The sun beat down on Lusaka, turning the dusty streets into shimmering mirages. You, perched on a plastic chair outside the local grocery, watch the world go by, the rhythmic thrum of life in the village a constant soundtrack. It’s a Tuesday, the kind where the air hangs thick with the smell of grilled meat and the buzzing of flies. You’re not normally a fan of Tuesdays, but today’s different. Today, you’re expecting a visitor - Mr. Chileshe, the man known throughout the village for his “big grammar.”
His real name was something like Chabala, but everyone called him Mr. Chileshe, because that’s what he’d told them was his name – the “official” version, as he liked to put it, complete with a sophisticated pronunciation that made it sound like a Parisian boutique. He was a man of contradictions. A farmer by profession, tending to his patches of vegetables and plump chickens, yet he seemed to exist in a perpetual state of bewilderment at the simplicity of village life. He loved to talk, but his words usually stumbled over themselves, emerging in a torrent of grammatical flourishes and strange, almost poetic metaphors.
The locals, bless their hearts, found him endlessly entertaining. They’d gather around him, their faces creased with amusement as he declared, “The very essence of the maize plant, dear friends, is a tapestry woven from the threads of the sun’s affection!” or bemoaned the lack of “epistemological clarity” in the village’s goat-herding methods. If there was a prize for the most complicated way to describe the simple act of fetching water, Mr. Chileshe would win it hands down.
You, on the other hand, weren't so sure about him. Sure, he was a source of endless amusement, but sometimes, you just wished he’d speak in plain, simple language. You’d heard whispers about him – that he’d travelled the world, lived in grand cities, seen things you couldn’t even imagine. He talked about things like 'The Hague' and 'the existential dread of the modern man,' and how the 'poetry of the rain' was 'lost on the unobservant.'
You were fascinated by him, but also a little intimidated. You’d never been sure how to approach him, what to say, lest your own simple language feel hopelessly pedestrian beside his grand pronouncements. But today, you were determined to figure him out.
You watch him approach, his gait a blend of awkward grace and determined purpose. He wears a faded, but immaculate, shirt and carries a tattered, vintage-looking briefcase, which he always seemed to carry with him even when tending to his farm. He greets you with a flourish, his hand outstretched in a Shakespearean gesture of respect.
“Ah, my dear friend, good to see you again!” he declares, his voice booming with the theatrical resonance of a seasoned actor. “The very essence of this humble village, it seems, is a symphony of life, a tapestry of experiences woven from the threads of everyday existence.”
You offer him a hesitant smile. 'Good to see you too, Mr. Chileshe.'
He takes the chair next to you, plunks down his briefcase, and then leans in conspiratorially, his eyes twinkling like mischievous stars.
'I have a tale to tell you,' he whispers, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “A tale of intrigue and adventure, the kind that will stir your very soul.”
He tells you a story. A story about a love affair, a lost treasure, and a daring escape from a shadowy organization. It's a wild, fantastical story, full of sweeping narratives and larger-than-life characters. It’s a story that you, a simple village boy, would never have imagined, yet it feels oh-so-real in his telling. He paints vivid pictures with his words, uses his “big grammar” not to impress but to draw you into his world, to make you believe.
As he speaks, you realize that Mr. Chileshe’s “big grammar” is not just a pretentious affectation, but a powerful tool. It’s his way of seeing the world, of finding meaning in the mundane. He sees poetry in the act of fetching water, adventure in the daily grind. He finds beauty in the simple things, which is more than you can say for most people in the village.
You finally understand why people are drawn to him. They relish his ability to take the ordinary and turn it into something extraordinary. They see in his “big grammar” a reflection of their own dreams, their own longing for a more exciting life. And you? You, in your own way, start to see him not as a man with “big grammar,” but a man with a big heart, who uses his words to share his love for the world, however peculiar his way of expression may be.
The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues of orange and pink. Mr. Chileshe, his story finally finished, stretches back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. He rises, picks up his briefcase, and gives you a knowing nod. 'Until next time, my friend. Remember, life is a story, and it's up to us to write it with the very best of our grammar.'
He walks away, leaving you with a story that’s almost as unbelievable as his “big grammar,” but somehow, you find yourself believing it. You smile, a little less intimidated, a little more understanding. Life is indeed a story, and maybe, just maybe, Mr. Chileshe was right. Maybe you should start writing yours with a little more “big grammar.” You, the simple village boy, with a newfound appreciation for a man with a gift for telling stories, and for making the ordinary feel extraordinary.
