The ‘Bottom’ Line

You cannot tell if you’re in love until you’ve farted in each other's face, and laughed yourselves senseless! I heard this on some raunchy Russian drama on BBC radio. At the time, it felt like I was eavesdropping in shock on an unfolding scarlet scandal. But, now, I love it!

The bravado of breaking righteous wind in the hallowed presence of one you care crackers about, is even more wonderful because it tests their delicate senses, and their romantic vibes for you!

The almost imperceptible parting of the derriere crack, and the slight flutter and fall of the clothes at the point of impact; the thunderclap or power drill that brings the eerie, uneasy knowledge of what comes next; the tale of what last went in the mouth catches you on-the-fly, making you pinch your nares.

The choice: should you feel affronted? Violated! Or should you let loose laughing, and log on to the feel-good factor?

Dino Control

Under her mundane, abbess dress, Accra holds many puzzling marvels. One such is the way some of her people think. Today, at a hotel, my friends and I only craved to have the TV switched from the news to the England-Croatia game. By management rules, they had to summon the hotel electrician to do it. If it takes an electrician to change a channel on cable, it should require a molecular physicist on top of his atomic game to unscrew a light bulb, no?

The VSNL Kind of Love

I told my girl, this evening, that what we had was the VSNL kind of love. She’s the wild, audacious and fetchingly frivolous one between us. So I was ten miles totally at sea to find that she was not too oily and buttered-up by my soft soap on our joint jollification. Perhaps the ‘V’ sounded out of place. I could have pretended, for starters, that it referred to a far more delicate delight of mankind, no, womankind. But it doesn’t! Simply taking any one letter on its own demeans the raw, seductive charm of the quartet. I’ve always dreamt of the VSNL kind of love, and, now, I’m living it!

Cumstasis

You Can’t Touch This! When the Walkman was ‘in’, and every fly gal and guy had to be caught dead strapping one and singing or rapping along (though they themselves were spared of their own torment), a girl seeking recognition was overheard saying over and over again – CUMSTASIS, and, then, she’d hum the beat after that. The droning finked to every listener that she was a fake, ill-acquainted with the truth, and that she was playing Hammer’s ‘You Can’t Touch This’. Cumstasis, huh?

The Ugliest Animal

All the animals gathered deep in the forest to make a drum for entertainment. They readily found the tree trunk and bark they needed, and everything was going swimmingly. When the drum was finished, its earth hues, curvy strokes and dulcet timbre took their bestial breaths away. But, alas, it was elephantine and could not be lugged back home without difficulty. Rabbit, whose trap was always as fast as its feet, announced, “The ugliest animal is going to have to carry it.” There was silence for a moment, as each animal mentally measured its own physical appeal. Then, another animal was heard on the whistling forest air accosting Rabbit “I know you’ve never liked me. You’ll always have me do the dirtiest work!” It was Monkey. No name had been given, but it thought the cap fit, so Monkey put it on.

Close Contact

The club was packed and smoky, and stowed senseless with gadabouts reeking rank of dried or burnt grass. It was that much worse with the whiff of bitters or cheaper ethanol.

I was dancing with a girl I know and consider decent enough. It was both disturbing and thrilling to watch her gyrating with open body like she was lone-dancing in her room.

Just when I was forgetting about the nasal assault of the louts, the girl opposite belched her bile up right in my face, and bathed me in the stifling warmth of lager, stout and some mid-way digested chow.

A 17-Bedroom House!

In many folded parts, deep in the cramped closet of the rich-poor City of Accra, you’ll espy a hangar-and-a-half of a house sticking out, like a middle finger, on a dirt-tracked back road with yawning trenches crudely cut into its face by the mocking elements. You’ll see gaping gutters and little wild bush patches festering here and there. You’re also likely to see a termite-gobbled half-board of wood teasing '17-Bedroom House for Sale'!

Now, it didn’t say 17 rooms but 17 bedrooms. Does that reveal anything? Of course! The owner had in mind (assuming their mind was present) a house to live in, and not a public facility. But we know that most families that can count seventeen members are themselves a family of servants in other people’s homes. So, who did you erect this smoke mountain for – a football team? Because its sprawl is uncontrolled enough to hold a playing field. Or did you build it to house one-third of your entombed ego?