This Is Weird

Sticky fingers

In the colorful chaos of Lusaka, where the markets buzzed louder than a beehive on a caffeine high, there lurked a tale so wild it could make a hyena chuckle and a mongoose blush. It starred none other than my kin, Robert, a man with a knack for 'borrowing' things he fancied without ever consulting his wallet.

From stealing snacks from unsuspecting vendors to liberating luxury items from posh boutiques, Robert's sticky fingers knew no bounds. I used to call him our family's very own version of Aladdin, minus the magic carpet but with double the cheekiness.

One evening, when the sun decided it had enough of the sky's shenanigans and dipped below the horizon, Robert's voice blasted through my phone like a siren on a sugar rush. 'Tasha, I'm in a pickle! A literal pickle, with a side of handcuffs if you don't hurry!'

Rolling my eyes so hard they almost got stuck in the back of my head, I dashed to his rescue. There he stood, looking like a guilty puppy caught red-handed, decked out in stolen jewelry fit for a royal heist.

'Robert!' I exclaimed, trying to keep a straight face amidst the chaos. 'You can't just take sparkly things and call it borrowing!'

'Oh, come on, Tasha,' he grinned, looking more like a mischievous Cheshire cat than a remorseful thief. 'I was just testing the waters of generosity. Turns out, they're pretty dry.'

As we made our getaway, I couldn't help but marvel at his audacity. But deep down, I knew I had to do something before he turned our family name into a synonym for trouble.

'I'm telling the authorities!' I threatened, trying my best to sound serious.

Robert doubled over with laughter. 'Oh, please! You wouldn't dare.'

He was right, of course. I may have the moral high ground, but I lacked the backbone to turn in my own flesh and blood.

And so, the saga of Robert's exploits continued, each escapade more ridiculous than the last. From 'borrowing' bikes to 'acquiring' a new wardrobe faster than a Kardashian on a shopping spree, he was unstoppable.

One day, as he attempted to liberate a bottle of whiskey from the clutches of a supermarket, he collided with a police officer twice his size. The bottle shattered like his hopes of a quiet getaway.

In a move that would make Houdini proud, Robert spun a tale so wild it could give a soap opera a run for its money. He convinced the officer he was a clumsy waiter on a mission to deliver spirits to thirsty customers.

The officer, clearly amused by Robert's theatrics, let him off with a warning and a pat on the back. As we walked away, I couldn't help but shake my head in disbelief. My relative had just talked his way out of a potential jail stint with nothing but charm and a knack for storytelling.

Though Robert's antics left me with more gray hairs than I'd care to admit, I couldn't help but admire his audacious spirit. Sure, he may have been a walking disaster, but he was our walking disaster, and he added a splash of color to our otherwise mundane lives.

And so, the legend of Robert the Rogue lived on, a testament to the power of mischief, the art of persuasion, and the undeniable allure of a good laugh in the face of adversity.