Pastor had just finished fixing Veronica’s motorbike, I’d driven it to the hospital with Pastor riding on the back, Veronica had paid him there, and I’d driven him back to his shop. After arriving, Pastor insisted on buying me a liter of coke and a loaf of white bread. Then he insisted I sit in his shop, which was warm inside, and drink the bottle and eat the loaf while the sun set and the evening cooled.
I drank and ate. He joked with his assistants and divided out the money Veronica had paid him. I asked what language they were speaking.
“That’s Jap. We are Japadola.” Pastor said, but he wasn’t interested in talking about Japadola and he changed the subject. “So tell me. Vampires. They are not real? I’m always telling this one,” he pointed at one of his assistants, “about the Vampires in Europe.” Pastor had asked Veronica and me about this before while we watched him work on the bike. I had joked that vampires were real and he laughed. Veronica told him the truth and he laughed at that too.
“It’s just a story,” I said and took another slice of bread and tried to convince his assistant to take one as well.
“It’s just a story? Why am I always seeing in the films?” Pastor asked.
“It’s a popular story.”
“Okay,” Pastor said laughing, “what about those white men who just eat the people?”
“White men who eat people?”
“Yes. Are those real or just a story?”
“Just a story, too. You must have stories. What’s a Japadola story?”
“There was a man from Southern Sudan. He was walking through here to Kenya. He got wounded. His people left him and he had children. That’s the Japadola story.”
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