Sorry Ngo! – Price of Being a Scribe

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John Ekongo

IF your notion of a scribe is that of a romantic, well-tuned, denim-clad, grumpy but considerate man or a sombre, quiet, nicely articulated power suited woman, you are almost there but not quite. Not to fear because there is a whole lot more you need to learn. This profession is as robust as its bunch of pleasant people.

My Grade 8 English teacher once told me “you can become a good lawyer” when she asked me to play moot court in an English comprehension class. I won’t be able to tell if that statement would have been true, if it were not for my stupidity to mix up my dates at varsity for registration. Believing that I am off to read for Law, I ended up with journalism students, well yes and true.
So began my life with the living word of being a journalist.

We journos have our fair share of trials and tribulations, anything from a non-cooperative source, to name-calling by a senior minister, to being sued for libel and defamation, to even the chief scribe in a Sherlock Holmes trench coat breathing down your neck for the story he so much wanted some 20 minutes ago.

Besides being famed for our inability to hold on to relationships, we are otherwise known as quite the guzzlers of any fermented alcoholic spirits.

I have had my fair share of experiences in that area.

Speaking of which, a few weeks ago, I found myself hoping onto a minibus sponsored by one large multinational insurance company to a media function outside town, at some pristine lodge to be precise. I invited myself, just one of the perks of being a journalist.

This company is quite renowned by all scribes for its tendency to spoil journos aplenty with wine, beer, food and freebies.

En route to the lodge my thoughts ran wild and I could not help it but to only think of a very nice cold Windhoek Lager upon arrival.

And with Anna by my side, we are not called New Era’s official makietie crew for nothing. We would bring the house down tonight, we pondered
At least that’s what we thought would happen. We arrived, but no bar, no waiter and obviously no frosty beverages. Only to find that we are there to cover some sort of Christian Head School Headmasters revival function (nothing against Christianity) it’s only that I had sincerely thought I would be going home with at least a freebie and an alcohol level as high that of Harry Simon, and not prayers.

Never again have I trusted Anna with her choice of events. Making me drive all the way to Okahandja just to go pray!

That’s but one price to pay for being a scribe. Another unfortunate incident got me almost on the other side of the law when I had to lie my way through the Trade Ministry, to get the registration and ownership details of a very dodgy and controversially registered BEE company.

Returning the documents the next ‘Para’, recognised me and interrogated me as to where I got hold of the documents. Not wanting to put my source in trouble, I lied about picking them up somewhere near Tr?

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