• Like father like son, and more stories from bachelor's return from America
Image: PIXABAY
Diary,
On the long-haul flight from Chicago on my way back home, I sit behind a French family of four. And by French, I don’t mean they come from France, this is a family from hell.
Apparently, the man had cheated on his wife and she keeps shouting at him in French. That means they ignore their daughter, who has an issue with her tablet and keeps shouting, ‘Merde, merde, merde!’
Only now do I learn it’s French for sh*t. It’s bad enough to have a six-year-old shouting such a word for hours, but the boy outdoes his sister by a mile. I estimate him to be about seven or eight, but he has the eyes of a thousand-year-old demonic crone.
He looks back over his seat and fixes me a look with those malevolent eyes, and asks in English, ‘Are you a witch?’
‘Pardon?’
‘My cousin says all witches are black and ugly.’
‘Does he, now?’
‘If you are a witch, can I ask you a question? Because you are a witch, if you marry another witch, will you make little witch babies?’
‘Sometimes,’ I say, getting fed up. ‘But sometimes they come out looking just like you.’
He turns to his father and screams, ‘Papa, papa. L'homme noir m'a traité de sorcière!’
The Frenchman (Did I mention he’s built like a Russian tank?) turns to me.
‘You, Africa man,’ he growls, ‘you did not call my son a witch?’
‘You’re right, I didn’t. We were exchanging wicked stories.’
‘Why you want to exchange weekend stories with my son? He is boy, and you are full man. Little baby beard, but full man.’
‘He’s more than a boy. He’s a small shetani, this one.’
‘Now you call him shit one?’
‘Oh, no, no. That means angel where I come from.’
‘I tell you what, Africa man, I am number one bullfighter in my town when I am less years. I beat you right now till you get red in face. But you face too black to get red.’
And there it is. An apple never falls too far from the tree. The moral of the story? If this is marriage and family, count me out.