At this time, both customer and clerk began rummaging about in a large pile of underthings. I decided to look for a hat on my own.
This is cattle country. The locally tanned leather is extremely durable and is used for a number of different goods. I was delighted to find a big leather hat. I took my purchase to the checkout till. A 1905 mechanical cash register sat on the counter. A different clerk was busy talking with another woman ahead of me. Their conversation was also in English but more peculiar.
"My, my," said the clerk.
"My," replied the customer. She fanned herself a little. "Tight is tight."
"Underwear, my too is," said the clerk as if talking about the weather.
After a bit more unintelligible small talk they got down to business. It seemed the woman was trying to return an unwanted item. "My too-too is too tight." She opened her shopping bag and pulled out a pair of ballet slippers and a tutu.
After the exchange was made it was my turn. "My, my," I said, hesitantly.
The clerk seemed somewhat bored. "My," she said.
I laid the hat on the counter. "I would like to buy this hat, please."
Her eyes grew large and she slowly shook her head. I enquired politely, "Do you speak English?" The clerk just stared at me. Finally, we managed to finish the transaction using hand signs.
I walked back to the gas station. By this time Benny had finished fueling the vehicle.
He had the same strange story to tell.
People here spoke English, but so far we had only heard the five words 'underwear', 'my', 'too', 'tight', is'. This of course piqued my lexicographical interest and we ended up staying for several weeks in order to learn more about this unusual use of English.
People were helpful and after a time we were able to piece together the history of Tkubbo. In the 1890s, the village was founded by a peculiar group of mute Anglican missionaries. For a long time the mission was very isolated. The road we had travelled on had only been built recently. The village is on a slight hill that rises above the surrounding plain. In the wet season the village is usually cut off by flood waters. In the dry season the plain becomes a vast dust bowl.
Strangely enough, the mission prospered and a small group of devotees clung to these mute foreigners and embraced their religion.
Once every few years a new cleric would arrive to relieve one of the others. One year the new arrival timed his journey too late into the hot season. A mule staggered into town with a black-robed man prostrated on its neck. The mule ground to a halt at the dry fountain in the market square. At this point the ill-fated rider rolled off and crumpled in the dust.
Although of the Order, he was not mute. His only words before expiring were, "My underwear is too tight." The dead Brother had orange-red hair. This the local people had never seen before. He was taken as some sort of divine prophet. His five words soon became local gospel and the people would speak no others, even as the mute brothers looked on helplessly.
