Zahmani and his weed - Short Story Written By Richard Jr Ocaya

‘Zahmani where are you going?’

‘Ma, I already told you… I am going to see my friends!’

‘Which one?’

‘The zulu boy!’

‘Mhm, ok.’

Zahmani heads for the back door.

‘When are you coming back,’ Zahmani’s mother shouts from the dining room.

‘Around 4 or 3 there.’

‘Did you pray?’

‘Yes. Ai ma, let me go hle.’

She sniffs. There is something Zahmani learnt about his mother, when she sniffs, she immediately goes onto be locked in on her phone. Interrogation is over.

Zahmani exits the back door and heads for the gate. He exits through the gate and locked it.

I can’t let mama know that I am smoking weed. She will first kill me… no, she will first tell the pastor that I am smoking weed, wait for the pastor’s approval of the punishment of my sins and then kill me.

Zahmani goes to his favourite corner where has the less frequency of people passing by. The place was far, quiet and windy, perfect to get the smell of weed off when he goes back home.  He pulls out his scissor, Rizzla, match box and weed. He creates first a filter by cutting the match box, cuts the weed and begins rolling. The joint is short and fat and he begins smoking. 

1 pull.

2 pull.

Cough cough.

‘Ai, this shit hits heavy what the fuck.’

3 pull.

‘Ai no, this is enough.’

He gets up hurriedly and looks first if anyone saw him. He quickly picks up his untouched joint and puts it in his back pocket. The wind blows on him a little and he is off back home.

 

He walks and the weed hits him…

‘Zahmani, why do you care about what people think of you? Why don’t you just be yourself and forget about what the haters say? Look at how stiff and worrisome you are because of them. You can’t even breath because of how much pressure they put on you.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. Especially that mother of mines.’

‘Exactly.’

Fully convinced he arrives back home. His mother is seated outside. He passes her without greeting.

‘Hey wena. Come back here,’ his mother commands.

She looked at his eyes. They were bloodshot.

“Are you okay, you look tired.”

“Yah vele, I am high. I don’t care what you think.”

His mother stunned.

The world stopped.

Music paused.

The birds held their chirps.

Zahmani’s eyes popped up.

His hands rushed to shut his mouth.

And the rest is history.


YouTube: @Rosaya.


Copyright©, Richard Junior Ocaya, 2024.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be copied, distributed, or published in any form without permission from the author.


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