Not long after you had finished sucking and masticating a few of the oranges Anjikwi, your nephew, bought for you, had you gotten in the mood for number two, for the first time in three days. But, as if on cue, the uncoordinated applause of the distant gunshots erupted as soon as you settled in the toilet seat. Those ominous sounds then cued up an instant commotion – fathers shouting a myriad of instructions, motorcycles revving, several pairs of feet scurrying incessantly, remote screaming and wailing from women and frightened children. You knew it was only a matter of time before the whole village was devoid of villagers, yet you were unmoved.
The water closet your son, Yamta, erected behind the family house last year, was much more comfortable than the pit latrine you were familiar with. But that was not the reason why you remained seated in the midst of the ruckus. It was because Kwajaffa was your home and you didn’t see the sense in abandoning it, besides, an 87 year old woman with a snail foot for legs, would only embarrass herself trying to race Continue reading “Snail Foot”