My Nigerian friend sleep with his mouth openo like the sewage pipes of Kampala city. His throat cooking disco sounds with a lot of emphasis on the generator sound. The mosquitoes are his favourite queen dancers as he slaps his face and skin eyes half opened to their excitement of their tickles on his skinno.
To wake up is like jerking out a badly done horror movie with a plot crooked like a DE shaped margarita pizza. Wipe the face slimy free like DMC running on a wet village road and stretch his huge legs to kiss the cold flour while the other hand be resetting the tool box in his under to the default function and checking to reduce the size now. All this done with the body awake but the eyes and brain still lost in sleep.
See in Nigeria we have no power now and the sun work to hot him sometime forgets to wake up early enough to meet me the early worm I mean early bird. Every piece ever made from cotton in my four wall house called room is spread across the flour that acts as a dressing mirror. Stretched out with all the creases, choice is determined by picking the shirt with the leastest creases now and one small enough to reveal the underside of my belly. You don’t want to wear a whole ton of bed sheet because that’s not swagger. You can’t buy swagger from a flea market, even Goodluck know that. My legs and calf like their fresh air so it’s strictly shorts and sandals like in those Philipino movies though I don’t wear vest and hut. That combination be eroding my swagger, it’s these fat girl go wear legging it no go work like democracy in Somalia. Don’t ask me the news told me that.
Water may be life but a long yawn clear the throat and cleans the corners that tooth paste never sees for its blindo like buttocks with no pants on. Stepping outside my door the woman called my neighbour is ugly like God forgot the blue prints to her face. I make one step back and then walk again to prevent bad luck that come with seeing an ugly person in the morning. Just across the door a huge sickening smell run down my nasal into my gut and my central processing unit identifies it as faeces when my eyes finally land on it as my feet miss the human ingest by inches. This stretches a long jeer out my mouth under a barrage of foul mouthed rants aimed at the landlord no wonder she keep her waist wrapped in tons of rugs and God didn’t bless her brain any way.
The worm in my stomach sense its day and start biting inch by inch making me run horse like strides across the slum dodging sewage and slippery ground with care of a nun and effortlessness of a kungu Fu supremo. Its busy morning at aunt Aberger kiosk as she announces with a thief’s grin,
‘tea and bread have had a rise in price as a response to the dollar”.
My eyes drop from her face into the fat kettle dancing on fire and back into her face and ask her with arrogance with a fat pot of ignorance
“ah ah why you go buy this water with tea leaves looking cow urine from America, go get it from swamp round the corner for then you no go be affected by the dollar now”