Humjibransania (with apologies to Peter Andre and the rest of you for the reminder of his existence)
1) Walked into the seamstresses the other day and there amongst the needles and pins I noticed a bottle selling ‘Stop Holy Evils and Demons Water’. The back read, ‘This water is highly recommended against the forces of darkness. It makes witches, wizards, and enemies-to-be afraid after using it for bath regularly’. Hmm, not seen that product in the pharmaceutical aisle at Tesco’s.
2) The village’s only breakfast/lunch time street sold snack is a beans, rice, red sauce, gari and fried plantain, bundled together and presented in a miniature black bin bag mashup called ‘red-red’. On the other hand, the only thing you can get for dinner is an omelette butty. Both equally tasty but up-side down in timing surely. ok ok nil points for cultural understanding, I hear you scold.
3) Funerals are a time for reflection and mourning, right? Well maybe in your tame lame ass country, here it’s time to bring out the 10 foot speakers, crank the mother up to 11 and kick out the jams by playing yer latest hiplife/Westlife/Shaggy cassette at tinnitus inducing levels. And OH BABY IS IT LOUD!!?@#?! Perhaps the idea is that there may have been a mistake and the dead dude in situ will be woken up to moan about the racket. Proceedings generally kick off at 10am on the Saturday and don’t wind up till the Monday, by which time our condom sales have gone through the roof. The women love them since ‘it’s the only time they have to drink’. Bless ‘em, they only have the chance once or twice a week. The usual deal is that the mourners pay their respects by sitting. Unable to converse or hear themselves think due to the deafening thud thud thud of the boom box they just sit in their traditional garb (an off the shoulder wraparound number for the blokes and the usual in any colour as long as its black for the ladies) passing the time of day or night. It seems that in a time rich and money poor society, you give what you can by sitting around for hours in respect and mournful remembrance. Not once have I heard so much as a tribute or brief passing mention of the dead dude in the garish casket. All this would be mildly diverting if it didn’t happen on the footy field just outside my front door every third weekend.
4) The most heroically tone deaf brass band in the known world blow their horns every night from the Anglican church up the hill. On the odd occasion a melody is discernible in the din, it is vaguely reminiscent of the little drummer boy, but generally they just blow in seeming ignorance of each other. Freestyle Afro Jazz Wigouts yaaah!
5) What serves as loo roll round these parts is actually a Palermo based Sicilian newspaper. I’d love to follow the circuitous route this rag must pass from (I’d guess) mafia bent recycling scheme to the bums of West Africa. Plus, though we manage to buy proper bog roll for our own pampered derriere, I’m sure this lends an added piquancy to those idle moments the villagers spend on the throne, perusing world events, 4 months late, through the eyes of the eyeties, as it were.
6) My Sunday league football team is called the terror squad, effectively making me a terrorist. Thankfully, unlike the Denbighshire Summer League, there are no bone-crunching stud on skin challenges as there are neither studs nor single minded menace present. They are incredibly skillful but don’t yet the know the value of a good hoof to clear their lines.
7) Wednesdays are market day in a slightly larger village near ours called Bekwai. Since they sell more than standard staples and our post is sent there, we generally go every week to get supplies of pineapple, avocado, mayonnaise and coconut. There are one or two characters worth mentioning. Firstly, we have the dude in Ali Baba sparkly pants who walks round with a boombox on his bonce touting for tips. Sadly enough, I think I was excited by the sight of mangoes but I made the mistake of dancing to this guy’s tunes. Since then, he tends to find me out and follow me round so it sounds like I have my own blaxploitation incidental music accompaniment. I like the post office as it has a vintage red British telephone box outside it. Inside, the wizened old post master welcomes you in a quite correct and formal manner, learnt during colonial days, and passes you the post for the village. In addition to the child who works with him in the office, they look like a grainy old black and white film made real. The other dude to mention calls me Mr Hot, perhaps because of the streams of sweat running down my face, and is my Tae Kwon Do partner. All going to prove that the currency of random is indeed strong in these here parts.
2) The village’s only breakfast/lunch time street sold snack is a beans, rice, red sauce, gari and fried plantain, bundled together and presented in a miniature black bin bag mashup called ‘red-red’. On the other hand, the only thing you can get for dinner is an omelette butty. Both equally tasty but up-side down in timing surely. ok ok nil points for cultural understanding, I hear you scold.
3) Funerals are a time for reflection and mourning, right? Well maybe in your tame lame ass country, here it’s time to bring out the 10 foot speakers, crank the mother up to 11 and kick out the jams by playing yer latest hiplife/Westlife/Shaggy cassette at tinnitus inducing levels. And OH BABY IS IT LOUD!!?@#?! Perhaps the idea is that there may have been a mistake and the dead dude in situ will be woken up to moan about the racket. Proceedings generally kick off at 10am on the Saturday and don’t wind up till the Monday, by which time our condom sales have gone through the roof. The women love them since ‘it’s the only time they have to drink’. Bless ‘em, they only have the chance once or twice a week. The usual deal is that the mourners pay their respects by sitting. Unable to converse or hear themselves think due to the deafening thud thud thud of the boom box they just sit in their traditional garb (an off the shoulder wraparound number for the blokes and the usual in any colour as long as its black for the ladies) passing the time of day or night. It seems that in a time rich and money poor society, you give what you can by sitting around for hours in respect and mournful remembrance. Not once have I heard so much as a tribute or brief passing mention of the dead dude in the garish casket. All this would be mildly diverting if it didn’t happen on the footy field just outside my front door every third weekend.
4) The most heroically tone deaf brass band in the known world blow their horns every night from the Anglican church up the hill. On the odd occasion a melody is discernible in the din, it is vaguely reminiscent of the little drummer boy, but generally they just blow in seeming ignorance of each other. Freestyle Afro Jazz Wigouts yaaah!
5) What serves as loo roll round these parts is actually a Palermo based Sicilian newspaper. I’d love to follow the circuitous route this rag must pass from (I’d guess) mafia bent recycling scheme to the bums of West Africa. Plus, though we manage to buy proper bog roll for our own pampered derriere, I’m sure this lends an added piquancy to those idle moments the villagers spend on the throne, perusing world events, 4 months late, through the eyes of the eyeties, as it were.
6) My Sunday league football team is called the terror squad, effectively making me a terrorist. Thankfully, unlike the Denbighshire Summer League, there are no bone-crunching stud on skin challenges as there are neither studs nor single minded menace present. They are incredibly skillful but don’t yet the know the value of a good hoof to clear their lines.
7) Wednesdays are market day in a slightly larger village near ours called Bekwai. Since they sell more than standard staples and our post is sent there, we generally go every week to get supplies of pineapple, avocado, mayonnaise and coconut. There are one or two characters worth mentioning. Firstly, we have the dude in Ali Baba sparkly pants who walks round with a boombox on his bonce touting for tips. Sadly enough, I think I was excited by the sight of mangoes but I made the mistake of dancing to this guy’s tunes. Since then, he tends to find me out and follow me round so it sounds like I have my own blaxploitation incidental music accompaniment. I like the post office as it has a vintage red British telephone box outside it. Inside, the wizened old post master welcomes you in a quite correct and formal manner, learnt during colonial days, and passes you the post for the village. In addition to the child who works with him in the office, they look like a grainy old black and white film made real. The other dude to mention calls me Mr Hot, perhaps because of the streams of sweat running down my face, and is my Tae Kwon Do partner. All going to prove that the currency of random is indeed strong in these here parts.
posted by Luke Chapter 1 at 2:27 pm
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