Have you insured your life?

By Opiyo Oloya I AM seriously thinking of buying additional life insurance to supplement the one I have right now. My current lifestyle means that I could depart from this world at any time. This story begins three weeks ago when my family celebrated Father's Day on Sunday, June 17. For the record, Father's Day is an American invention dating back to the turn of the last century. The story goes that a certain Mr. William Smart, a Civil War veteran, was widowed when his wife died in childbirth with their sixth child. As a single parent, Mr. Smart raised the newborn and his other five children on a rural farm in eastern Washington State. To honour their father, the grown-up children proposed "father's day" in 1909. The first Father's Day was observed on June 19, 1910 in Spokane, Washington. In 1924 President Calvin Coolidge supported the idea of a national Father's Day. But it was not until 1966 that President Lyndon Johnson finally signed a presidential proclamation declaring the 3rd Sunday of June as Father's Day. So, for being the father of one child, my wife bought me this hi-tech mountain bike (the price tag was embarrassingly high). This was my very first new bike, and it is not your typical one-speed bike. It is a 24-speed demon, made of aeroplane aluminum frame, fitted with shock absorbers and Shimano brakes that prevent the bike from skidding dangerously. It's a bike made for the rough terrain of the countryside, on bush trails, say when you are looking after cows. Eager to get a taste of my bike, I rode down the road to a bush trail called Shepherd Bush. A few minutes into my ride, I came to a crossroad and proceeded to peddle my bike through the intersection. It was then that I noticed, zooming toward me like an angry bull, a sleek Intrepid sedan favoured by yuppies. I quickly calculated that the driver had no intention of stopping, and that if I continued to exercise my rights to be where I was, he would surely kill me. I squeezed my Shimano brakes, and the bike came to a halt just as the angry automobile whizzed by, missing me by mere millimetres. I was too stunned to even yell some choice Luo obscenities at the departing driver¯something I am known for in this kind of situation. I proceeded to the rough cow trail at Shepherd Bush, dodging snaking tree branches and thick Maple trunks. And though these trees yield the sweet maple syrup for which I am grateful, they were now among the enemies out to get me. Once I collided with a tree that fell across the path, got up, dusted myself and continued on my way. I also narrowly missed an elderly couple busy expressing their love along the path and had not heard me approaching on the bike. The narrowest escape came when I reached a very steep embankment, so steep it's almost vertical. Somehow, call it stupidity or what you like, I decided that the bike could go down with me astride the seat. Carefully applying my Shimano brakes, which I had been told by the salesman to be the best in the world, I began my perilous descent. No more than 50 metres into the journey, the front brakes jammed and, like a wild bronco in Arizona desert, the rear wheel lifted into the air, catapulting me several yards through the air. Like a bag of ugali, I landed with a heavy thud that knocked the wind out of me. Meanwhile, the bike tumbled and landed on top of me, leaving a deep gash on my left leg blood everywhere. After staggering to my feet, I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my near demise. Apparently, I had been the sole architect and witness of my pain. The bike, true to the advertisement, was in good shape. I had had enough for one day, so I steered my way toward the comfort of home. However, as I rode along the busy road, a white Camaro came rattling behind me. The driver, an unkempt lout with pea-brains, forced me off the road. Then, to add salt to injury, he stopped, rolled down his window, and grimaced at me. "You f****ing idiot, why don't you ride your bike somewhere else?" he yelled me. Of course, I was within my rights to be riding my bike along the road, but, for whatever reason, this man had decided to unload his anger on me. What he did not know was that I was in no mood to be pushed around, so this time I let him have all the Acholi swear words at hand, none of them printable here. I did not care that he was a Canadian who likely had never heard of Uganda, let alone the Luo language. He drove off before I could subject him to more tongue-lashing. But I worry that if trees don't get me, cars will finish the job. So I need life insurance, just in case.