African Kung Fu
The African handshake should be made a trademark - it's one very amazing commodity non-Africans have failed to imitate. And you'll be surprised there's never a scramble and partition for the handshake. But even before then, some people need to be less parsimonious and avail their hands more excitingly. I shouldn't stretch my palms out for free, wear a smile and sweat for anxiety without you returning the favour. And the African handshake is not a favour, by the way; it's a most certain human right in the same silent code of ethic which allots you power over your dress on a windy day. How on earth do you get the audacity to choose the fingers to hold firmly or limply? Because some of these people you accuse of skinny-ness are a little bit tougher than they seem.
A firm handshake is to an African as knowledge is to a Jew; everywhere you see a couple doing the shake, I see the eternal legacy of the continent. This is without telling of the quintessential fellows who strike the hidden areas of your palm-you only know them listening to the sound of the contact and the burning sensation that follows. I wonder where they learnt the tact- some people can handle your hand so tactfully until you feel as if your blood has been doped with pepper. Even when the palms can't kiss each other, you always see us lifting and waiving at each other in desire, as if to say, "you know I want it, but forgive the distance!" Trust me, as long as when they ask your race you tick "BLACK," (no matter how hesitantly)your hand is not yours alone. Some of it is mine, and you must give it to me in the right measure, state and vigour. Clean it, anoint it, keep it warm because I'm coming for it one of these mornings, and I like it tough and lively!
Far be it that you should think to make my face shy, or to make that customary exchange brief. Get another customer. I'll be ready with my three trustworthy colleagues-and you can't fell two of them in one go. First, I'm not shy when it matters; two, I'll rehearse the threats of your disinterest; lastly, I'll look at your nose instead of your eyes when you scare me. Whichever way, we must stand there, eye to eye, speaking in the language of imagination, for a few minutes in which you'll tell me the welfare of your all clan, and if possible something about your grandmother's goat which still chews the cud. At that time you may want to hear my testimony, which I will even volunteer in utmost promptness. You'll hear about how I heard myself snorting and snoring in deep sleep last night, if you would. By then you'll have realised that I have enough time to torture you in the formality that is an African handshake. And I'll give you a real deal of it.
Now, I don't know who invented the art of faked illnesses. He surely must not belong in the age when the cowshed and the grazing pasture were miles apart, for then would he cast a dark cloud on that medieval glamour we all respect. I despise our times when the difference between heaven and earth is only abstract. Because with the invasion of faked illnesses came also the invention of frail arms. How can you make hard porridge if you struggle with a handshake! It's a bad show. The handshake also matters in symbology!
There are two things that do reach the innermost cave of the heart of a true African output like myself: endless stories is one, and you can add some well-done hard porridge, to be taken with a warm radiant stare. And in this glorious mention I include my little bible tucked in the back of that famous pair of jeans you've read somewhere else. That makes heaven on earth; by that our ancestors trode centuries under their feet. Trust me, you won't do half a century with gloomy knuckles and faces. The only problem is that from the day we saw popcorn for the first time, we all abandoned roasted maize saying it's a thing of the past and ashames us. The other time I shocked my jaws with roasted maize and I almost swallowed a tooth! I'm not going to shock my hands too. I will have it the old time way. I'll be spotting you from afar and taking aim. Don't rationalize a frail handshake; the grip will be classic and the words poetic. Don't interpret them.
You know in the olden days, you woke up throwing up and your stomach running, then the neighbor next door knocks on your door at 5:30am to get pieces of burning charcoal to light theirs. So when they ask you, "how are you this morning", you answer "VERY WELL" and whatever is not well with you is your business. So in the middle of your vigorous confession you throw your hand towards the door with your hands goes the substance of your stomach. We collect you to the nearest clinic for first aid, but we all know you're "very well" that notwithstanding. The only time you're not well is when you cannot talk. That's how the heroes of our continent are born. But I see so many candidates of heroism who throw away a golden chance unnecessarily. You don't withdraw your hand when I'm about to hit at the speed and energy that JUST sets the centre of your palm stingingly hot; that's both cowardice and betrayal of your ancestry. Postmodernism is not a virtue; when I want a handshake, I'll have it real, rigid and detailed. Get ready to be pronounced a hero if you survive the shake....
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