Short story: The Laughing Witch

My headaches, I laugh. Bimpe’s heart got broken, I laughed. The other day my dad’s car got stolen, I laughed. My brother was beaten mercilessly for stealing, I laughed as the tale was narrated. My best friend tumbled off the stairs on Tuesday morning, I stood at the bottom laughing at her misfortune as she cried for help or from embarrassment, I really couldn’t tell.

The other day, Mr Tee fell. He is a tall, averagely built chocolate skinned Christian man, with saggy eyes and a tired face, one can’t really tell when he’s energetic or languid. The problem was not with him falling like a lonely plantain tree in a plantation, but the drama that ensued after the fall.

“Holy Ghost fire!” Ms Cee screamed, waving her hands frantically above her head while lifting her round flappy body off the ground and back. Springing from one post to another like a monkey who just sighted a new bunch of bananas.

“Give him space, let him breathe, let him some air, back, back everybody!” Mr Patrick commanded, with his lower jaw hanging down his face and eyes popping out. I was confused, there was no one there save a few students watching from afar, wondering if they should come close or feign ignorance. Suddenly a bevvy of ladies rushed from the other side of the building doing nothing but running helter-skelter and raising a fiery assortment of confused voices like Mr Tee’s life depended on their ability to run and scream.

I just stood at the corner watching and laughing. Why? I don’t know but I think I somehow feel the world is a staged comic show and every fall a comedy to be laughed about.

I was tagged a witch, and I am yet to be redeemed.