Why I will go to church and sit through a full sermon without falling asleep
THAT which you just heard is called a burp, my friend! If you are from Germany, then may be you were told it is called a belch. It is the art of letting out gas, through the mouth, gas that is being displaced by solids.
In other words, it is a result of feeding well. Now, this is not something that I am accustomed to, feeding well, that is. But for the past week, I have been dining like a king, thanks to my new girlfriend Flora. She is an angel, this girl and I am thanking the couple that gave birth to her.
There, I am belching again but I have to do it in a very low volume lest the madam of the house discovers that she has a guest under her bed. I can see her feet shuffling around the room with the blue painted toes stretching up and down like some wriggly worms. The big toe is enormous, I am surprised. It seems like the creator stuck it there as an after thought because the space between it and the others is like a kilometre.
They do not look pretty, I conclude. Right now, my analysis of the toes has just been interrupted by a piece of clothing that just dropped on the feet. It is yellow in colour and I think it looks very beautiful. The madam is changing, I deduce and I am a silent witness from under this bed of hers. I am wishing that I could see more, I am even starting to move towards the edge of the bed to take a peek but just stopped when I realised that it was actually not my head, the one with an actual brain, that was doing the thinking.
I am discovering that the gas I was belching hasn’t totally finished. I can feel it shifting in my tummy, and the route it is taking is clear. It is not moving towards the mouth. The gas has discovered another exit and is headed towards the backdoor. To be honest, it feels good and I wait and listen as it pushes, tumbles and rumbles silently through the intestines.
This is going to be a good one. Finally, it is there. I am wishing that I was back in my ‘cave’. Then, I would let it rip so loud that the mongrels scavenging on the heap of litter at the entrance to the shanty estate would run scampering in terror. If I was in the ‘cave’, I would let it loose so loud that tu mtu twa magazeti would be scrambling to reach the point of the ‘explosion’.
But I ain’t. So I let it out silently – and it is long. Gosh, that felt good, a bit disappointing though. When you let go such an investment, you expect to, at least, feel some evidence of it in form of some smells. There isn’t. I am settling back to admiring the cobwebs hanging from under the big bed though when finally, it hits me, Drat! It is worse than tear gas.
I am very uncomfortably discovering that it is a thoroughly stupid idea to break wind while hiding in a confined space. I am also remembering that because of the nature of lavatories in my estate, emptying of bowels is a luxury that you exercise when you absolutely have to. For that matter, we detain the waste foods in our tummies for as long as four days, which turns them into a serious industry of some absolute stinkers.
Right now, I am gagging and I am guessing that because of the heavy concentration of the gaseous matter, it is why it took so long to travel. I can hear madam coughing too and she just lifted her shoe and sniffed it. She is sounding confused as she moves to open the window while under the bed, my eyes are on fire. This is a world class stinker, my friend.
It is even coloured, some dark blue, yellow and green, rasta colours of sort. It was an error of judgement on my part, a serious miscalculation, but as long as I am not discovered, I will be fine. How I ended up under the bed? Well, you see, as it turned out, my new girlfriend Flora is a house-girl. So, when the employers leave for work in the morning, then I become the new owner.
They do not have any children, though I think madam is expecting one, and if she is not, then she definitely and badly needs to find a gym. Anyway, I have been visiting Flora each day at nine and as I pick the channel with the best Nigerian movie on the big TV, she would be frying eggs and making other beverages in the kitchen.
After a kingly breakfast, I usually follow her to madam’s room to assist in doing one thing or the other, like folding the clothes or spreading the bed and of course one thing usually leads to another and we will leave the room quite exhausted – and happy. Then we settle down to watch some witches doing their stuff on a West African movie after which another session of exhaustion and fun would follow by which time I would be famished. Luckily, Flora is a great chef and my tummy would be full and fuzzy in a jiffy, and in time for the afternoon movie session.
Today though, madam came back home unexpectedly. We heard the car on the driveway and from the confusion that arose, I found myself in the master bedroom, inside a clothes cabinet. After a short commune with my senses, I decided that it was the most idiotic place to hide and I was right. Moments after I dove under the bed, madam came into the room and went straight to her clothes cabinet.
It was a close shave but right now, as I suffocate in my own gases, I am swearing that if I am not discovered, I will go to church and sit through a full sermon without falling asleep one bit. I am reckoning that I need to confirm whether miraa is a sin because I could actually use the twigs to manage that feat — of keeping awake during a church service.
I am doing a silent prayer and discovering that I actually have no idea how to pray. So I am going back to wondering how madam would react if she found me under her bed. From the pictures, she is the size of Mount Kenya and so I shiver…