After a week of wild and licensed devilment, a newly-married husband (H) and wife (W) call timeout, and vow to make love on only r-bearing days: Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
The novel arrangement (quite senseless to present raconteur) works well for the weekend. But, by Monday, the hunger lurks in H’s brightening eyes, and W wilts under his soulful stare.
By Tuesday night, H and W have got to accidentally touching each other, with every tiny movement, on their suddenly-shrinking bed, and pretending not to notice. But, on realising that pride and honour would not help revoke the rashly-made vow, H and W tacitly turn to high intrigue.
H: Baby, what day is today?
The thick and terrifying traffic, in the city of Accra, snakes its way through the now-noisy suburban streets to the city centre. The nuclear sun conspires along, assisted by the lately-rising skyline, to asphyxiate a tearful and frustrated city.
With all the hideously-hot hours spent in the stagnant traffic jams, fatigue spreading like an oil slick, and boiling-point weather, I believe the case is made for an extra day of the week :). Even Saturday and Sunday pass too quickly, and Tired Monday is soon upon us.
People may treat the extra day as a working day or no, but the case is strongly made. What I don't know, for certain, is whether this appeal should be made to Parliament or Heaven, but I’m collecting signatures :). When the extra day is granted, I suggest we call it … TRUESDAY! Poor couple.