Albert J.K. Whiskers III was not your average mouse. For one, he wore a monocle, not because he needed it (mouse vision is actually quite decent), but because it made him feel stately. And when you’ve lived your whole life behind the carved mahogany altar at St. Augustine’s Parish in Luwinga, just before you reach Area 1B, “stately” isn’t just a vibe, it’s heritage.
You see, Albert came from a long line of ecclesiastical rodents. His great-grandfather, Badada Bartholomew Khoswe, had first arrived at St. Augustine’s during the Great Yellow Nsima Shortage of 1897 (an event so traumatic the elders still talk about it like it happened last week). While the township mice were surviving off dried vikhawo skins and whatever could be found in the cracks of minibuses, Badada Bartholomew discovered something better than leftover chambo bones. Better than roasted groundnuts. Better even than spilled moonshine: Communion wafers.
Yes, those bland, mysteriously holy circles of starch turned out to be the caviar of the rodent world. And once your palate adjusts to that divine blandness, nothing else quite satisfies. Not even batala.
By the time Albert J.K. Whiskers III was born, the Khoswe family had already turned St. Augustine’s into a fortified mouse kingdom. They had tunnels running from the pulpit to the vestry, emergency stash zones behind the hymn books, and a wine cache under the baptismal basin so well hidden even the priest didn’t know it existed. When the rest of us were begging our cousins to “chonde bwana, send 2pin pa Airtel Money,” Albert was feasting on sanctified carbohydrates and vintage Merlot (blessed, of course).
Now, let’s be honest: while people across town throw around the phrase “broke as a church mouse” like it’s the final word in poverty, Albert was not broke. Albert had assets. Albert had generational wealth.
Your average township mouse? Struggling to make it through one dusty week. Albert? Living in a place where every Friday came with free bread, Sunday with full brass-band entertainment, and every wedding, funeral, or youth revival was basically a catered event.
“But church mice don’t even have cheese,” you say?
Please. When you’re sipping communion wine aged under the organ pipes and pairing it with air-dried wafers, you don’t need cheese. You’ve transcended cheese. You’ve entered the sacred carbanet economy. Cheese is for beginners. This is wealth you pray into.
And don’t get it twisted, Albert was no flashy big man. Church mice don’t do Range Rovers and shiny suits. No gold watches. No Instagram posts with bottle service. Just a humble strut, a twitch of the tail, and a bank account made of pure, generational access. Quiet luxury. Monastic wealth. That stealth cheddar.
In fact, Albert was what economists might call a legacy investor in faith-based real estate. You think the church is going anywhere? Please. While forex rates fluctuate like mood swings and maize prices give people migraines, the Church remains. The building may crack, the PA system may squeal, but Sunday always comes. And with it? Bread. Wine. Praise. Hallelujah.
Meanwhile, the Khoswe family empire lives on. Recession-proof. Drought-resistant. Immune to forex shortages or the upcoming elections.
And when you say you’re “broke as a church mouse,” do you know who you’re really insulting?
Albert John Khoswe Whiskers.
Yes, that’s right. That “J.K.”? It stands for John Khoswe. Full name: Albert John Khoswe Whiskers, the third of his name, custodian of communion crumbs, keeper of the sacred tunnels, heir to the pew-side pantry. Do you think someone with that title is broke? Please!
So the next time your wallet is flatter than a chapati on a bad day and you feel tempted to drop that line, check yourself. The real church mouse isn’t struggling. He’s thriving. He’s sipping holy wine under the glow of stained glass. He’s lounging on hymn-book leather. He’s got an eternal lease in a building that has never missed a Sunday in over a century.
And somewhere in Luwinga, inside the brick walls of St. Augustine’s, Albert J.K. Whiskers III curls up in his cotton-lined nest, adjusts his monocle, and chuckles softly.
“Poor humans,” he whispers. “Still calling me broke. May the Lord comfort them.”
Then he takes another sip, gnaws a corner of his wafer stash, and turns to sleep. Because some of us hustle. Others inherit the altar.