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The Grand Feast


Special things have a tendency of taking place amidst moments of desperation.

Sifa’s eyes were bloodshot when he woke up on the day of the great village wedding. He had spent most of the previous night strategizing on how to maximize his eating opportunities at the feast. His nose twitched uncontrollably when he imagined how he would gobble the chunks of meat that would be roasted. The day before, he had actually feigned a stomachache to skip the evening meal of ‘managu’, a popular vegetable in his community, and ugali that his mother had prepared. 

“Why waste stomach space with food for rabbits when a grand feast was beckoning?” Sifa had thought to himself dismissively.

Sifa was known far and wide in his village. His eating prowess was outlandish and as an undisputed kingpin, no one could ever match him. He was an indolent opportunist whose main occupation was to roam in and out every household collecting data of upcoming events. He would then tabulate it, analyze it intently and draw conclusions by having a list of sequence of events.

Whenever he got hold of food, he would place it squarely in front of him and hunch over it. His hands would alternate between stuffing food and wiping beads of sweat from his round, accentuated forehead. He stuffed more than he could chew sweating profusely all the while. As if in a ritual ceremony, he would then lick his short, thick fingers and let out a thunderous belch, struggle to get up, and walk away like a pregnant chameleon.

The Grand Feast

Today, like any other Saturday, was a ‘working’ day. He had invariably believed to be a proxy of those who decided to absent themselves from such golden opportunities. He would eat his and theirs. Today’s ceremony was mega and he would be hanged before missing it. He got up from his bed and decided to take a walk around their home compound buying time for the departure hour. Sifa strolled around the buildings that his family called home and looking at the plastic watch around his left wrist; he knew it was time.

He slid away and disappeared down a path that narrowed down and up a ravine, and off he went. His destiny was two and half kilometers away and he had to be on, if not in, time. He was half way when he started panting and breathing heavily. It was not time to die. No. Not on Saturday. Soon he heard a music sound punctuated by an in-distinctive master of ceremony’s voice from a distance. He smirked. He was assured that he was nearer and as if the sound had breathed a burst of a new bubble of life into him, he was renewed and walked faster. That was not enough. He broke into a run.

When he reached the venue, he was breathless. He struggled for gasps of air. You should also remember it was B.C (Before Corona) so certainly it was not COVID. He could not believe his eyes. In fact, he had to pinch himself to make sure that he was not dreaming. So shock-stricken was he that he had to sit on a chair beside him. There was no food. There were no plates.

He was in the middle of a crowd. He had miscalculated. The wedding had taken place the previous day. It was not until Matthew 4:4 was read, that he realized he was in a christian rally and not a wedding. He had attended his own feast; coming to Christ. His stomach groaned as his nostrils received a tantalizing aroma from a nearby restaurant; it was spiritual food that saved him that day.

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