When a brief power blackout happens past dusk, and there is darkness in the world, it suddenly becomes quieter, and voices and sounds become more distinct.
I was caught in such a moment.
It happened when I was eating from my sufuria, almost finishing a charred, partly-cooked atrocity I called food, that looked like something Satan would feed his enemies. It gave me a hellish case of flatulence and constipation, passing wind all the damn time, and every time the urge for a bowel movement would come, I would be filled with dread, and then loathe it, because I knew what awaited me. It’s like going into labour while sitting on the toilet, only that you are giving birth to poop, and it hurts, and it doesn’t bloody want to come out.
And if it does, after the sweat and tears, there’s a high chance that it’s only a stubborn, pebble-sized piece of poop, leaving a humongous pile still in your rectum, looking forward to tormenting you every few minutes, pebble by pebble.
Since I had to own my mistake and face it, I was bravely eating from my sufuria when a power outage occurred, and the silence that followed caught me draaaging drag, drag, draaaging; drag, drag, draaaging the ladle against the base of the sufuria to scoop and eat. It was obviously loud, and I knew I had to stop eating immediately and salvage the little, soiled dignity I had left, when I clearly heard someone, from within one of my neighbours’ houses, ask their housemate(s), “Aai, nani huyo anakula sufuria?” (Who’s that eating the pot?)
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