Test of Faith

            I’ve always wanted my pet mean. I crave a “beast” for a pet. A heavy beast, with paws of steel. A grounded animal with the personality of a vile deity. I want a pet that doesn’t bark; a bullish animal that only bites, and growls, and breathes in your ear like a devil when it corners you, putting the fear of death in you, making you beg. I want a pet that doesn’t take prisoners; that knows not how to take prisoners. I want a pet that thinks, wrongly, that it’s a god. I want him rancorous, and cold, and imposing, and threatening…all in one package. That’s the kind of pet I want to take for a walk, or go jogging with – a pet with ego problems. Such a pet, I guess, would bring a different feel to the streets; a different vibe. That’s what I want. So much for the shy pets you see around that almost piss and trip over themselves in panic, stepping out of your way on street sidewalks when you walk past them. They drive me nuts, these shy, designer pets. Funny thing is: they always size you up with the corner of their eye when you pass. That’s because stepping out of your way is not something they like to do, but they do it anyway because they believe that that’s their place in the food chain. They do it because they have no fiber to stand up to you.

I like that word. Fiber. Sounds like a herb. It’s what inspired this post.

            Whenever am free I play soccer. Soccer warms my soul; it’s beautiful. It is the most fun you can have without taking your clothes off. [A few weeks ago] am changing into my soccer gear in readiness for a practice game. Am waiting to go in to kick some ball, you know, the works. This guy we play with (he likes to stay in the shadows, so let’s call him SG, Soccer Guy) – someone who I didn’t know reads this blog - throws a soccer boot at me. I turn and say something about his grandmother. I say she’s a whore. Everyone laughs. He laughs too, which I find very weird, deceiving even. I continue to tie my laces but I keep him in sight with the corner of my eye just in case he decides to send a brick next to come meet my skull. He doesn’t do that. Turns out he’s not from the stone age, that era in history when humans decided that a stone could solve all their problems. He changes the topic but I’m still wary. Am still alert (Note: Never let your guard down. Never let someone's cool deceive you. Street survival 101). Later, when he comes up to me, he says,

“I really like Turuphosa.”

“Who’s Turuphosa?” I ask.

“What the hell! Your blog!!!” Am caught napping there. It’s amazing, though, how this guy talks about a blog as though it were someone. And not just anybody but someone he likes. I thought he had been thinking about that earlier statement I made about his grandmother (who, just now, I thought was called Turuphosa when he mentioned the name). I thought he was trying to make me know that he likes her a lot despite what I had said. It’s a noble thing, I think - to stand up for your peeps like that. Thing is, though (and this could just be purely coincidental), that the last group (or generation) of people that I heard use the name Turuphosa is now old – the grannies generation. It’s a name with one step out the door, a name on pension and black and white photos. And the fact that I’ve never talked anything blog-related with SG here threw me off-balance even further…but I came back just in time to salvage myself.

“Oh, am sorry! I thought you were referring to a person, you know, from the way you said it. I also didn’t know you read that blog,”

“Yeah, I do; stuff get around. And I love the blog. I passed it on to a friend and he loves it too,” I nod, “…but let me tell you one thing: if you keep writing like that, am afraid you’re going be weeded out.”

“ How do you mean?”

“How do I mean? There’s fear all over your writing,”

“Wait, did you say fear? Where’s this headed?”

“Yes, fear! Each time I read any new piece you write I’m reminded of an old story - the story of the hen that refuses to take its chances,"

"Hehehe...What is it about the hen?" 

"Well, the said hen's sustenance is getting lean. She knows there’s more food for her out there somewhere but she refuses to venture out of her familiar territory because of fear. Nothing grounded; just a gut feeling that a wild cat could hop out of the next thicket and snatch her, and make a meal out of her. She starves and dies in the end - a victim of her own fear." He pauses momentarily. "Now that's a nasty existence. It's a fate you do not want to befall your writing. Get out of your shell!”

What!? I wanted to tell him to go to hell. I wanted to ask him to hug some cactus plant for me.

“What do you have in mind? What do you suppose I should write about?” I ask instead.

“The unfamiliar. Take a plunge into the unknown…”

“Like what exactly?”

“Something you struggle to understand. Like something psychic. Or even death…I don’t know. Anything! At least prove that you have the fiber to write about something that will challenge you, something that pushes your sticks.”

Stony silence. This guy walks into my backyard and wants to teach me how to run my show? How arrogant! I spit. No I don’t.

“Your point is taken…but that blog stays the way it is. It was set up for the mundane only. Nothing psychic goes in there. No death stories…unless we (sorry I) amend the law. And am the law.” Did you see that half-diplomatic-half-Hitler stunt I pulled there – the politics (hehehe)? It was my ego speaking now because SG had thought I was a sissy. I had to trip him. I had to wield my sword. SG is someone you want to annoy, if you can afford it. He is one of those people you want call late in the night when you’re sure they’re asleep and when he picks up you say, “Oops! Sorry Oliver, I thought I dialed Olivia. Sorr…” and you hung up before they hurl something unprintable at you.

         I thought about the encounter later, though – more soberly, more relaxed. Now was like a loosening of the knots of ego and pride, more like a woman taking off her girdle after the party is over. I realized that there was something potent in what SG said - something born out of how he relates with text. I imagine he is a guy who picks a piece of writing and brings it to his eye level, and engages it while staring straight into its eye. I imagine he looks between the words. It becomes an eye-to-eye engagement – close and intimate. He crowds its space. He smells it (for fear and all..hehehe). There are few people with that keenness of sight. He has that dockyard philosopher’s sense of what makes the ordinary man tick, I think, and the finely tuned ear of a frustrated rock star who knows what makes men dance. He is a rare breed.

         That’s why I called Chad and told her I wanted to come ride a horse over the weekend. She was surprised of course. Well, Chad is a friend of mine whose family, she told me, owns a few horses on a ranch. She’s a horse lover. She tells horse jokes (you can already imagine what character am talking about here, can’t you?) She’s surprised that am asking, because she’s always asked me to come but I’ve always made excuses. Now, out of the blues, I call. She thinks am pulling her leg. “I don’t pull legs,” I tell her, “I only pull surprises...when I can afford it”. She’s convinced now. I’ve touched her(or maybe confused her), I can tell. It's the dansani touch, which is more like to be touched with the tip of an assegai – the Zulu spear. She says game.

            Sunday at 3 pm I pitch up. It’s a huge ranch. Stacks of hay are strewn all over the open field. A few horses are grazing. And along the edge of the fence are planted pine trees in such perfect spacing and order that smoothly and gently carry the eye along. Chad’s been waiting. There are a few of her friends here too. After we get introduced, she summons the horses – two of them; more than two would be stubborn to manage, she says. So she lets the rest graze. Fine animals; that’s what they are. You can see their muscles sticking out. She places her hand on the fir of the first horse and rubs her (the horse) gently. She closes her eyes in bliss; she loves it.

“She is Teressa…” Chad says, patting her. Teressa, for a horse. Cool name, huh? A pure breed Tennessee Walker. She’s 7 years old. That’s adult for a horse.

           Teressa has a mild temperament, we are told. She is more accepting of strangers. We can ride her. The other horse – Toby – whom we are told is Teressa’s son is a bit naughty. He has a lot of the infantile teenage tricks in his bag. You can tell that he derives great pleasure in working Chad up and, I swear, if you look closely you see something the equivalent of a smile on his face at those moments. Chad would be trying to get him still so she can mount him. He’d pretend to cooperate and then, without warning, he’d bolt out, galloping across the ranch, kicking the air, reveling in the moment, Chad after him yelling and cursing.

“He’ll pay for his bad behaviour!” Chad tells us at some point.

“How?” asks one of her friends – Andy. Someone stifles a laugh…but it leaks through the cracks. He can’t hold it. I think I know why he laughs. Let me digress here a bit, back to where it all starts. When we were introducing ourselves at the beginning – when we got here - we each said both names. Everyone did, at least till this guy’s turn came (the one who just sought to know how Toby was going to pay for his ill manners). He only introduced himself as Andy.

“What’s your second name, aye?” quipped someone, “We all said both names,”

“Greenbutt! Andy Greenbutt.”

“Oh cool!” he answered; the questioner did. He’s the same guy battling laughter just now. Seems he hasn’t gotten over that "Greenbutt" name. He must have a very imaginative mind, I think. Anyway, we learn later that Chad’s way of getting back at Toby is to have him take a bath – to tie him down and pour warm water on him, and scrub him. Toby has a laugh-worthy phobia for water. He reacts to bathwater like a lot of kids: as if it were acid, toxic anthrax, scalding oil. We laugh at him. Water scares daylights out of him in a way that you have to be present to appreciate.

           In the end, I drive back not having rode. That's because am a man of little faith. I had stood on the fringes and watched Chad do it, and it had then occurred to me that horse riding is a dangerous falling forward. Every gallop the horse takes is an arrested plunge, a collapse averted, a disaster braked. It's a holding-on and letting-go so much so that a horse-ride is more than just a sport. It's an act of faith, a leap into the unknown. It's a test of faith that I fail. Every gallop is a testimony of SG's genius. It proves him right, right?

Weirdness, Friends, Insomnia…

My friend Adika thinks eating pumpkin seeds is weird. I laugh. I find it funny that he says that. I think it’s a smart declaration of war. Very subtle. A disguise. I think he is playing dirty. Well, Adika is my homie from a long time and I know he has had quite a few encounters with seeds before – "battles" that he is not at all proud of; battles that he lost, for the most part. Most happen to have been run-ins that left him defeated and nursing repeated urges to visit the bathroom. It is why I laugh. But there's also something wrapped in that statement that I secretly admire. It tells you that my boy doesn’t go down easy; he drags the enemy to the dust with him. Just when you think he is done with – when you’ve written him off - he comes back and takes a bite, a huge bite off your thigh. He provokes a fight under a different guise (if need be), a different fight with you the enemy so he can settle old scores.

He is pretty convinced that seeds are not food; certain seeds. And he is a small-time farmer too, you know? So, I avoid debate because what do I know about seeds? What can I tell a farmer about seeds that he doesn’t know already? He believes eating pumpkin seeds or sunflower seeds, or any of those other seeds that they roast and add salt to, and then package nicely as snacks, is to play the same ball as a “rosta” smoker. It is to operate from the wrong end, to stand on a false bottom, to embrace the uncanny. Rosta is that filterless cigarette that old women smoked back in the day; the one they puffed from the opposite end – the lit end. I always lingered around to see if they were going to spit out the ash (hehehe). Yeah that was super weird to me, just the same way that orange-colored skinny jeans are weird today (They make folks look like forked carrots). I thought those women smokers were eating fire. Whether rosta-smoking and seed-eating boil in the same kettle is beyond me to say, though, because weirdness is fuzzy these days.

A few nights ago, however, an incident happened that dispelled all doubt in me as to what is king of the weird. This act I witnessed while playing thief has no disclaimer. It chokes all debate before they even start. It is an outlier even in weirdo-land - a lone wolf that is beyond giving shit.

Here's how it happened. That little annoying bastard called a “headache” had crept into my head that evening and was mining something in there with a hoe. It was pounding what I imagined to be something heavy and hard-edged and mean against the wall of my cranium. At one time I thought there was a quarry in my head. I went to bed early because of the mining. I was in a foul mood, like a bitch, but what could I do? I wanted to escape from myself and suck the blood of someone in skinny jeans or pick up a fight with anyone carrying a hoe.

I did not sleep long, though. I woke up around 2 in the morning. The bastard was gone - the terrorist in my head - but an uneasy quiet remained there, like a scene of a crime. It was still. You could actually feel melancholy in the night air. 2 AM is a terribly lonely hour, so lonely you'd think time has stopped, like the world has held its breath. Still, I knew life was moving on elsewhere. I knew there was a guy desperately trying to pick a girl at some bar or some party somewhere at that hour. He was most likely whispering in her ear, like a drug peddler on a subway; a desperate man closing in on a kill. Or maybe he was being smooth and deliberate, like someone with a scoop of a weighty secret, as though he just figured the elixir of life - the ultimate panacea - and that she had better thank her stars she gets to hear it first. I knew someone was flying over the Atlantic, and getting closer to seeing family again as the minutes rolled. Maybe he had not seen them in years. Maybe he had missed graduations and anniversaries and birthdays, and granny’s funeral. Maybe he wouldn't see them at all after all because someone would hijack the plane. I knew someone was just completing a job application. Life was moving on. Someone else was choking somewhere, gasping for air; breathing his last but another was just getting born. A revolving door; that's what life is.

I got out of bed and switched on the lamp on my reading table, and then picked up the Yasir Arafat biography I’d been reading. I turned on the radio just to kill the quiet a bit but sorry to say, I did not notice which station it was tuned to. Listen, I only say sorry here because my knowing the station would have impacted how I tell the story, ok? Good. Presently music of an accordion – faint at first, then louder – poured from the loud speaker. It was good music for reading, so I adjusted the volume control and began to read. I did not pay close attention to the radio but at some point the music stopped, and an audience applauded. Then a man’s voice, chuckling and pleased with the applause, said, “All right, all right,” but the applause continued for several more seconds. During that time the voice once more chuckled appreciatively, then firmly repeated, “All right,” and the applause died down. “That was Alec Somebody-or-other,” the radio voice, and I went back to my book.

But I soon became aware of this middle-aged voice again. Perhaps a change of tone as he turned to a new subject caught my attention. “And now, Miss Samantha Lewis,” he was saying, “of Chicago, Illinois. Miss Lewis is a pianist; that right?” A girl’s voice, timid and barely audible, said, “That’s right.” The man’s voice – and now I recognized his familiar singsong delivery – said, “And what are you going to play?” The girl replied, “La Paloma.” The man repeated it after her, as an announcement: “La Paloma.” There was a pause, then an introductory chord sounded from a piano, and I resumed my reading. I went back to Beirut, where Arafat was now holed up with his PLO brigade.

As the girl played, I was half aware that her style was mechanical, her rhythm defective; perhaps she was nervous. Then my focus was fully aroused by a gong, which sounded suddenly. For a few notes more the girl continued to play falteringly, not sure what to do. The gong sounded jarringly again, the playing abruptly stopped, and there was a restless murmur from the audience. “All right, all right,” said the now familiar voice, and I realized I’d been expecting this, knowing it would just say that. The audience quieted, and the voice began, “Now -”

The radio went dead. For the smallest fraction of a second no sound issued from it but its own mechanical hum. I half-thought to push it over the edge of the table to the floor but I killed that thought. Suddenly a completely different program came from the loudspeaker. I hushed it. I was mad it interrupted me. I switched off the radio and went back to my reading, wondering vaguely what had happened to the other program, to Miss Samantha Lewis and her piano. Am still wondering…if you’d like to know (hehehe). I can wonder about silly stuff at 2 AM - after a headache and a nap.

My watch was now saying 2:47 but my eyes were still as open as a baboon's butt. I could not sleep. I had put the book aside. Against my good judgment, I logged on to Facebook – the whorehouse of vanity, but a house we refuse to vacate nonetheless; a house we love  – in case there was an insomniac like me looking for company in the endless space of their timeline. While I had been gone, someone had sought to be my “friend”. In my mind I imagined that someone had walked up to me, a complete stranger, and tapped my shoulder, and been like, “Could I be your friend Senor?” It was a girl, I suppose. I say so because the name was feminine but I doubted it was a real name. I think it was an “a.k.a.” – those monikers that a lot of people hide under while they engage the world. It didn’t help matters either that the profile picture was a group picture, taken in what seemed like a stadium. So I could not know for sure if it was a man or a woman here. Remember there are also men among us who act and dress and speak like women (and women who do the same). You can never bet on anything these days. Some men also play women but that's that.

So I decide to play stalker, to go through her pictures (I assumed it was a she). I wish I had not. I wish I had gone to bed instead. As I stalked my way through her pictures I realized that I know her – Awino! Good gracious! We were in nursery school together, years ago! Her brother had picked a fight with my cousin Alfayo once. And I remember the older boys had then arranged for them to “meet” after school and put their differences to bed. I was there. I was carrying Alfayo’s bag. And I remember that what Alfayo did during that after-school meeting was illegal, but illegal was fine at the time; there were no rules. I had then bought buyu for him afterwards on our way home. My way of patting him on the back.

I guess I did not recognize Awino straight out because the image I had of her was the old one – the little Awino with a small school bag on her back, and a tin. She did not cross her legs back then; she was not a lady. She did not wear mascara, or carry a purse. Now she does. You could not throw down the gauntlet her way; she’d cry and have the teacher call your bluff and kick your ass. She wasn’t a poser; she was a little schoolgirl then. I continued to pry through her photos, without her knowledge – like a thief. She was a model now – tall and beautiful. Lot’s of pictures of her on the runway. I imagined that a lot of men must be trying to hit on her – conceited men, big men with small smiles, men with bottomless hearts and also heartless men, men who think that the sun rises from where they stand, men who are sharp, witty men, men who don’t get jokes, dull men, bigoted men, angry men, men with egos on steroids, young men, old fat men with pot bellies. All manner of men. I somehow felt sorry for her...then quietly carried on.

She had one habit that killed me, though. It would kill you too. She eats fish using a fork. Please stay seated. And am not talking about salmon or fillets or any of those other fish with fancy sounding names that make "mbuta" sound ancient ; am talking about good old tilapia. Now how do you eat a tilapia’s head using a fork, my friend? How? Doesn't it give you the disturbing feeling – some tinge, perhaps - that you are just being a...well, a clown? And if you don’t get that – like Awino here – how do you make peace with yourself afterwards? Huh? I think that if you can look yourself in the mirror after that and not feel weirdness rushing out of the mirror towards you then you are not of this earth; you are an alien. A fish-eating alien. My first thought was to poke Awino and hide but she’d have thought I was being gay, right?

View from Floor 38

         She doesn’t pick her handbag. She doesn’t head for the door like the rest when the clock hits ten. She strolls a bit in the room, stays back to burn the midnight oil, to work on something – a project, a pending reply to an email, a blog article, something impatient that cannot wait one day more. She works late. Lights in the adjacent offices go out one after another. Her lights stay on – the 37^th floor - defying the night, inviting notice.

         He works in the opposite building. A cleaner for the night shift. He has watched her from his window – this vantage point – every single work night for four months. He has mastered her routine. You could say he’s a stalker but is he, really? He doesn’t leave his work station on the 38^th floor of their building to follow her; he only sees everything because all other lights in her building are out and she has no curtains. She is exposed to eyes in the dark. Eyes in the other building where he works. He doesn’t even know if she is called Leah or Linda or Melissa or Maria. She could be anyone. For now she has no name. Her oblivion to his presence, though, makes his act somewhat raw. Somewhat intrusive.

         There’s hardly ever any show of nudity; not a shade of it, but she always takes off her coat and flings it somewhere to the side as soon as everyone leaves, and kicks her high heels from her feet. She remains bare-feet the rest of the time. She then usually paces the room, talking on the phone (it’s like her daily ritual), the two or three top buttons of her shirt undone and a little revealing. She doesn't just walk around the room; she sashays – gracefully, as if without weight…like flowing mercury. It’s artful. And her feet feel the soft carpet under them.

         She is not exactly beautiful (let that be said). Not in the loose conventional sense that we bandy the word, at least. But there’s something unworldly about her. Something staggeringly lofty. Something that peeps and hides behind her as she goes about her business. For more than an hour she sits at her desk, staring at her computer screen, tapping her keyboard. She stops now and then to sip from a grey porcelain mug that always sits on her desk next to what looks like a writing pad. Even then, her eyes never leave the screen. There’s something deep about how she relates with the stuff around her. The way she holds that grey mug, for instance – humbly, with both hands, as though it were holy sacrament – and how she then sips from it must make the mug desire to sit by her side, like a trophy, and wait to be sipped from. It says a lot about her.

         There are four desks in the room; all mahogany – magnificent and polished – and leather swivel chairs. They sit stately around the room, effusing power, like lords. Very highbrow. The sort of furniture from behind which executive shots are called; shots that shake structures of establishments right to their foundations. Life-altering decrees. Strange thing about desks of this kind, though, is that they tend to change people that sit behind them for too long. These people become stiff and humorless and begin to take things a little too seriously, you get? They generally drift towards a zone where they start to fancy themselves gods among men…but then again, who are we to judge? Are they not the ones that hold the knife? And the yam as well? Huh? There’s a tall Tuscan bookcase further back, resting against the wall. It’s full; books mostly, and a few files. And at the corner to the left of the room sits a water dispenser. A potted plant in a vase can be seen too, smelling the cool night air coming in from the window. It sits on something that’s hidden from view.

         At some point every night after she’s done typing whatever she types, she gets up - as though to stretch - and then she does something very weird. Not weird weird like a dog riding a horse. Not like that. She begins to dance, okay? It looks strange from his window, even comical. She’s dancing but he cannot hear any sound, any music. This is how deaf people must feel when they walk into a club, he thinks – people huddled in a room, moving their bodies funny – except I don’t think deaf people go to clubs anyway (or even care for music). He can tell from her dancing that she’s not the type of girl that goes on Youtube to look up dance moves to then practice in front of a mirror. She doesn’t do the bend-over thing. She doesn’t twerk :-( . She doesn’t make her butt the be-all and end-all of her dancing, where all the action is (or as my friend would say, "where all the action at"). She’s not a Youtube vixen. She dances proper, like a gypsy – a sweet, good-humored gypsy. He nearly laughs at this, though, because the thought that she could be a tree-hugger just flitted through his mind. And it’s a thought with some charm.

         There are a few friends that visit her regularly – a few nights a week at least, before she goes home (or wherever she goes after she leaves here). Two boyfriends and a girlfriend. Each comes at their own time, as if programmed never to meet. He wonders if it’s chance or design. Guy A is the kind of guy who walks around with a bottle of booze wrapped inside a brown paper bag tucked somewhere in his coat pocket. Someone you’d want to pay to see his liver. Any time is booze time to him. Life is one long party. Fun kind of guy to hang around. This guy comes around eleven, dressed in a business suit, the tie, like a leash, still knotted around his neck and all like he just walked out of a G8 meeting. His shirt, under his coat is never tucked in. She usually walks to the door to see him in, a tall guy – 6’2” probably. He bends to kiss her on the forehead as she reaches up to hug him, and says something in her ear. She pinches him and extricates herself from his grasp, bubbling with mirth. He usually pulls out the brown bag from the inside pocket of his coat at this point and places it on the desk. You’d think he’s drawing a gun, the way he pulls it out. Silly chap. He wants to impress the damsel. She seems to like him, though, but am not sure about him. He comes across as a sojourner, someone that just nipped into her life to sip booze and will soon be on his merry way. He could be a banker, a realtor, one of those court room loud-mouths. Any of those professions that insist on a suit and a tie; on image.  He is someone she must have met at a professional gathering. The whole time he never sits. Maybe he mistakes this for one of those corporate shindigs where people stand while they sip juice from short glasses and nibble cookies held on serviettes, and “appreciate” paintings (art) on the wall, and exchange business cards.

         Guy B invariably dons a pair of corduroy pants and a kitenge top, like a painter from Luthuli. Dreadlocked. He’s about 5’8” – about an inch taller than her but you’d think he towers head and shoulders above her. Maybe it’s because he stands on a load of personality which, like gas, fills every space in the room when he comes around. She hugs him tight and almost refuses to let go. If you were staring, you’d look away at this point because you wouldn’t want to risk spoiling that image in your mind with a not-so-good one that might follow (you never know; life can be so dramatic). It’s a deep connection you see there. Without warning, the rasta guy scoops her, sweeps her off her feet and stumbles with her towards her desk. The guy at the window smiles a bit. The sight of a skinny dreadlocked guy staggering across a room, carrying a woman in the dead of the night is quite something. Well, it’s the height of chivalry, no? This is the kind of guy who will know how to skin a moose, or would tell you that the chain saw now is subject to a 9% VAT tax, up from the original 7%. Be very careful with a man who is not a lumber yet takes a keen interest in chain saws, though. Such a man is a man alright but he might not be a good man. Rasta always pulls up a chair next to her and almost the whole time she shows him something on the computer. He could be a writer; who knows? Today he is watching and listening. He knows how to do that. Now she leans her head on his shoulder and clasps her hands with his. You see lust in his eyes, raw lust. And there’s love in her’s but she’s fighting the urge to give in (which is weird). She knows not to. She knows that if she does she will lose herself completely because she likes him a lot already. She would not know how to claw her way back out. In her fear, he is also saved from her because she seems the kind to steal you away entirely from this world to another, where she’s queen and you are king and nothing else counts.

         Then there’s her girlfriend. She comes last, always, like an afterthought. She looks like an afterthought actually. The guy at the window usually regards her with a bit of suspicion – that she could be a member of some illegal sect, or some secret society – the Skull and Bones type. And he might be right; visiting people this late in the night doesn’t seem godly, does it? Do they not say that it is at this hour that the devil roameth…and seeketh souls? Believers, anybody? She’s super sweet, though, this girlfriend, and bubbly and loud. You can’t help but love her – a petit young lady that talks like a crowd (and visits her friends at night). She comes in clad in a pair of jeans and a brown jacket – her favorite jacket – worn over her ever-trendy tops. Ever seen Rachael Shebesh, anybody? No? Well, look her up. This girl’s hairdo is a replica of Shebesh’s hairdo – a Mohawk’s nest. Just a side note: maybe her friend should try to always check and make sure there are no unhatched Mohawk eggs left lying in there because, am told, baby Mohawks are quite a mess when they hatch. They might mess that beautiful nest.

         They must be old friends, these girls. Confidants. People that share a lot between them. She must know about rasta man and the booze guy no doubt. The guy at the window wonders what she thinks of them. Does she care or is she like, “Whatever”?

         They are having fun tonight. They talk and laugh and sip from mugs. They seem oblivious of time. Just now Miss Mohawk-Nest flashes out her cell phone. She dials then brings the phone to her ear, and waits. His phone also rings just about the same time. “What a coincidence!” he thinks to himself. He reaches for the phone in his pocket:

“Hello,” a woman’s voice.

“Hello!” he replies.

“Listen Edgar, my friend Zosi here wants to tell you something…Here..” Across the building he sees the petit woman pass the phone to her friend. He doesn’t wait to hear from Zosi. His phone drops from his hand and he takes off, crying like a baby, scared. A mess of a man. Shit just hit the fan.

New Neighbours: The Browns

Ever sat through two people's telephone conversation, listened (from the side) to just one end of the call, and tried to make meaning of what’s going on, and wondered (as you listen) what the person on the other end could be saying? Have you? Have you waited several weeks, hoping all the while to catch a particular person do something as ordinary as laugh...then felt terribly disappointed when they did not? Talk to me Attaboy. Is your idea of a career still something you have to go to school to study towards? Do you think that not having a phone today is ridiculous? Some sort of a post-modern humor? Huh? Well, good for you. But look, if you haven't seen a suit-clad, mafia-looking, solemn man who sweats on the nose and laughs for his bread, you haven’t lived life. I’m sorry.

Mr. Brown lives down the street, a wiry man with a wily expression and huge rimmed spectacles that sit on the bridge of his nose. His wife is a big and thick-set woman. Born-again. Very likeable. If you chance to pass by their house you’ll spot her tending to her small garden of vegetables, singing along (or humming loudly) to some Christian worship song in that spiritual, throaty way that born-again people do. She tends to her faith with the meticulous care of a tight-rope walker.

One time a few weeks ago, she came by our house, this woman. We had recently just moved in and didn’t know most of our new neighbors yet. We were not home when she came, so she posted a note on the door...and left. Said in the note that she was the neighbor down the street – Mrs. Brown. That she was the neighborhood association chairperson. She had stopped by to welcome us to their community. She said she’d be back, and signed off "Be Blessed" , like a keen Christian.

That’s how we came to know her name, this woman who sings from somewhere deep, like a bird. That’s how we came to know the Browns from down the street.

Next day she was back. Back with the word, with a message. A sweet woman. She described how elated they felt to have us join their community. She read us verses from the Bible and talked of blessings, and good fellowship. How people are turning away from the Lord. How she fears for young people. We soaked all that in. She trilled on, stopping occasionally to smile – sweetly – at us. That satisfied smile that seemed to say I am pleased peeps, praise the Lord! Before she left she invited us to their local church that coming Sunday. Now that one got to us on tip-toe and half breath. It creeped on us, like a thief. It found us unprepared. We looked at each other for a moment. A brief moment. My friend and I. It could have been out of courtesy or guilt - I don't know - but we said yes in the end. Yeah, Mrs. Brown does that to you. 

Mr. Brown, on his part, doesn’t strike you as much of a church-goer. He makes appearances here and there alright, like many of you reading this. And whenever he does show up, he often sits at the back, just in case he needs to nip out. And he nips out quite a bit.  Most times you’ll see a drop of perspiration on his nose. Amazing, because this contrasts markedly with his overall poise and otherwise vintage outlook. You hardly ever expect a man in neatly cut suits and godfather hats and spotlessly polished black shoes to sweat on the nose, do you? Spoils the mafia look, donge? Look, mafias are chilled out people, cool runnings kind of people. You could grow a beard while you wait for them to get to the end of their sentence. Words pour out of them as if in slow motion, these people. They stop and wait for that minute hand to strike twelve. They forget and start over. It's a pain for the rest of us peasants. Look at how they hold that glass, how they smoke that cigar. Look at how they blow out that smoke - how lazy! They take their time. Time is precious to them. It is to be worshiped. It is to be held with plenty of care, like a magician’s ball. Like a pretty woman.

Now look closely and you’ll see similar watchfulness in the way that Mr. Brown walks. See how he does it: straight-backed in a straight line, placing one foot carefully before the other, as if balanced upon a knife-edge. Like a man tiptoeing through a snake pit, taking every caution not to awaken the beasts.

We are told he laughs for a living. That’s his trade. He laughs on records, on tapes, am told. He laughs mournfully, infectiously, hysterically…every kind of laugh. A school kid’s laugh, a preacher’s boisterous laugh, a scared man’s laugh, which, come to think of it, must be really funny knowing how quiet a person he is. I have walked past their house some evenings when he is sitting on their verandah, hoping to catch him laughing, to see how his face contorts with glee in that moment of mirth. I’ve not been lucky yet, for he just sits there solemnly whenever I pass by, listening to voices in his head.

We’ve never talked (him and I)…That is why when he tapped my shoulder a fortnight ago after church, and asked if he could use my phone to call a friend, I felt a deep sense of relief, satisfaction even. He had quietly been my hero, I think because what I had heard said about him and what I saw were quite at odds. His wily expression sat on a calm frame. I had never seen him laugh myself but people said he laughed for a living. Good laughs. And he hadn’t spoken a word to confirm or deny them. He just walked through life in a neat suit and hat, and a sweaty nose. A walking paradox. A Rubik’s cube. That draws you in. He doesn't need to validate himself.

I held out the phone to him but without looking at it, without touching it, he read out his friend’s phone number and told me to dial. I did…and brought the phone to my ear.

Ngrrrrrring, ngrrrrring, ngrrrrrrrrring – ngrrrrrring, ngrrrring, ngrrrrrrring! Then a horrible “gritting” of teeth, and finally a piping female voice: “Y-E-S? [Rising inflection] Hello?”

Without answering I handed the phone to him, and stepped aside. They started to talk. I just stood there. It had never occurred to me that listening to only one end of a telephone conversation was such a queer exercise. You hear questions asked; you don’t hear the answer. You hear invitations given; you hear no thanks in return. You have listening pauses of dead silence, followed by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable exclamations of glad surprise, or sorrow, or dismay. You can’t make head or tail of the talk because you never hear what the caller on the other end says. You keep guessing. Well, here’s what I heard from Mr. Brown’s end of the line:

Yes? How did that happen?

Pause

What was it about?

Pause

Hahaha! I don’t think they’d say that.

Pause

I meant…(a little pause) no,no. You let it boil first then – then you reduce the heat. That should allow it to simmer well.

Pause

WHAT?

Pause

That was way back! Before Sarah went to stay with her. Remember the doctor who couldn’t take a joke?

Pause

Hahahahaha…yeah!!!

Pause

Yes, I like it that way, too; I think it’s better to let it just sit for a while. It gives it such an air,- and attracts so much notice.

Pause

No! It’s the Book of Ecclesiastes. Ecclesiastes twelve – ten to nineteen. They ought to be read together.

Pause

I just use a comb. A regular comb.

Pause

She’s not here yet. She’s still inside talking with the choir master.

Pause

Oh! C sharp! Dear me, I thought you said it was the cat!

Pause

Since when?

Pause

Why, I never heard of it.

Pause

Are you serious!!?? What did the head teacher do?

Pause

I know, that must have offended him so much.

Pause

I haven’t the notes by me; but I think it goes something like this: by-the-ri-vers – of – ba-by-lon, whe-re – we – sat – d-own! And then repeat, you know?

Pause

Yes, I think it is very sweet, - and very solemn and impressive, if you get the tremolo and the pianissimo right.

Pause

Oh yes. He’s standing right here.

Pause

Visitors?

Pause

We never use butter on them, regular oil.

Pause

Yes, I think so. Please do pass my regards, okay?

Pause

Right…Four o’clock – I’ll be ready.

Pause

Yeah…bye.

[Hangs up the phone] He pauses then says, “Oh, holding this thing does tire the arm so! Thank you so much. Are you the new neighbors down the street?”

“Yes we are!”

“Oh great! Am Mr. Brown," he says, stretching his hand to greet mine, "I stay by the corner, right there,” he continues, pointing the direction of his house with his sweaty nose the way people do when their hands are busy (or tied behind them). “Please come by sometime for a cup of tea, okay?” I felt like asking him if he would laugh for me if I came.

“Sure I will,” That's me responding; not him hahaha. It's my response to his invitation for tea. He nodded and walked away. Rather, he tiptoed away.

Goodbyes...

Keita:Do you like Marx?

Sayid: I haven’t met him.

Keita: No, no, he’s dead.

Sayid: Why, what happened?

Keita: No, no, he died long ago.

[Sayid thought the guy Marx had just died]

Sayid: So then, why are you asking me if he died long ago?

Keita: No, he wrote a lot. He wrote that poor people should not be poor.

Sayid: Mmmh. Sounds amazing. [He searches his pockets and pulls out car keys and a packet of cigarettes. He just holds them in his hands] Hey Keita man, how long you think it takes to get famous?

Keita: For a musician or a painter? Or a taxi driver? [Sayid is a taxi driver. He is Pakistani. Keita is from Mali.]

Sayid: Whatever…Famous.

Keita: Four years!!??? Six to get rich!!? [Keita has a puzzling tone of speech. His sentences are something between a question and an exclamation, always, as though he is not sure of what he is saying. He will surprise you, though. He has seen a lot of different people. He has seen a lot of life…and he draws from it. His father was a cattle trader in the Sahel. As a boy he tagged along sometimes and saw how deals were struck and how fortune was made, or lost. A tall, easy chap with a benign smile, he now sells coffee and donuts at the airport. He holds out a cigarette lighter and Sayid lights his cigarette and takes a deep puff, and then slowly lets the smoke seep from his nose and the corners of his mouth, like steam seeping from a pan of boiling fish, with the lid sitting at an angle. They are looking at the mass of humanity pulling briefcases, connecting flights, catching up with time. People rushing to or from places. A people that doesn’t belong] But first, you see, you are going to have to dress right, you know? Then you’re going to have to hang out with famous people. Make friends with the right kind of people. Go to the right parties, yeah? Socialite.

      Sayid and Keita met by chance twelve years ago at this airport. The winds of fate blew them slowly from their places of birth towards each other, getting them ready for that final collision of destinies – that crossing of paths that would also be the start of a great friendship. Fate indeed was the quiet hand that toiled to bridge the 10,000 mile chasm between their lives -  lives that started out avoiding each other. Lives on parallel paths, like ships in the dark, destined for separate harbors.

      Now they sit, these two friends, chatting about Marx and fame, and some other dull stuff, killing boredom, watching lives transition – people rushing to meetings, interviews, to see loved ones. Others running away to plant their lives elsewhere. To new beginnings. Greener pastures.

      Transient life; that is what airports are. A temporary habitation for people who are on their way to someplace. As they wait they stare into their phones, typing. A people wired, tweeting, updating statuses, in touch with the rest of the world. Some slump on the cold steel chairs, nursing warm cups of latte, heads resting on their luggage. They stand up. They stroll. They read novels. They reach out to others like them and strike conversations. Mundane stuff usually. They are lonely people waiting to go.

      Sayid and Keita sit there in quiet, watching, each man soaking in the moment. It is a scene they have witnessed play one too many times but each with a slight variation. Sayid looks at it through the puff of smoke, a filter of sorts that puts things in perspective. There is a couple at the terminal. She is about 25, terribly beautiful. She is the sort of woman who walks on glass heels even when she’s in flat shoes. The sort who insults you and leaves you feeling that perhaps she is right. He looks older. Early 30’s maybe. They are bidding farewell and so they hug and cling so hard on each other, like identical fetuses, shut out from the humdrum of the airport lounge and the people all around them. He is in a brown leather jacket, corduroy pants and worn running shoes. A man with a good taste. He is pulling a small red and posh suitcase, her suitcase. She is in a light grey high-collar sweater and blue skinny jeans that hugs her frame. A black leather purse hangs on her left shoulder. She is a delight. She is a real beauty, like the sunset.

      They kiss with an unnerving urgency. They kiss with a craving deep and knowing; a searching kiss that without a doubt stirs something tender inside those that are watching – or pretending not to watch. Her eyes are shut tight, as if she is in pain or in a deep agony. But his eyes are not closed; they remain half open, as if to watch out for something, as if he is afraid of losing her. This action – him kissing with eyes wide open like a Nile Perch - would have looked uncanny or even morbid by many standards of intimacy, but it doesn’t; instead it looks raw and somewhat unworldly.

      They occasionally let go of this tight embrace and look fixedly into each other’s eyes, a long drilling gaze that seems more spiritual than romantic. He is saying something to her; his lips are moving, and she is nodding her head, bobbing, agreeing. Desperately agreeing to everything he is saying. Her eyes never leave his. Not once. Her lips quiver faintly. From his seat, Keita can see her heart throbbing against the base of her neck, a rapid thudding drumming away against her ebony flesh.

      All around them life in the airport continues unconcerned, insensitive even. It never stops to tip a hat, to notice. People walk hurriedly past them pulling their luggage, dragging their grumpy kids by the hand. The disembodied voice announces the flights about to board and the flights that have been delayed. And while the starry-eyed couple try to immortalize this final moment together, the flight schedules up on the board change and blink constantly, the huge clock above them also keeping pace, urging time to catch up with them, to cut them short…to yank them apart.

      Sayid and Keita don’t mind staring at the couple. They offer welcome reprieve from their boredom. They intrigue. Sayid wonders how long they have been dating. He wonders if they ever disagree on anything. He wonders what they do for a living. He wonders if distance would grind their relationship into dust, or if he would meet someone else as pretty, or who kissed so purposefully or even has half her grace and easy self assurance.

The man is travelling light. But then again, maybe he is connecting flights and his luggage is already 25,000 feet over Mecca.

       Wait a minute! Something is staring back at you here. Some devil in the detail. A pedestrian look would observe romance and passion in this couple’s kiss, but a closer observation reveals something else; horror and devastation. It occurs to Keita, who is keenly watching, that they kiss passionately not because they are so in love, but because they are confronted by a reality that they are not ready to heed. A horror that they would never rekindle this moment, this feeling, this passion with which they kiss and feel about each other. They are faced with a handicap of not being able to dictate their destiny, time and distance because time – like distance – does heal yes, but it also destroys. Mercilessly. Their future is an endless desert fraught with the unknown, maybe they would last, maybe they would break up, maybe the next time they meet the magic will have vanished. Maybe. Maybe.

       When her flight is finally called out, they disentangle from each other grudgingly, painfully. She is on a flight to Tokyo. Yes Tokyo, Japan. Something like a smirk forms on Sayid’s face. He wants to laugh. Maybe there’s something he knows about Tokyo that the rest of humanity doesn’t. You know Sayid can be such a jerk when he’s sitting at an airport.

       Anyway, you need to have been here to witness the tragedy that ensues when this couple let go of each other. It is not something that can be relayed without losing certain silent but salient and most poignant body language of these two. This is something that has been lost forever. It cannot be reproduced.

The flight announcement comes as a knife that not only sears through them like a bolt of heat, but tears them apart with such shocking violence. He grabs, yes he grabs, and pulls her against him so tightly that not even a spirit could squeeze between them. Her head rests on his chest and she is smelling the leather no doubt, a smell she will not forget in a long time. They stand comatose, two grotesque avatars of desperation. Two failing hearts. Two metaphors of love’s tragic evil.

      She cries so wretchedly against his chest. Against that leather. Keita momentarily looks away. She claws at his back, shrinking his leather jacket into a fistful of torment. Her whole body convulses with every tear. He holds her close, his nose buried into her hair, smelling her, taking her every scent like a tracking dog would. It’s a scent he won’t forget in a hurry. He will be walking down a street – many months or years later – and a slight breeze will momentarily carry that whiff past his face, and he will stop dead in his tracks, in the middle of the busy street, his heart galloping away with memories of her, and despise the ones who try too hard.

       They finally let go, but it’s not out of necessity. Rather, out of a disturbing sense of purpose. If this was a movie, you’d want to stop and rewind the moment when their bodies separate. And then play it again in slow motion, because that’s how it seems like; life in slow motion. She avoids his eyes. She takes a step back, sniffy and teary. She bends and grabs her suitcase. She mumbles something under her breath then takes a deep breath then attempts a smile but all that she manages is a fractured smile, a broken smile.

She then does something strange; she briefly places the palm of her hand against his chest – as if dispatching some sort of power through him – then she walks away. He slowly turns and watches her walk away. She doesn’t look back. Not once. As she walks away she stares at the floor. Her luggage suddenly weigh an elephant and a squirrel. She walks briskly but deliberately through the check-in gate and soon she is swallowed by a throng (the “r” in this last word makes a huge difference hehehe. Linguists’ sense of humor sure runs deep). Soon she is part of a homogenous mass of faceless humanity on the move. Soon she is not the gorgeous girl who mirrors the sunset, but just a moving part of an airport. She is just a statistic.

      Her boyfriend massages his brow lightly with his hand. Sayid and Keita try not to look at his face, more out of courtesy than anything else. Call it a manly respect. He needs the privacy to moan, that is their way of eulogizing what they just witnessed. Or maybe it’s because they don’t want to see the vulnerability of manhood in his face. It is something painful, because at that moment you are reminded of your own vincibility. He walks a few steps to one of the steel chairs at the lounge and sits, an action that seems to take all his energy. Meanwhile, the airport continues to stir and rev. It has no time for his pains. And while it seems that the show has ended for everyone who has been watching, the show is just starting for him. And her.

Life Saver

Sketchy people!!!...What a full phrase! I learned it from a friend that I love to death. It came to take a life of its own. I loved more how she said it, the ease with which she let it out, the effortlessness, the grace, and now in hindsight, the precision of those two words to describe a human condition. She said it in the same way you’d breathe, or scratch the back of your neck when it itches. She didn’t think about it. I got the impression that she didn’t move a single muscle to let it out because it wasn’t work for her. She just said it and moved on…to other things. And so did I, till now.

Truth is: if you still breathe, if there’s still some energy left in you, if you haven’t exhausted your mileage (which reminds me of my sister. Let me digress one minute. My sister doesn't like to run. She says it's because she believes God assigned each of us a certain amount of mileage (fixed mileage) which we have to cover in our lifetime. Once we cover it we die. The quicker you cover yours the sooner you die. Basic math. So? She doesn’t run; she walks!…She runs only when she has to. Like when she’s fleeing something that might bite her), you will run into sketchy people quite a bit. They are everywhere: at the mall, at the gas station, at the beach. You will know them when you run into them because they are people we know, they do things that we recognize. They are our friends. Here’s a little definition to work with. A sketchie (aka sketchy person) is someone who wears shades in the club. A sketchie is someone who will update their Facebook status saying something like “Eating ice cream. So yummy. We are having fun lol”. The “lol” part is a dead giveaway. A sketchie is someone in skinny pants (hehehe…no I lie).Some of them are people we look up to, people we see on television and admire. We flip pages of magazines to read about their latest tattoo. People on whose every word we cling.

The point I mean to make is that Sketchy is not just a person; it is a phenomenon, it is a human condition. Sketchy is a movement – The Sketchy People Movement, just like the LGBT Movement. Its members span the entire human spectrum, a riot of humanity. It knows no race, nor religion, nor sexual orientation. None of that. What’s common to all sketchies is their strong yearning for urban correctness, for sophistication. They scream for validation. They are vain a huge part of the time (for that's the hallmark of sketchiness). A lot of times they will dive into cliques, like Savannah moles dive into their holes in flight to save their skins (or rather their fur) from a predator. They find safety in cliques. They will avoid having to construct real identities, for the cliques become THE identity.

Here is what happened. My friend Kwame graduated from college a week ago. That was before I knew about Sketchies and their stunts. A graduation party was organized that night and friends got together to celebrate a brother on his big day, you know the works. I was invited, and you never turn down invitations of this nature; you show your love, so I said game.

Around 10:30 that night I pitch up. The party is at a ballroom within the apartment complex where my friend lives. I can tell as I park my car that a fair number of people have attended. The parking lot is fairly full. Music is booming from the ballroom, people speaking over the din, an occasional laugh, signs of merry making. A promise of a good night. I make my way.

                There are a few dozen people here already, most of whom I cannot recognize. You see, we have very few common friends with Kwame. Most people here are his friends from school or some other place that only God (and him) would know. The music is loud. Most people are holding red plastic cups with drinks, or cans of booze, milling around, talking – a cacophonous stew of unintelligible sounds. It’s like an open air fruit market (or a livestock market). People are having fun. I look around. There’s a lot of food, and faces. I spot Kwame chatting up a group of friends at the other end of the room (it’s a big room). He’s saying something to his friends, that small band he is talking to. He has their attention. They are listening; he’s a bubbly guy. His friends seem to be tipsy, from what I can tell. Not him. Kwame doesn’t drink. He is a born-again Christian and as he says, he doesn’t mix his faith with his drink.

That’s fine with me, but just so long as he doesn’t starve his friends with water and juice (if they'd rather do with some gin). Now he turns and sees me. Hell breaks loose. “Heyyyyyy!!! Guys look who’s here…!!!” he shouts in glee and walks towards me, arms stretched open. Everyone looks. “My homeboy Danieli is here! Guys you’ve got to meet my boy Danieli before the night is done”. He gets to me and embraces me in open arms, a firm embrace, and welcomes me to his party. He is so proud I came. He shows off (he is a little corny Christian). As the night progresses I get to meet a couple of his friends. I make friends. The circle gets bigger, right?

This post is not about the circle, though. Rather, the sketchiness of the assemblage that night, and my ultimate salvation. There was a certain phoniness about the place. Knowing very few people there, it was a somewhat awkward for me given how everyone was relating with everyone. People sat in snotty little clusters, people who were supposed to be friends already. From these clusters they eyed other groups across the room. It was as though willing them not to dare mix with their group because they might just end up diluting their assemblage with their less pedigree…that sort of vibe. Doesn’t that sink the spirit? Look, I might not know shit (yes I said that…bite me) but this I can bet my bottom shilling for: friends’ parties, by definition, should be events where people get along. They should be forums where that friendship is celebrated and toasted to and renewed, otherwise the essence of having them is lost and people would rather sit at home and watch tv.  

At some point I step outside for a breather and there I meet this old chum – a coffee-colored guy with a puff of hair on his chin. He looks like Ginjah. He is tall and lank, a man in his early forties I think. He has a roll of weed held between his fingers. On the other hand a cigarette lighter (in this case a weed lighter). He is leaning against the wall, looking at something distant, something far out in the night sky. Am carrying a bottle of mineral water that I’ve been nursing since I got here. I hadn’t seen him at all inside, this guy…but then again I didn’t see everybody who came. He regards me momentarily and asks if I would like a smoke.

“No, thanks. I do not smoke,” I tell him. There’s something like a faint smile on his face when I say that. He doesn’t say anything. Some silence, then he brings the roll to his lips, in slow motion. The lighter clicks and he lights it. He closes his eyes and takes a deep drag at it. Smoke fills his soul. He doesn’t open his eyes but lets smoke crawl out of his nose into the cold chilly night in a lazy trail. He stays in that position for a while; immobile. Still. The roll smolders in a dull ember between his fingers. He smokes some more. Same fashion. There’s just silence between us save for the sound of his puffing and the screaming insects of the night (and perhaps the sound of life from the ballroom behind us). A soft breeze blows through. He slowly, even achingly opens his eyes and looks at me. His eyes are red, like sorghum juice. Now he smiles a bit, at me.

“My friend, this is some good stuff,” he is saying, his voice deep and scratchy, gnawing at me like a greyhound’s bite. I nod. I don’t want to spoil the mood. “You know in this country you have economic disparity – the very rich and the very poor.” He continues, “And you have a marijuana disparity. You have the crappiest marijuana on earth – herb that comes in from Mexico, that doesn’t get you high. You smoke three or four rolls and you still are not satisfied. And then you have the best bucchi bud on earth! The can dogs, the guava cams…” He lifts the roll held between his fingers and looks at it admiringly, as if seeing it for the first time. He nods in approval, his eyes still fixed on the roll. “This stuff is grown with love out of extraordinary genetics.” I almost laugh but I don’t. “They call you, the high is incredible, the smell is incredible. This sells for a lot of money, my friend. I spend a lot of money on this.”

He holds it out to me to feel. I grab it. I take and look at it. He is pleased. “The best gardens in the world are turning their attention in pulling the potential in this plant.” He says, pointing at the roll in my hands. “And you can coax a lot of different flavors and a lot of different experiences out of it, and that’s what they are doing…”

“Really? So where’s this one from?” I ask, just to keep him talking. He’s on a roll.

“This one? This is from the mountain slopes of Afghanistan. Fine stuff, I tell you. Grown by the Taliban,” he replies. He pauses. Clears his throat and turns to look at something in the dark. A few seconds pass in quiet.

Now, as if talking to himself he says, slowly, in a measured, almost sacred tone. There’s conviction in his voice, “Marijuana enhances my life. Marijuana enhances my sensuality. It brings me closer to God. I think it makes me a better parent, I think it makes me a better man,” At this point I imagine what his family might look like. Is his wife a nurse, a school teacher, a secretary at an office? What does she do? What about him? Does he have a son or daughter? Or both? A whole flood of questions, like a curse, descend on my mind and refuse to leave. “I think it makes me more sensitive to my surroundings and the people around me. It certainly makes me more sensitive to food, and music, and art and, speaking as a fifty six year old man, it beats the hell out of Viagra.” What!!! The guy is fifty bloody six years old! Good gracious…He looks forty, or less! Is it the weed? “That’s why marijuana is different. That’s why you have to put an asterisk when you call the drug.” Hahaha…I laughed at that last line. It was a punch-line. Ginjah here was running with it. A weed ambassador for real. A bullshitter. He saved the night that sketchies would have otherwise ruined with their classist attitudes. He told me afterwards that there was a guy selling oranges and smoking weed in Golgotha when Jesus was being crucified. It’s somewhere in the book of Luke. Thank you Ginjah; show me a sign wherever you are. You are a life saver.