<Funny Story Competition> A Tale of a Broken Hearted Man in Lagos

This is an entry for the hotels.ng funny stories competition

So, this young man walks into a restaurant in a seedy hotel on the outskirts of Lagos and while he sits at a table waiting on the waiter to come take his order, he sees a hefty man stumble out from an inner chamber, most likely the restroom. The man didn’t look drunk, but he looked dazed and unhappy – he was certainly having trouble standing on his feet.

I was immediately uncomfortable. Being the peace loving man that I am, my first instinct was to excuse myself and take my leave immediately, but at that precise moment, the waiter arrived to take my order. I was compelled to be civil, so I sat there nearly speechless while this dangerous looking fellow walked unsteadily to a bottle-laden table only a few feet from mine and slumped shakily into the seat.

I was going to give my order. I was. But what happened next stunned me so utterly that I was unable to do anything else but stare. This bear of a man suddenly grabbed one of the empty bottles on the table by the neck and flung it straight out through the open door with a deadly aim that narrowly missed a young couple that was smooching their way in. I heard the bottle crash and shatter into a million pieces on the concrete pavement outside!

Someone should have gone to do something about it immediately – this was not funny. Yet no one moved save for the newly arrived young couple who immediately bolted back out the front door as though the wrath of Hades was upon them. I was one of the many who turned to stare incredulously at the monster of a man who had frightened the living daylights out of everyone present. He returned my gaze with a calm but tortured look of his own. When he spoke, there was clarity in his voice – he was not drunk but he was a man in pain:

“That guy was responsible for my wife leaving me,” he groaned barely above a whisper, at the same time looking as if he wanted me to understand and as though he couldn’t care any less whether I did or not.

I was not quite sure what to make of the statement, even as the slow wheels began to spin in my mind. I was trying to process all the information – his words, his demeanor and intensity – when he promptly picked up a second bottle of liquor from the teeming table, glowered hatefully at it and bellowed: “YOU! You are responsible for the loss of my children!”

With a groan that would shame a wounded elephant, the tortured man hurled the empty bottle at the open door. This time he missed as it crashed into the frame and shattered. It was like someone had turned on a switch. Immediately, several waiters got up and got moving. One knew his duty was to clean up the growing mess that was shards of glass all over the floor, enough of a safety hazard to keep customers away; two knew their duty was to clear the table before the man was able to pick up a third green bottle; while the fourth and fifth men understood the critical importance of getting him out of there into the gathering twilight before ‘Management’ decided to fire a few lose ends.

But they didn’t get far: before anyone could get to the table, the man in pain had already seized another bottle by the neck.

“YOU! YOU!!” he yelled.

Immediately, everyone took cover. Me too. Knowing that the lonely man was missing now, I didn’t want anywhere on my body to be the resting place for the next stray bullet… or shards of glass. But it was the words he spoke next that really got me. Wondering what it was that this green bottle was responsible for robbing him of this time, I ventured a perilous gander in his general direction.

The man had paused. He was looking forlornly at the bottle in his hand. This one had not been opened and its contents were still trembling innocently inside the green glass.

“You,” he said, his voice softer now.

Delicately, he set the unopened bottle on the floor beside his chair.

“Stand aside, my friend,” the suffering man muttered. “I know you were not involved!”

He then proceeded to pick up the next empty bottle.

–OlaOluwa