Shandele's audacity was legendary. He was the human embodiment of a cheeky monkey, always with a twinkle in his eye and a shameless grin that spread wider than the Zambezi River during flood season. And I, well, I was his unwitting, long-suffering host.
It all started with a roast chicken. My wife, Zawadi, had just finished her culinary masterpiece, a golden-brown bird that smelled like a symphony of spices and warm memories. As I sat down to enjoy it, the front door creaked open.
'Ah, the aroma of victory!' Shandele boomed, his voice loud enough to wake the neighbours. He stood there, a mountain of a man in a faded, maroon shirt, his unkempt hair a halo of grey around his face. He peered into the room, his eyes zeroing in on the chicken. 'Zawadi, my dear, you've outdone yourself!'
He then did the most unbelievable thing: he actually took a step back, grabbed a bottle of hand sanitizer from the table, and with an exaggerated theatricality, proceeded to lather his hands with the pungent lemon scent. He then walked right up to the chicken, grabbed a drumstick so large it resembled a chicken leg wearing a thick winter coat, and with a satisfied sigh, devoured it right there in front of me, never looking my way.
I stared at him, speechless, my own drumstick abandoned mid-air. 'Shandele,' I finally choked, 'what...?'
He looked at me, his mouth full of chicken, before swallowing and offering, 'Just a small morsel, my friend. Don't mind if I do. Especially after such a long, hard day.'
My wife, bless her soul, just laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. 'Shandele, you are incorrigible, you know that?!'
Shandele, ever the charming rogue, winked, his cheeks adorned with a sheen of oil from the chicken. 'Just a little peckish, Zawadi.'
He continued to eat with gusto, his fork scraping against the plate in an irritatingly loud rhythm. After finishing his chicken, he didn't even bother to wipe his hands. He simply strolled over to Zawadi, who was seated at the table with a plate of nshima, and with a smile that could melt glaciers, asked, 'My dear, do you have any more nshima left?'
I felt the red heat rising in my cheeks. 'Shandele,' I said, my voice regaining its composure, 'what is the agenda for your visit?'
He gave me a look that implied I was being incredibly dense. 'Agenda? What agenda? I came to borrow some salt, naturally.'
It was the most outrageous thing I had ever heard. Borrow salt? The man feasted on our chicken, demolished our nshima, and then threw in his 'salt' request for good measure?
'Salt? You came all the way here for salt?' I tried to keep my voice even, though the simmering anger was threatening to boil over.
He shrugged, 'I forgot mine at home. Happens.'
My wife, ever the diplomat, intervened with a hearty laugh. 'Shandele, you know our salt is always welcome in your fridge.'
He gave her that mischievous grin again. 'Thank you, my dear. You truly are the most generous soul.'
I felt like I was in a circus, the audience giggling at the antics of this shameless clown. He took his salt, thanked us profusely, patted Zawadi's shoulder with a too-long, too-familiar touch, and swaggered out the door, whistling a merry tune, leaving me staring after him with a mixture of anger, disbelief, and an almost grudging admiration for his sheer audacity.
As I sat down at the table, Zawadi smiled at me, her eyes twinkling. 'You know, he's been doing this for years.'
I laughed, a humourless chuckle, 'He does. But how can he have no shame?'
She sighed, her smile turning wistful. 'That's Shandele for you. He lives life on his own terms, always with a smile, even when he's up to his neck in trouble.'
I knew she was right. While his shenanigans bordered on the ridiculous, there was something undeniably charming about Shandele. He was a reminder to loosen up, to embrace the absurdity of life, and to always have a good laugh, even at your own expense.
And maybe, just maybe, someday, I would learn to borrow a leaf from his book, to live a little more, be a little less precious, and enjoy a good chicken dinner without worrying about the 'agenda' of the next cheeky guest. But until then, I continued to secretly admire the man, Shandele, the king of audacity, who was always good for a laugh, even if it was at my expense.
