Don’t Mess My Saturday Mornings

God made Saturday mornings for extended sleep, loud music, water flowing to all tanks and low brain activity. The only thought any brain should tolerate on Saturday morning is what will get you out of bed; the debate usually lies between a movie, how far WiFi reception is and how hard I am pressed (Can I hold it in or is this the level that causes prostate cancer). I value Saturday mornings. Tea tastes better because there’s more time to stir sugar until it dissolves efficiently.  And I sleep a solid 18 hours until later in the day past lunch. It helps me save money because I won’t have to eat breakfast or entertain anyone with breakfast, and also makes me feel cleverer than those medical experts who recommend 8 hours of sleep; I try hard, with that experiment to prove that 24 hours of sleep does not equate to death.

On Saturdays, I believe in immobility to make the world a better place. No movement, no crime, no polio, no horny neighbours and the landlord can’t tell if anyone is around. Nairobi can be so unforgiving on weekdays; you have to wake up at 5am to get to work at 9, plus you have to tolerate whatever mood your workmates and Matatu mates carry from their houses (It has nothing to do with you but then that’s the whole idea of a capitalist society). Saturday mornings are the bridge between a proper Friday night and a promising Saturday night. On a Saturday morning, Monday usually seems like it will wait for the fun to end, which is in 365 days. Saturday mornings are the anointed days; in fact the reason I go to church is because of the imagination that every day in heaven will be like a Saturday morning. You can’t burst my bubble on that. Nobody has seen heaven and come back to write us a blog post on how it looks up there.

When you knock my door on a Saturday morning, you need a concrete reason. If you are not selling passwords to all WiFi hotspots in the estate or selling your job, you must be brave or plain stupid to knock my door. Because those are the things I pray against every Friday night. I go on my knees and condemn everyone who plans to knock on my door on a Saturday morning. If I ever looked at you on a Saturday morning, and you got the idea that I was looking at you like someone looking at a used tissue paper, it’s because that’s exactly what I was doing. I believe everyone who knocks my door on a Saturday morning is an untimely test from God. Despite me feeling cheated by the circumstance, I may open and just bore death out of you with a look.

So this Saturday, Jehovah’s Witnesses (Let’s make the name cool from this point of this read and call them JWs) were in the area. First of all I find the name Jehovah’s Witness so interesting and humorous for people who go from door to door telling people Tax Companies and the colour of the scarf the Pope wears amounts to a nearing of the ‘lake of everlasting fire’ that will consume everyone but them. I don’t know if God is intended on frightening me, and anyone who says they are sure of the apocalypse is just trying to get a donation. But I doubt His love is contingent on whether or not open my door and read the loosely coloured funny smelling pamphlet called ‘Watchtower’ (Sniff it and tell me if that’ the smell of everything nice). It’s hard to believe in the omniscience of a God who scares everybody. That’s Dracula’s job and HELB. Plus, I’m perfect and You’re screwed sounds more like a Pharisee quote… But I’m just Irvin and I know nothing anyway. I missed my true calling in life. All of the qualities that make me a terrible human being would make me a great slumlord. I have what it takes to let a property fall apart while I profit at the expense of anyone poor enough to live there. That’s the best I offer society. Also as far as I can tell, the biological composition of a JW is 5% organs and 95% rage and scary sentiment.

JWs knocked my door. I was in the interval of sleep where you walk to the washroom with your eyes closed, pee, and still with your eyes closed, find your way to the kitchen, open the fridge, get some water, drink, walk back to bed and sleep. But I was now in the kitchen, which is close to the main door. Obviously you agree with me at this point that the architect who drew these houses was a slithery glutton who liked gossiping and hates surprises. Because why else would you design a house that starts with the kitchen at the main door unless you want to know what your neighbor is cooking? So there is a knock on the door that forces my eyes open. I peep through the window… There was a lady, very cute with the type of make-up and cleavage that earns you a job placement, a man in a full suit and a briefcase. It looked like a magic trick, but I was going to concentrate on the lady anyway… I had already written off the man, because if you wear a 3 piece suit on a Saturday morning, you shouldn’t be knocking any doors unless you’re selling something which I won’t buy anyway.

“Hello, my name is Sylvia and this is Ludwig. We’d like to come in and have a small chat you,” she said.

The trick here was to let the lady do the talking, with as little information as possible. I let them in. It was a Saturday morning where low brain activity is allowed… Spare me the judgement. I showed them where the living room is. I was about to go change from the tiny shorts I sleep with, but then where is the fun in that? Come on, people are burrowing public coffers and running away with millions of taxpayers money with projects like NYS and you want to judge me for having a conversation with JWs in my 13 centimeter short?

“So how can I help you this morning?” I said this looking at the lady since you and I agree that a man in a 3 piece suit on a Saturday morning with coloured socks cannot be trusted. Think about it; in a dark alley where owls and crickets are having a field day with whatever sounds they make, you meet this guy who came to your house in a three piece suit on Saturday morning, sat down with you in a 13 centimeter short and acted like everything was fine… Then his name is Ludwig. Who’s the last person you heard with that name anyway. What you call your child will forever be part of the first impression he or she makes. It’s hard to get a serious government position when the name at the top of your résumé is Ludwig. If you avoid Ludwig, you can avoid turning your newborn into a social pariah the moment you give birth.

He was about to speak, when the whole idea is him not saying a word… So I interjected.

“Let me get you water,”

JWs don’t eat anything from you on a Saturday morning. They can knock your doors in 3 piece suits at 8:24am on Saturday, sit down with you in a 13 centimetre short… But no water. They won’t take any of that. I could tell this was going to be an argument so I needed to be clever before anyone dropped another Revelation on me. I needed to win this argument before it started, and the best way out was to agree with what they were going to say before they said it. You know, in my head, I believe some people start speaking hoping you will disagree so they can talk more. Why do you think touts tell you ‘Tao ni 80’ looking at you like a war is about to start when you only need to know how much the fare is? Try telling him “Ata nilikuwa nataka kulipa 100 lakini chukua tu 80 juu umeinsist” and see the look on his face.

So before that man in a suit would say anything, I started… “God has been so good to me. I can see he is good to you too.”

Then I thought even faster… That statement needs a Bible verse. Not just anything from popular books like Corinthians, Luke, Psalms and Proverbs. I needed to sound like I know my stuff (Which I do by the way. I have been the leader of Praise and Worship at one point in my life so Bible and me are on another level)… I needed to Quote something like Zephaniah, a small book, nestled in the midst of the Minor Prophets, toward the end of the Old Testament and follow it up with another verse in Chronicles so they so they don’t get time to say, ‘Can we read that. I even have my Bible here’. So I threw in verses on opposite ends of the Bible.

“In fact the Book of Zephaniah Chapter 3 verse one says Woe to the city of oppressors, rebellious and defiled!’ The Lord has done just that to my oppressors. Moreover in Jude he says ‘Mercy unto you, and peace, and love, be multiplied.’ So how can I help you this morning?”

I think I passed of the wrong idea because the gentleman in a suit stood up and walked out. I don’t understand what I did. It could have been my shorts, but I have amazing, killer legs that women die for. Couldn’t be my legs. The girl was left on the sofa confused… They didn’t even give me ‘Watchtower’. I can confidently say that I have a working, non-scientifically proven formula (If science was everything, chromatography would be earning you a salary) of winning an argument with a JW without the argument not happening at all. Open your doors, be not afraid.

I’ll probably have to pray and repent for this article… I’m motivated mostly by guilt. I get around to writing a new article when I start to feel bad about how long it’s been since I wrote the last one. As I grow older and slowly die inside, it takes much, much longer for feelings of remorse to reach the petrified cardiac tissue that was once my heart. The only reason I’m writing now is they messed my busy Saturday morning routine that mostly involves sleep. But I believe in telling truth… That’s why I’m writing this. Don’t knock my door on a Saturday morning. Take this from someone who will tell his kids Santa is a lie as soon as they can speak. I understand why most parents tell their kids Santa is real. As adults, it’s nice for our children to believe there’s at least one stranger out there who doesn’t want to kidnap or molest them. But a well-intentioned lie is still a lie, and maintaining it takes much more work than just telling the truth in the first place. If I tell my children the dead dog in the gutter is only sleeping, I don’t have to remember and defend that lie in the future (I hate dogs, they bark you know)

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  1. DiscoveryWoman 28 July, 2016 at 14:59 Reply

    You are too kind. Too kind. You wake me up when am not ready, you better be on fire or be Jesus himself coming to pick me up so we can go to heaven because I was too under to hear the trumpet.

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