Can someone tell me about the crazy fad going on in Bulawayo with women scrambling to buy baboon urine (which is reportedly “selling like hot cakes”)? Apparently, the urine is sold in plastic jars, mixed with soil, to give it a solid feel. Seriously? The recommended directions for baboon urine use are: “You grind the mixture before you sleep, but after bathing. You then have to apply the powder in your privates. When applying you do not have to overdose because once you become damp, the urine’s smell is pungent.”
And why would anyone do this you ask? (I’d wanted to say “anyone in their right mind”, but then realised that I was probably setting the standard a little too high). Well, the explanation seems to be women trying to curb their “husband’s bed hoping antics” (I’m sure they meant “bed hopping”, but I guess “bed hoping” works just as well in this context!) The aim is to “drive the man into adopting a baboon’s urinating habit.” Apparently, according to those who peddle the baboon urine, “a baboon by its nature urinates only on one spot. Even if it travels from Matopo to Bulawayo, when it gets pressed, it will travel all the way to Matopo before it relieves itself.” You don’t need to know anything about baboons to realise that there is absolutely no factual basis to these baboon urinating habit claims, so why people believe them is beyond me.
“When you apply the powder, the man will absorb the baboon’s urine and it will start regulating his bedding tendencies… Once you use this (baboon urine), just like the animal does, he will never release his seeds of manhood to any woman but to you only.” You can’t help but admire the entrepreneurial creativity at work here. I mean, who ever said that ridiculousness is an obstacle to business success?
For anyone interested, you can buy the baboon urine for $2 at the Bulawayo City Council-run toilets at Egodini commuter omnibus terminus. Am I the only one who finds it suspicious that the so-called “baboon urine” is being told out of public urinals? At least they should move a block or so away to, you know, make it a little less obvious that it’s not actually baboon urine.
On a sad note, one of Mr Ugly Harare’s top contenders, Charles Tizora, passed away recently. He died after “imbibing” (yes, this word is actually being used in its correct context, weird as it seems) “an illicit brew known in the streets as Zed or as some call it Zimbabwe Emergency Drink”, which is apparently a rather lethal brew of brandy. Only in Zim would a home brew have “emergency” in its name. (Remember those times when cough syrup was used as “emergency” liquor in Zim when beer production was temporarily stopped?) And it seems as though Tizora is not alone in falling victim to cheap brandy, as his eulogy ended with a warning: “Scores of reckless imbibers have fallen prey to abusing illicit brews” … so be careful of imbibing cheap brandy people. If it doesn’t kill you, can you even imagine the pain of that hangover?
I recently came across an article entitled “Man stabbed to death for annoying whistling” and my initial thought was “damn right!” After judging my own callousness, I read on to find that the title (as frequently happens with Zim tabloids) was misleading – the man who was stabbed to death was not in fact the whistler, but rather someone who kindly requested the whistler to stop whistling … and the whistler (somewhat overreacted) and killed him in response. Now the reason why I thought the whistler deserved to be stabbed was because I’m pretty sure I know the particular brand of whistling that he was doing – not the whistling-a-merry-tune whistle, but rather that incessant I’m-trying-to-get-your-attention whistle. There are few things in this world that grate my soul more than that attention-whistle.
For the last six months, I’ve been living in West Harlem (although there have been repeated arguments about whether it is actually West Harlem or some other suburb … but let’s call it West Harlem just to set the scene). Some guy who must have lived nearby spent a great deal of his time attention-whistling outside my window. I thought I was going to lose my mind and/or violently hurt him and/or any passerby who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
What almost rivaled his whistling in terms of driving me into a blind rage was the local ice-cream van, which I learnt (after spending day-upon-day at home trying to study for my final exams) drives around the surrounding blocks almost continuously all day and well into the evening. The ice-cream van was hardly ever out of ear-shot, and the only relief of silence came when it was forced to a stop (due to traffic or customers). It turns out that it was somewhat like a cement mixer – it needed to keep moving to keep playing its same irritating tune (which was literally only 2 bars of 4 notes each) on repeat. I heard that tune so much that a point came when I didn’t know if it was actually playing outside my window… or just inside my head. I’m pretty sure that the ice-cream man must hear that tune in his dreams. I could almost pity him if I didn’t blame him for inflicting the same torture on everyone else too.
All I’m saying is that there are certain attention-whistlers and ice-cream van drivers in West Harlem that should be relieved that New York has one of the strictest gun control laws in the States… because no one would have found me guilty once they’d heard that whistling and/or ice-cream tune for themselves.