SEQUEL OF ' A SQUIRREL IN THE CHOIR'

I have failed in my obligation to timely supply you with the

sequel of the first article in this blog. Blame me not. Blame the ink

in my keyboard. It dried up.

I would have posted the following article a long time ago but wapi!

The ink was nowhere in the keyboard. I tried to borrow the ink from a friend. But lo!

It was not compatible. He uses a ‘Bic’ keyboard while I, as rich as I
am, use a ‘fountain’ keyboard. You now get me?

For those yet to read the first article, it was about a friend

called John. John Serengeti- a funny name for a funny person.

 Serengeti wanted a girl from the church choir.

Himself, he doesn't sing. It  simply ain't in him.

To get her however, he felt it wise to join the choir. Maybe, joining would increase the chances of him winning the lady. The

story flow to where all the tenors in the choir were loathing his

sight. His singing was pretty bad.

As the choir director taught the sopranos, Serengeti was busy staring

at 'his' girl. He did this for long. My friend's stare is the long

irritating one. The stare that you would give the dead if they arose.

Stares always win. Have you ever stared at someone for too long until

they felt as though you were drilling into their backs? This is

exactly what Serengeti did.

After staring at his choir suitor for too long, the girl eventually gave in. She

felt as though Serengeti's eyes were boring into her back. Though she

had not been giving him any attention hitherto, his stares won her

over. What was so good in her to have a man stare at her for hours on

end anyway?

She returned the stares. Hers however, were not that long. She also

did not become bloodshot in the eyes.

Seeing this, Serengeti decided to play a reverse psychology game.

He pretended not to notice her- you know how (we) men pretend? He

feigned total attention to his voice vocalist. Deep inside however, he

felt a sense of pride. Pride of having a beautiful girl ogle at him.

You know how guys, at times, feel like supermen?

Miraculously, the boy started hitting the right music notes.Women, I as I told you, can

have a positive impact on men! The director was elated. At last, his

boy was manning up. He was shedding away that blissful skin of

ignorance.

The other tenors did not fail to notice the abrupt improvement. Had

Saint Cecilia (the patron saint of choir music) come and opened up

Serengeti’s vocal cords? Maybe, the boy had at last seen the light,

they reasoned. Maybe, he had resolved to stop being a pain on their

neck. Deep inside his heart however, Serengeti knew the secret. Though

his notes were right, he knew that his mind was not in that do..re…me

…fa…so stuff. It was somewhere else. Somewhere else in the soprano.

Those eyes, those beautiful eyes ogling at me! Does she think I am

handsome? Has she noticed the gleam in my leather (borrowed) jacket?

Has she noticed that I have trimmed my hair and combed it to

perfection? These and other fantasies flow freely in the boy’s mind.

It was only when the director went to teach soprano that things

reverted to normalcy.

While teaching a voice, the director had a cardinal rule; the voice

singers had to concentrate on his conducting. In other words,

Serengeti was denied the pleasure of having someone ogle at him. The

girl had to translate her ogling  to looking at the

director.

Our poor boy, Serengeti, went back to his bad singing. Interestingly,

he did it unknowingly. He did not know that his singing was awful. Have you met

those guys who proudly sing wrong music notes? In fact, they shout the wrong thing.

The other tenors thought that maybe St. Cecilia had at last found out that the boy was

a fake. She could not stay in him for long.

On his part, Serengeti felt nostalgic. Why did the director have to

avert the girl's ogling from him? Have you ever given a cat some meat

and then withdrew the flesh when the cat is in the middle of the meal? If

you have never done that, let me spare you the imaginations. The cat

purrs noisily forgetting that at first, it was a favor that you gave

it the meat. Serengeti behaved like this cat.

Choir directors can multitask. On hearing wrong notes emanating from

the tenor voice (thanks to our good boy Serengeti), he literally

abandoned the sopranos to fix Serengeti.

Voila! At last, Serengeti had his chance again. Not to be told where

he was singing wrongly by the choir director but to have the girl

ogling at him again.

He sang right! In fact, the director was so pleased that he praised

him. He said that his singing was impeccable. Of angelic quality! He

even went to the extent of asking the entire choir to clap for him.

Amidst the applause, Serengeti was lost in his world. He could

still feel the girl’s eyes on him. How lovely it is to have a girl

noticing you!

Once choir practice was over, Serengeti was to get more surprises. The

girl boldly walked towards him. Boy, did I just say walk? Nay, she

glided gracefully towards him. Her steps were so soft, so soft

that one would think that she feared paining the very ground she

walked on!

Serengeti was awash with joy. You would probably say that 'he was

besides himself' (I do not know what that cliche means but I have

heard it too often. I hope I used it right).

Unfortunately, during such glorious moments, we men have a problem.

The problem of sweat misbehaving. I do not know why. A thin stream of

sweat trickled down the boy’s forehead.

Looking at her face, Serengeti could tell that she had something to say.

“I was just wondering err…err,” did she just address me, wondered Serengeti.

“Err... I was wondering whether …err.”

Was she wondering whether he was single? Hell yes! And eager to

mingle! Or maybe, yes maybe, she was wondering whether Serengeti could

accompany her to her room since it was dark. Serengeti was more than

ready to do so.

“ Go on, lady,” Serengeti said feigning the deepest voice he could muster.

“Well, I was just wondering how pleasant it would be were you a frog.

Your voice is so croaky when you sing the wrong notes”

Serengeti was deflated. Those words were like a thorn dug into his

flesh. His shoulders went drooping. His head went hanging.

“Hell, I have a bad luck,” he concluded.

That was not all. He was  to see the choir director whisk the girl off

in his Prado.

"You can never compete with an elephant in defecation," he

consoled himself.