Wrath of God

From Great North Road

As a twelve year old growing up in Lusaka, my good friend Paul Stevens and I would often get on our bikes and go for a safari down the many winding bush paths that led of the Leopards Hill Road.

On a beautiful summer's morning with the African sun high in the blue cloud free sky, we ventured off on one of our many safaris. We packed our saddle bags with rations, and a good supply of freshly made orange oris drink, and as we left the driveway of 4 York Road, Lefted our garden boy, waved and wished us well on our travels.

After a few minutes we reached Leopards Hill Road, took the first bush path and headed into the unknown hinterland of the Dark Continent. At least ten minutes passed before we decided that it was surely close to high noon and time to set up camp and have lunch.

A suitable spot was found, and Paul and I scavenged around for wood to start a fire. Being a good Boy Scout, I was well versed in the ways of the wild and before too long we had a magnificant roaring fire. The sausages that we brought were skewered onto long green sticks and were held sizziling over the dancing flames, with the smoke from the fat billowing into our tear-filled eyes.

The anticipated moment arrived, when we took a bite into the hot burnt offering. Paul bit into his sausage, savoured the taste and then in a state of panic asked what day of the week it was. I contemplated the question and answered Friday, whereupon Paul dropped his sausages with great haste onto his tin plate and confessed that he had just committed a mortal sin which would more than likely result in him being excommunicated from the Roman Catholic Church. Being a Scottish Episcopalian and carnavore seven days a week, I had problems comprehending why Paul and his kin did not eat sausages or any other type of meat on a Friday.

While trying to console Paul, I continued eating my sausage and then proceeded to eat of the forbiden meat that Paul had left on his plate. Waste not, want not.

We extingushed the fire and started the long sombre trek home, all the while Paul regaled me with a litany of the gloom and doom that he was facing. Paul decided on returning straight home to confess his dastardly deed. I wished him well and watched as he slowly rode his bike down the long dusty road heading towards an unknown fate.

The weekend passed and on at least one occasion, I thought of Paul; was he still alive ? Monday finally arrived, and as I was sitting on the stoep contemplating what to do, Paul out of nowhere came racing up the drive, threw down his bike, raced over to me and excitedly suggested that we go on safari. A great idea, and I was assured by Paul that it would be okay with God.

Contributed by Kenneth Miller.

November 2001