MR BÔB

09/08/2026

Shout out to my newest followers! Excited to have you onboard! Brian Kapati, Hemayet Hossain, Calebu OG, Moses Nelsons, Tow Pack, Peter Khoza, Priencé Kelvin, Firoomsaa Hasan, Henry G Freeman, David Lubinda, Emmah K Chanda, George Verdo, Webby Chongo, Sharon Sanguya, Abba Abubakar, Lubby Sim's, Tocha Majak, Peter Balaka, Adala Joao Tomé, Luck Lack, Sinkamba Elias, Judith Ngoma, Matthew The Best, Biyēnshi Muleta Nurgi, Lege Man, Kelvin W Tor, Jerry K Roberts

07/08/2026

🤦‍♂️😂

01/08/2026

Evening Dinner with a Father
by Mr BÔB

The restaurant was warm that evening. Soft lights, the clink of plates, families laughing over biryani and grilled fish.

A son walked in holding the arm of his old father. The father was frail, his steps slow, his hands trembling a little. He smiled anyway, like he used to when he took his son out for treats years ago.

They sat by the window. The son ordered his father’s favorite meal. Halfway through, it happened. A spoon slipped. Rice and curry fell onto the father’s shirt, then onto his trousers. A few heads turned. Someone whispered. Another diner looked away in disgust.

The son didn’t flinch. He didn’t hurry. He didn’t look embarrassed.

When they finished, he simply said, “Come, Baba.”
He led his father to the washroom. He took a napkin and gently wiped the food from his shirt. He dabbed the stains on the trousers. He combed the thin white hair with his fingers, straightened his father’s spectacles on his nose, and made sure the collar was neat. He spoke the whole time, about nothing important — the weather, the traffic, “Do you want tea after this?” — like he was a little boy again and his father was the one taking care of him.

They walked back out. The restaurant had gone quiet. People were watching now, but not with disgust. With something heavier. With not knowing what to say.

The son paid the bill and helped his father toward the door.

Then an old man at a corner table cleared his throat.
“Young man,” he called out. “Don’t you think you have left something behind?”

The son turned, calm. “No sir, I haven’t.”

The old man shook his head and smiled. “Yes, you have. You left a lesson for every son, and hope for every father.”

The room went silent again. This time, no one looked away.

Outside, the evening air was cool. The son put his father’s arm through his own and they walked home slowly, just like they used to.

Moral:
To care for those who once cared for us is one of the highest honors.
We all know

01/08/2026

Mr BÔB and the Market Day Mic

Kitwe mornings smell like charcoal, rain on dust, and buns from the street vendors.

Bôb—everyone just called him Mr BÔB because he insisted on the hat and the sunglasses even at 7am—ran the little repair stall behind Chisokone Market. Phones, radios, torches. If it beeped, he could fix it.

For years Mr BÔB had this problem: he wanted to sing. Not just hum while soldering. Real singing. He’d written songs in a notebook since secondary school. Love songs, copperbelt blues, goofy ones about power cuts. But every time he thought about performing, his brain filled up with other people’s voices.

“What if they laugh?”
“Mr BÔB fixing phones should stick to phones.”
“He’s too old for this.”
“He’s too young for this.”

So the notebook stayed in the drawer under spare chargers.

Then one Saturday the market committee needed someone to announce the raffle winners over the crackly PA. The regular guy was sick. They looked around. Mr BÔB was the only one who knew how the mic worked.

He almost said no. His hands were sweaty. But the drawer was open, and his notebook was staring at him.

He took the mic. Cleared his throat. Did the raffle. Then, because the song had been stuck in his head all week, he did something reckless.

“I have one more thing,” he said into the mic. And he sang. Just one verse. No beat, no guitar, just his voice over the market noise.

People stopped. Some stared. A few kids clapped. Most just went back to buying tomatoes.

Afterward an auntie buying airtime said, “That was nice, BÔB. You should do it again.”
A teenager said, “Bro that was mid.”
His cousin texted, “Didn’t know you could sing.”

And Mr BÔB realized something walking back to his stall. None of it made his life bigger or smaller. The phones still needed fixing. The sun was still hot.

That night he wrote on the first page of his notebook:
The less you worry about what people think, the less complicated life becomes.

01/08/2026

Did he post you 🤦‍♂️?
Or you will send your picture and let me post you🚨✌️

17/07/2026

17/07/2026

😂😂