I miss my little Wooden Guitar

Standing outside smoking just now I remembered something. Could be where my love for music started. When I was about 3 or 4 years old living the myth (Colored family in Zimbabwe). I remember I had a guitar. It was a small guitar, right for my age, hand made (off the street), and had fishing twine for the strings (don’t know what the real name for it is) and those 6 turning string tightening chandis at the end which worked brilliantly. Snapped the strings with them a few times but ja that was my guitar. Used to play a bit but I truly sucked but I was young and it was fun. Helped pass time in the flat we stayed in where there were no other kids in the 2 story building.

Thinking back to that time I remembered the day I got it. About 2 doors away from our door were these two Rasta guys. They made the stuff and sold it at the flee market for a living. They made some cool stuff, go to Bruma and you get the general idea of the kind of woodwork they did. But that not really the point. Let me tell you what happened. Never went to Pre-School had a full time maid. She was the best. Like my second mother was always there for me. Was like in the middle of the week I think and I know the place was noisy over the weekend but it was real noisy so I got up just after everyone left was in my pj’s so I slipped into my slippers and went out side to the balcony at the front door to see what all the fuss was about. Got there and stood by Inthombi and there was smoke coming from there Rasta’s flat. No one could get through the security gate and no one knew if they were in there.

Someone called the fire brigade a bell went off and they came in all they glory. Lights, sirens but no Dalmatian to my surprise and they where there in a flash. Fire station was across the road. So they came running in. One up the fire escape with a hosepipe and the other behind him with the Jaws of Life to get through the gate and another three trying to pull down the gate. Guy with the Jaws of Life got to the gate and in a second they kicked the door down. Guy with he hose went in and did his thing and the three followed. Two came out each with an almost crispy Rasta and the other helped put the fire out. There the Rasta’s stood outside they door after all the drama. One with his dreads burnt and other his pants smoking looked kak funny. Nothing to serious they were alright. Missing a few dreads and an unwanted haircut was needed for both. Couple blankets got burnt (they where in them) and the flat needed to be painted black.

The story behind the story is they woke up. Rolled up a joint. Smoked too much not finishing it and passed out with the joint still burning. Puff puff sleep in a way. If no one saw the smoke and it was in the night they’d be dead. Moral of the story is doing smoke a joint in bed if you can’t handle it. Ok peace and love and all that jah stuff. Smoke some be happy. And happiness does have a price. Now I understand why most of my friends smoke so much weed. Oscar Wilde once said, “We can have but one great experience at best in life and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible.” Think I’m going to smoke me some today. Don’t have my guitar no more.