaining Jimoh, they revelled in their affliction.
Some of them would console themselves by
saying, ‘No eye at all is better than an evil eye!’
But even Jimoh himself did not give a trifle care
to this obvious neglect; it was the very thing he
liked, and he always defended himself by
preaching about how he was the oldest inhabitant
of the village at seventy-five, and that every other
villager should always accord him the respect for
an elder. Although he always emphasized how he
was a year older than any other old man in the
village, everybody knew that he was never an
hour richer. And to have such an evil-
embodiment die in the village without the benefit
of a burial might spell misfortune for the growing
generation of the village. Saka worked round the
clock to make a presentable coffin for Pa Jimoh,
and when the work was ready the next day, Saka
was impressed at his own achievement; because
he’d never, until now, completed a casket in a
single day. It was as though the spirit of the dead
palm-wine tapper urged him to hasten up. He
knew quite well that his client would likewise be
duly impressed at the rapidity with which he
completed the work. He also knew that the
villagers could not wait to inter Jimoh and get it
done with. But in the modern world, there was
always Murphy’s Law that could not be avoided.
And in this case at hand, everything worked
together to make sure that the coffin built for
Jimoh did not arrive Ogbomosho in time. Pa
Jimoh had chosen the wrong time to die; he
kicked the bucket when fuel scarcity was rampant
in the city yonder.General Register
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