Rugby-tack­ling a bok dur­ing wed­ding is not for sissies

Drunk and horny an­i­mal gored the be­hinds of fe­male guests

Sunday World - - Viewpoint - Vusi Nza­pheza

Two weeks into De­cem­ber and I’m al­ready bedrid­den. All it took was a fu­neral in the first week and a wed­ding in the sec­ond to crash my fes­tive pro­gramme. The cousin’s wed­ding was par­tic­u­larly hec­tic as I was the MC in the Vaal.

I had them eat­ing out of my hand un­til the newly be­trothed went for a photo-shoot on the banks of the Vaal River.

A seem­ingly friendly spring­bok was graz­ing as the cou­ple and brides­maid posed for pic­tures with a few guests watch­ing. Sud­denly, the an­te­lope rushed for the be­hinds of the fe­male guests and gored them, ex­pos­ing their bloomers.

In the melee, it was left to me to in­ter­vene and stop the bla­tant sex­ual ha­rass­ment from the randy an­i­mal.

For some­one who had never even caught a chicken in his life, I had to sum­mon su­per­hu­man courage to grab the mad bok. I for­got about my bad foot and rugby-tack­led the an­i­mal. I put my beer on the side and grabbed it by the rump but it cut loose and went for my beer.

The an­i­mal was horny and drunk. It was clear it was too fa­mil­iar with homo sapi­ens but I had reached the end of my tolerance.

No­body gate-crashes a wed­ding when I of­fi­ci­ate, and that in­cludes a four-legged an­i­mal that sits on my coun­try’s em­blem. Drunk­en­ness and rag­ing hor­mones are a bad com­bi­na­tion. In the scrum, the bok lashed out with a kick to my heal­ing frac­ture, send­ing nee­dles of pain cours­ing through my mar­row.

By the time the staff at Zuiker­bosch recre­ation club sub­dued the beast, I was a ball of pain on the grass. I suck­led my beer like a baby camel to re­lieve the pain and it worked.

I limped through the rest of the wed­ding pro­gramme while mulling whether to lay a charge of GBH against the an­i­mal. None of the ladies whose bums had been gored were pre­pared to lay charges.

They said they wouldn’t want to ex­pose them­selves to fur­ther hu­mil­i­a­tion. By sheer stealth and pop­u­lar de­mand, I man­aged to con­clude the wed­ding pro­gramme.

Un­for­tu­nately, I could not hon­our the many in­vi­ta­tions for a dance with the MC. I’ve spent the whole week in bed as my leg plays up. I am proud to have got hurt de­fend­ing the hon­our of women in this coun­try no­to­ri­ous for treat­ing them as lust re­cip­i­ents.

So, here I am hob­bling with a crutch to­day when I should be toast­ing those who brought us the Day of Rec­on­cil­i­a­tion.

I also had to can­cel your in­vites to grace your fes­tive oc­ca­sions but it’s bet­ter to be safe than sorry.

On a pos­i­tive note, my bar is over­flow­ing and my freezer is well-stocked. My only re­gret is not mak­ing bil­tong of that spring­bok when I had it by the neck, or was it the tail?

■ The read­ers of Straight & Two Beers don’t do dumb things like drink­ing and driv­ing or speed­ing. I also know you wouldn’t grope a woman un­less you had her signed af­fi­davit. Have a merry one and see you in 2019!

I suck­led my beer like a baby camel to re­lieve the pain and it worked

The writer tried to be a hero when he tack­led a mad bok.

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