The African Spelling Bee
Self Editor’s Note: Our Man in America has gotten his first-ever submission! Here is African Shake Spear (not to be confused with African Shakespeare). He/she pays no attention to the rules of storytelling.
They applaud when I say I’m a highly educated African.
“We saved one [more]!” I swears I hear them say, as they high-five each other in their heads. They don’t know me, but they are absolutely, unequivocally sure that I’m standing here because of their generosity.
“Your English is impressive,” one of them says.
As if they had seen the African Spelling Bee, and the word the poor, little African souls couldn’t spell had been “I.”
They had wondered why Africanized bees had been the most feared killers, manufacturing honey — the sweetest substance known to man — but the son of the African keeper of those bees couldn’t spell “I.”
“I, I, I. Root, Saah?” the African bee keeper’s son said — in the worst of all accents — during the African National Spelling Bee. (I say “National” because Africa is a great nation).
“You mean origin, African bee keeper’s son?” the anchor, the saviors of his African soul, corrects.
“Yes, Saah. Sorry me get confuse.”
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