Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there began a sentence that would see itself being abused as the opening line of many epic poems valorising great heroes (but hardly any heroines). It would travel the world — including lands full of proud, brown people Westoxified up to their buttocks and beyond — and kickstart many tales of mythical odysseys and fairy-tale adventures.
It would find its most brilliant manifestation in the legendary tale of a fair-skinned brown man belonging to a warrior race — the holiest of all holy races, sprinkled with divine stardust by Zeus’ second cousin himself! — who embarked upon a long and perilous journey for the sake of his (high school) principals and his enormous ego.
Pedro Cliftovar was his name, and he would go on to discover, found and bestow his name to a divinely ordained republic, brimful of machismo and extremely well-coiffed patriarchy.
“Dear young Cliftovar, go forth on a mission of war, adventure, fraud, investment banking and start-up ventures, and write your name across the sky in stars!” said his principals on the eve of his high school graduation.
Like most great epics, this too has a suffering hero dealing with a divine curse. But this one also has gated communities, destination weddings and a failed upgrade
Never to ignore the advice of his mentors — Aristotelia and Testicalitus — Cliftovar, scion of the renowned Macedonian tribe of Hypocrites, made his way the very next day to the business class departure lounge of the local port and boarded a galley headed west.
The winds were strong and the sea was rough, just like Cliftovar’s uncontrollable flatulence. But our hero was a man who never shied away from trials, tribulations, hardships, difficulties and other such synonyms. His strength was bolstered by his strong and unshakeable belief in the sea goddess Aitchisonia.
“O! Beloved Aitchisonia, as I toss and turn upon your gigantic waves, breaking wind at inopportune moments, deliver me from mine tummy rumblings and take me to safer shores, where I can be free to establish gated communities, full of padel courts and upscale coffee joints,” he beseeched her.
“Cliftovar!” boomed a voice from the heavens. “Your odyssey has just begun. The seas will fall silent and the skies will be blue again soon. But your destination wedding is years away. As Pervez Poseidon, the god of Ocean Mall, reminds us, ‘Never forget that you can hold a shendi in Phuket but you can never shendi Phuket in a hold,’” said Aitchisonia.
“But fret not,” she continued, “for the gods are with you. Your heroic journey will never be forgotten. Thousands of years from now, big-budget movies will be made of your sea-faring travails, featuring actors of all shades and hues. People from around the world will turn into cinema critics overnight and cuss each other out over the director’s vision. Academics and scholars will write op-eds and do podcasts on whether your personal traumas were more important than the war-ravaged ruins of beloved Grammaria.
“Your journey will bring you face to face with raging fires, bloody wars, six-eared monsters with talons the size of Azerbaijani watermelons and a ferocious lion breed that only eats brainless, public-pranking social influencers for lunch! Do you fathom the gravity of what I’ve just told you, dear boy?” asked the goddess.
“It’s mean kay I will not be having my shendi in Phuket,” mumbled a scared and disappointed Cliftovar.
“Begone, you imbecile! Fie upon you, you moronic mass of misery and misappropriations! I curse you and your future generations. May you wander aimlessly for years upon years, in and out of foreign ports, fighting illegal wars and setting up secret Swiss bank accounts to launder money that your financial institutions will hide for murderous drug cartels and sleazy tax evaders. May all your Elons be Musk and may your children become cultists of that malodorous orange paedophiliac fascist, the Doland!” she thundered.
“Never has a divine deity bestowed such great blessings upon a soul,” said Cliftovar, with hands folded. “I thank you from the heart of my bottom as well as from other parts of my mortal being. My gratefulness knows no bounds. Spare me one last request: can I be upgraded from business class to first class on this galley, for the slaves rowing in the cargo deck below create a mighty ruckus when they are whipped… and also, when will my journey come to an end?”
Facepalming, Aitchisonia suddenly vanished. She left Cliftovar wondering what fate had in store for him. And he wouldn’t find the answer to that question for years… or until the next paragraph.
After years of personal trauma — namely not being upgraded to first class — Cliftovar finally landed on land that contained land so large that it could accommodate countless gated communities.
“Eureka! Blessed be our goddess and our dubious bank accounts, which will now turn this barren, empty land full of centuries-old villages into modern suburbia. I hereby found the Republic of Cliftonia and christen these new neighbourhoods the Divine Housing of Aitchisonia (DHA) in honour of our glorious deity!” he proclaimed.
Farid Alvie was born. He currently lives.
He’s on Instagram @faridalvie
Published in Dawn, EOS, August 9th, 2026
