I found myself -your conspicuous mandatary- at the mercy of an hospital in Monrovia waiting for treatment of a middle area infection produced by small arachnids like ticks, but smaller. This condition has the distinction of bringing the patient to an extreme state of unrest, and because of the irresistible itching, I had already broken four times the glass of water that is required in the bedside tables. Aware of this situation, Dr. Samuel Garnahweh, head of the “carnal” diseases, ordered in writing to get me a plastic cup.
Something down there was asking me to start being a bit more selective. With those dark scullions with dyed blond wigs, one pound lower lip and four of gum, leopard color velvet pants, perfumes of maid, high heel shoes with worn soles, black rice peel between the teeth, fallenchoots, megahineys, my account didn’t add up. I felt like the sadistic of whom a writer was speaking, that is not, but a tortured masochistic torturing himself by not torturing a supposed masochistic. The latest the true sadist, enjoying the other into believing that he is what he is really not. And all this by myself, while also thinking that those plump souls dwelling in the African Fuckshion, should be concentrated in a strange building of massive proportions -to fit their pieces of ass, and once you have entered all that meat, close the doors properly and spit thick jets from the walls with muriatic acid and carbon tetrachloride. That would result in several barrels of high quality oil, and less tiny ticks. I mean, what I saved with third degree whores, Dr. Samuel got it.
Although better thought, some blame should fall on the opera. That Margherita Bellino, the beautiful singer who got to learn English to Giacomo Justerini, from the land of the spaghetti Bolognese, back in 1749. Long you want to borrow, you may think, for my unwanted tenants were tickling me in this summer of our Lord 1998, but that was the year Giacomo traveled to London, to stay, and as something has to be done for living, he didn’t think any another thing but to invent the ‘usquebaugh’ -or the J & B, as information to sober or uneducated, forgive me the redundancy. If not for the evil and liquid legacy of Ms. Bellino, I would have captured the nuances. The misguided souls of Fuckshion brothel resembled pigs, I mean: fat, dark, cynical and rude. They rose from the table with their faces a bit congested, and not by a long shot were able to say ‘I’m coming’ or ‘permission, I’m going to cut daisies’ or even ‘excuse me because I’ve to go to the bathroom’. No. Their phrase chosen was inevitably a tribute to vulgarity:
– ‘Gudbai, I’m going to poop’.
Coarseness to which I joined:
– ‘Go al diablo’
– ‘Yo love you!’
– ‘God bendiga yu. Muleteers we are and on the calle we’ll meet’.
Finally the nurse came in with a ointment in her hand and a grin on her mug. She snapped unceremoniously, an intimacy harvested given my assiduity to the clinic:
– ‘Is that really fornication? I thought it was something else, something like who knows… that I would practice every day, but mostly do not. You see, because my ignorance’.
– ‘What things you can imagine,’ -I replied-, ‘don’t forget, madam, that today everyone is fighting over peace and myself, at night, I wrestle hand-to-hand.’
But her sixty years well spent, and her mocking gaze, made me realize suddenly that I will always be an Adam who dreams in paradise, but always wake up with the ribs intact. Albeit with crabs. Be realistic: Let’s accept in principle that the hare is a cat.
The African Fuckshion – Dugutigui