Kanyoni Wa Ng’ethe

“Once there was a very very speedy hare.. He would brag from near and far that he was faster than a car oh once there was a very very speedy hare… “

Y’all must know how this story ends,. Right? The hare and the tortoise tale, sindio?

This was my story last weekend Pale stanchart HQ where a holy gathering of 130 scrabble enthusiasts were locked away from the rest of you mortals like the disciples of Christ pre-pentecost.

126 of these were natural persons. The other 4 were TD, Tush, Hyckie Ike ‘s body length hairlocks and the spirit of The Regional Hawk, Manyasa. TD Chrispine Kennedy is the demigod of the event, Tush is dare devil.

Sasa, day 1 went well. Very well. Yours truly aka Apuoyo the Hare was on a stanchart – marathon mode in the intermediate divison.

I clapped back at Mochere for what he did to me at the village market event. Hyckie took a bow honorably like rasta man should, Limo Kipkemoi couldn’t run fast enough, etc etc.

On day 2, I was hungry for a podium finish. I had counted the opponents I wanted to teach lessons OTB from the standings and took a silent vow. Yaani I brought them each Kanyoni wa Ng’ethe for shows but didn’t say a thing. Stealth is an art of war, and this was war. Has always been.

I tried, but like I told you, people out there are bad. Plain bad. You hit their left cheeks they puncture your right lung. Who does that? Kwani si The Good Book says they should prepare right cheek for you too?

At scrabble Kenya no one is heaven material. They’re all hell bound judging by the way they have perfected vengeance.

I digress, sorry.

It’s now after lunch. It’s round 16 I think.

I’m sitting across veteran Sigmoid. It’s not scary because I’ve done this many times at Acacia. He’s my sparring partner.

I make known my intentions to wallop him in no uncertain words. In whose response he says, “I am Ng’ielo The Python. I seldom die”.

This is truth I’m about to appreciate shortly.

He goes fast; BUDO earns him a paltry 14 score.I thrust BENAMING at him. And just like that, swords are drawn.

We wrestle, me running like a thief towards the finish line, him lamenting to onlookers how his scores were coming in dings and dongs while mine were in torrents like the rain of Noah.

Just before second last move, the scores are 350 vs 238 in my favor. I can see trophies and speeches flashing before my eyes. He plays AUTO for 11 and I bury him(or so I thought), with EVICTED for 77. Scores go to 249/417 still in my favor. His last move however, stopped reggae totally and completely. He hooked NEWSIEST on my E for a nine timer, and outed . Leaving a score of 189 in its wake.

This tackle brothers and sisters, was akin to a bullet in the head. Suddenly the air was too thick to breath, I tried to call on TD for help, but no sound escaped my dried throat.

My arms were flailing in the air because I was drowning, but in a room where everyone is drowned in their own scrabble sorrows or lack thereof, no one came to throw me even a straw to clutch on.

I saw several of those silly birds, Kanyoni wa Ng’ethe.

But si ni life?

Signed: Speedy Hare

Cc. Fred Magu