Chapter 2: Borrowed Benz, Rented Blazer, and One Broken Heart
Three weeks after Simba's lies were unmasked like a Scooby-Doo villain, you'd think he'd lie low, maybe plant maize, reflect, or even start selling airtime near the bus stop like his cousin did after failing O-levels. But no. Simba, the undefeated champion of fake living, had other plans.
His next big comeback was called Operation Benz Life.
It started when a cousin from South Africa came home for a funeral, driving a black Mercedes Benz so shiny it looked like it was allergic to dust. Simba, with his natural gift for opportunism, immediately attached himself to the car like a tick to a goat.
He helped clean it, parked it, and even stood near it for no reason. After two days of following it around like a lost dog, Simba finally struck a deal. He convinced the cousin to let him borrow the Benz for one afternoon in exchange for a crate of chicken and one kg of biltong. No one knows where Simba got those items, but they were delivered with speed and style.
Dressed in a blazer that smelled like mothballs and had one shoulder pad missing, Simba sat behind the wheel of the Benz like a war veteran who had just claimed back his dignity. He drove around the village at exactly 12 km/h with all windows down, playing slow jams and pretending to take fake business calls.
Yes boss, I'll send the contract by midnight. I'm just finalizing a deal in Bindura.
Even goats were confused.
A child screamed, Mama, look, Simba is rich again.
The entire village was hypnotized. Someone ran ahead just to tell their friend that Simba was back, this time wealthier than ever and possibly working with the government. People waved. Some bowed. An old man removed his hat. Even the kombi driver honked twice in salute.
But Simba wasn't done.
He parked the car near the shops, bought a Fanta, and sat on the bonnet like a celebrity avoiding paparazzi. He wore sunglasses he found in the glovebox and posted twenty-seven selfies in different angles. His captions were chaotic.
Another day, another Benz.
Small boys do bouncers, big boys do boardrooms.
Monday mood: Only drive if it starts with a B.
Within hours, his social media exploded. Friend requests came from people who used to block him. Lisa, the one who dumped him after the Harvard scandal, sent a DM with a shy emoji. Simba didn't reply. He just screenshot it and posted it to his status with a laughing emoji and the caption, It's always them.
The fake life had returned, stronger, faster, and more Benzed-up.
But things took a left turn when a man named Mr. Zuze appeared. Mr. Zuze was the chairman of the local church building committee and also part-time beef stew expert. He approached Simba with a proposal.
Brother Simba, we are raising funds for church tiles. Since you are blessed with the fruits of acceleration, we need your support. Maybe just two thousand dollars to finish the altar?
Simba smiled. Deep inside, panic was boiling like sadza without enough water. He nodded like a man with offshore accounts and said, I'm waiting for funds to clear. You know international transfers can be slow.
Mr. Zuze didn't blink. He said, No problem. Just make sure you're at church on Sunday to announce your pledge. Publicly.
Simba said yes. Then went straight home and Googled how to fake your own disappearance.
By Friday, word had spread that Simba was donating a whole pulpit and fifty chairs. The village made a flyer with his face and the Benz behind him. They called him Guest of Honour, Digital Shepherd of the Youth.
Saturday, Simba tried to escape to Rusape, but the Benz had been taken back by the cousin who needed it for a real funeral. Simba begged to borrow it for one more hour, but the cousin said no with the firmness of a man tired of lies, free rides, and expired biltong.
Sunday came like a final exam Simba hadn't studied for.
He wore the same mothball blazer and walked to church like a man heading to judgment day. The service began. Drums played. People danced. The pastor cleared his throat and invited Simba to the front. There was clapping. Shouting. Even ululation from three old women who were told Simba once healed a laptop with prayer.
Simba stood at the front, smiling with dry lips and a trembling soul.
Before I make my pledge, he said, I have a special announcement.
The church leaned in.
Due to a sudden international assignment, I have been called to relocate to China for six months. This means I won't be around to deliver the money personally, but I've made arrangements. It's coming via DHL. God is good.
Someone shouted, All the time.
People clapped.
Then disaster arrived.
His cousin, the owner of the Benz, entered the church holding a container of mazondo. He was just passing through on his way to a braai. He waved at Simba and said loudly, Ah, so you are not yet in China? I thought you said you're leaving this morning.
Silence fell.
A baby stopped crying out of respect.
Simba looked like a Bluetooth speaker that lost connection. Sweat formed on his nose. The pastor adjusted his glasses. Mr. Zuze stood up slowly like a man ready to fight spiritual fraud.
Simba did the only thing he knew how to do.
He collapsed.
Flat. On the ground.
People screamed.
Some shouted epilepsy. Others yelled demons. A few brave ones ran to pour Fanta on his face. Someone started singing a hymn. Simba opened one eye, saw the chaos, and added a little twitch to make it believable.
That is how Simba escaped that day.
Not through honesty.
Not through repentance.
But through collapsing like expired bread.
As he lay on the church floor pretending to fight imaginary spirits, one thing was clear.
The fake life wasn't ending any time soon.
It was only getting more advanced.
Chapter 3 is being written in a dark room with no Wi-Fi, three missed calls, and one cracked mirror.
Brace yourself.