Prime
Bowels of hell
I was in town at 7.30am.
There was still about an hour on the clock before work, so I decided to step into an eatery and get some post-breakfast.
I had already eaten breakfast at home.
However, I read somewhere that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. That means if I had breakfast again, it would be twice as important.
Feeling like a genius for figuring this out, I parked my backside on a seat, then nodded to the waitress.
She nodded back.
Then, I raised my head but didn’t let it fall.
Without raising her head skyward, the waitress dropped her chin to her chest to complete the rest of my nod.
It was clear that she was now a nodding acquaintance.
So I felt safe to wave her over.
You see, the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. So I tend to fall in love with every waitress who serves me food.
The only insurance against them loving me back is getting myself deposited into the friendzone as a nodding acquaintance.
That way, ‘food’ doesn’t become a dirty four letter tripping in its heels en-route to my bedroom in Balagadde Rise, Kyanja, where the Longfellow dangling between my legs does the ‘rising’, on Balagadde’s behalf.
As I was served a plate of katogo, the table creaked under the weight of my sizeable meal.
Feeling good, I looked around with a grin-at-your-neighbours sense of accomplishment. But all I got were the angry stares of strangers who looked back at me as if I had just said “Yo mammas are so ugly, the only way they can wear their face masks correctly is on their butts.”
Ignoring their hostility, I picked up a bottle of red hot chili and squeezed it over my food until my plate looked like a crime scene.
After wolfing down the post-breakfast, my stomach immediately became rowdy with what sounded like Russian folk dancers in high red boots doing squat and knee bending movements as their feet kicked outwards and their faces broadened into wide smiles.
I felt like I was giving birth to Vladimir Putin, with Trump’s hair!
However, I ignored my stomach’s protests over the chili.
Checking my watch, it was 7.50am.
So I paid the cash for the meal. Then, I walked towards the Post Office.
Suddenly, my stomach growled.
I instinctively stopped.
Then, it growled even louder.
After that, it started to grumble with sides-clutching intensity.
Oh. My. God. (I said, in Anita Fabiola’s voice.)
Imaginary sneakers were slowly growing out of my stomach, and starting to move. My stomach had no choice but to follow this peculiar case of the runs.
Sweating, I knew I had to find a toilet. Or the porcelain gods of the men’s room might decide that my anus should introduce my post-breakfast to my long-suffering underwear.
Afflicted by a biblical case of the squirts, liquid gases started to escape my butt-crack in episodic buildups to a Great Flood.
In panic, I looked left and then right.
Then, I looked up: Grand Imperial Hotel was open. Although its toilets were marked ‘pull’ to the push of non-residents, I had to use them.
Clutching my crotch and my rear at the same time, I blocked all possible exit points for my arriving diarrhoea. Then, I rose toward the hotel like that clown climbing the ladder of success wrong by wrong instead of rung by rung.
In between, I made stops every five metres whenever I heard my stomach pump up its tempo to the strains of Russian folk music.
Finally, I reached the revolving door at the entrance of the hotel and the security guard waved her wand all over me.
Then she carefully assessed my ID to make sure the name ‘Osama bin Laden’ didn’t appear anywhere in the credits of this movie I was dying in.
She noticed my brow had enough sweat to form a puddle, which I could lay a coat over in case she demanded any display of chivalry from me.
I could literally do anything for her; all she needed to do was let me in.
Puh-leeze or, more appropriately, Pooh-Leeze!
My stomach was now thundering away and the weather forecast in my underwear promised heavy showers and a lot of sun and smiles soon after that.
“You may enter,” she finally said.
I sped down the hallway, to the toilet.
Seeing it vacant, I quickly pulled down my trousers then tried to run inside a toilet stall. But with my trousers at my ankles, my motion was reduced to mincing steps.
When inside the stall, I let my butt fall hard onto the toilet seat.
Fwoosh, whssssit, KABOOM!
The storm came as an opera accompanied by anal applause. My butt then sounded a mournful trumpet of wet acoustics as fog pervaded the room.
Anally exhaling a nightmare, a river expanded from my rear and surged to a new paradise. It was finally over.
But when I looked up from the bowels of hell, horror struck me: there was no toilet paper!
