Everybody had written him off, this person whom we shall call Jagaman. He had been an artiste of great promise – social, political issues, a bit of gospel. Then bad company came calling with small small easy money. Now, his songs turned into wine, song and smoke – Mary Jane. His eyes, full ‘nyanya’ – red ripe tomatoes coloured. Morning till eve. He broke our hearts. Now, nobody called him to concerts and shows. His producer changed to dealing with gospel artistes only, for Jagaman had become full trouble – difficult in every which way: rehearsals, recording, bad breath and hygiene that made the whole studio stink when he was around, cuss words… his company was as desirous as an STI, which he confided to another artiste that he was being treated for. Already, parents in the neighbourhood were complaining as he had four children with three different girls barely out of their teens. It is like Jagaman was cursed. And the person who had cursed him had been buried, as we sa...