Chapter 5
Chapter 5: Comedy Club, Stolen Jokes, and a Chicken Named Steve
Three days after the radio scandal, Simba did something that surprised even himself. He opened his WhatsApp, cleared all the unread messages, reactivated his Facebook, and posted a status that read:
If you're going to laugh at me, at least buy a ticket next time.
Just like that, the shame that had nearly swallowed him turned into a punchline. Simba had decided—if people were going to laugh at his life, he might as well start charging them for it.
The message from Mr Zondo wasn't a scam. It turned out that Mr Zondo ran a small comedy club in town called The Chuckle Cave. It wasn't exactly glamorous. The stage was built from old desks, the mic was held together with tape, and the spotlight was a torch tied to a broomstick, but it had one thing Simba needed—an audience.
They met on a Tuesday at a local chicken inn where Mr Zondo was eating sadza with two spoons for no reason.
Simba, my boy, said Mr Zondo. You've got something rare. You don't try to be funny. You're just living like a badly written movie.
Simba nodded proudly, although he wasn't sure if it was a compliment or a diagnosis.
I want to put you on the lineup this Saturday, Zondo continued. People need a laugh. Especially after the council said they're increasing water bills even for dry taps.
Simba agreed.
He had three days to become a stand-up comedian.
He went home, borrowed a pen, stole four exercise books from his younger cousin, and sat outside under a tree to write his set. But writing jokes was harder than lying about Harvard. He couldn't tell which parts of his life were funny and which parts were just sad with a soundtrack.
After three hours, his joke list had four items:
1. How I fainted in church and nobody helped.
2. Borrowed Benz story.
3. My wedding to nobody.
4. Zoom call with a chicken crowing in the background.
He performed them aloud in the mirror. His mother walked past and muttered, You need a real job. Or prayer.
Saturday arrived faster than expected.
Simba wore his classic combo: the fake leather shoes, tired trousers, and the same button-begging shirt. This shirt had been through more situations than a backup generator in a blackout.
The Chuckle Cave was packed. Town people, villagers, kombi drivers, even the shopkeeper who always denied him credit—they were all there. Some came to laugh with him. Most came to laugh at him. Either way, Simba didn't care. Laughter was currency now.
He stood backstage, heart pounding, listening to the crowd laugh at the guy before him who told jokes about politics, potholes, and his mother-in-law's mustache.
And now, shouted the MC, the man of the moment! The Harvard dropout! The Zoom warrior! The groom of the ghost bride! Give it up for Simbaaaaaaaa!
The crowd roared.
Simba walked up, grabbed the mic, and paused.
His knees wanted to kneel on their own. His lips forgot the alphabet. But then he looked at the people, many of whom had watched his lies collapse like wet tissue. And he did the one thing he hadn't done in years.
He told the truth.
Ladies and gentlemen, he said, I'm not rich, I'm not educated, I don't own a Benz, and I've never met a woman named Natasha.
The crowd laughed immediately. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. It was laughter with relief, like a breath finally exhaled.
Simba continued.
The day I faked my wedding, the fake pastor was wearing a bathrobe and using a garden hoe as a staff. The rings were bottle tops. Even the flies refused to attend.
He told stories. Real ones. Stupid ones. Painful ones turned hilarious. The time he posted his O' Level results as A' Levels. The time he photoshopped himself shaking hands with Obama but forgot to remove a watermark that said "Sample Only." The time he borrowed a jacket for a funeral and returned it smelling like cooking oil and lies.
The crowd laughed. And laughed.
One woman laughed so hard she accidentally removed her wig while fanning herself.
Another man fell off his plastic chair and blamed the floor for being slippery even though it was pure concrete.
Simba ended his set with a bang.
And if anyone here wants to go to Harvard, don't worry. I'll Photoshop you in front of the library. Discount for cash.
The crowd gave him a standing ovation. For real. Not the type where one person stands and the rest stay seated pretending not to know what's going on.
After the show, people lined up to shake his hand, take selfies, and buy him drinks he didn't even know existed. Someone called him the Village Trevor Noah. Another said he was better than their brother who does TikToks with no pants.
Simba walked home that night like a man who had just discovered a superpower. Not because he had money now. Not because he had fame. But because, for once, he had owned his mess.
The next morning, everything changed.
His inbox was full. Messages from people asking when his next show was. A radio station offered him a slot called From Harvard to Highfield. A young woman messaged, saying she was the real Natasha, and she wanted to meet him just to see if he was as crazy as people claimed.
He was even invited to speak at a career guidance event at the local school.
Simba arrived wearing shades, chewing gum, and carrying a notebook full of nonsense.
He stood in front of a room full of wide-eyed teenagers and said, First of all, if you want to succeed, do not follow my example. I lied, I borrowed, I faked my way into embarrassment. But here I am. Not because I planned it. But because I learned to laugh at myself before the world could destroy me.
The students clapped. The teachers didn't understand. The headmaster wanted to stop him, but the deputy was laughing so hard he told him to let the boy finish.
Later that week, Simba adopted a chicken. A real chicken.
He named it Steve.
Steve became part of Simba's comedy videos. Simba would speak to Steve like a business partner. They'd argue over bad data bundles, fake contracts, and stolen sandals. The internet went mad for it.
People started sending him data just to keep the videos coming.
He made more money in one week than he ever made pretending to own a Benz.
But not everything was perfect.
A jealous cousin named Passmore began copying Simba's jokes. He performed them word-for-word at weddings, funerals, and church youth meetings. He even stole the chicken idea and named his bird Trevor.
Simba found out when someone sent him a video of Passmore arguing with Trevor the chicken using the same lines Simba used with Steve.
He didn't fight back. He just made a new skit titled What Happens When Your Cousin Is a Content Thief. It went viral.
Passmore deleted his account two days later.
But Simba knew this was only the beginning.
He still didn't have a car.
Still lived in his mother's house.
Still owed the shopkeeper three loaves of bread.
But now he had a mic, a crowd, and a very dramatic chicken.
And for once, his life was fake for fun—not for survival.
Chapter 6 loading. And this time, Simba's fake life will face a brand deal, a village scandal, and the unexpected return of the mysterious Natasha.