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Deleted above is the reason why days I why I work late into the night these days. I be doing very secret but very very very awesome things that I will stop short of describing here because, well, it’s for your own safety. The less you know.
So I was up at two-thirty am on Saturday morning when there was a knock on the door.
I’ll stop here to elaborate for my friends who are just joining us from Kololo. Here in Uganda people don’t have bells at gates that are rung to alert them of visitors. Here in the third world visitors stride right up to the door and, because there is no bell, they just utter these little punches on its surface.
And this is what happened. I wasn’t that surprised to see who it was.
It’s these associates of mine from America who think that when they come to Uganda they can just show up at my place without any warning and just expect me to have a sofa (though they prefer to call it a “couch”) for them to crash on.
I withdrew the most withering of all my glances from its holster and fired it at the figure in the doorway.
“Bob,” I said.
“Hi, Baz,” he grinned.
“Bob?” I repeated, still glancing.
“Yes, Baz?” he said, withering a bit.
“Bob, it’s almost three a.m.” I said.
“I know and…”
“Take off the fucking sunglasses.”
He explained that he had been performing a concert and that is why he was wearing shades that late in the night– to protect his eyes from the various hazards of stage performances. He apologized, but the thing with him is that his apologies don’t mean anything. I will never forget the time the cops found his stash of home-made porn, some of featuring suspiciously callow-seeming girls. After railing about the injustice, the raw, brutal, injustice of his unfair victimization by the authorities, Bob just switched to the use of a hard-drive instead of tape.
“So, what brings you to town?” I asked, by way of small talk as his bodyguards began to tidy up the sitting room, striving to find a sofa somewhere underneath all the scattered socks and books and stuff.
“Work,” he said. “You know how it is. They just call you one morning and tell you you have been assigned to some half-assed, podunk, hole-in-the-wall, rat-dick, flat-footed, fleabitten, rag-chewed, monkey shit, throwaway, dirtbag country – and no offence, Baz, I know it’s your home and stuff— and you have to fly there and work. I was so pissed off. For this I’m missing the grammys!”
“Were you up for a Grammy?” I asked.
“Nah. But I heard that Miley and Taylor were going to be there and they won’t return my calls. I need to talk to them and since their fathers got restraining orders…”
“Bob I don’t really need to know the details,” I cut him short.
“Anyway, that’s that. They sent me here on assignment. There weren’t any drugs though. Would you believe in this lame ass, duckwaddle, scumbucket country they can’t score you any good crack? I swear! There are homeless people in Chicago who have no problem getting crack, but here, I’m the richest person in a stadium of thousands and thousands and I was freaking sober! All I had in me was a few jolts of some weed and glue I got from some dude named Tamilly or Kamilly or something and I think he ripped me off and just gave me some fucking tea leaves. Anyway, so there I was in the middle of the show, totally bored and sober and I could see all these women in the front row who were like 32 years old who had done their hair up in pigtails and were carrying teddy bears and schoolbags and screaming at me saying, ‘Me am in S2!’ whatever that means and I figured, ‘Screw this! Really, who will stop me if I jus walk out?’”
“So here you are?”
“Yeah, I couldn’t go back to the hotel. The shows organizers want to kill me for bailing in the middle of the show,” His red rheumy eyes looked melted without the sunglasses. “So I came here if it’s okay, can I crash here?”
I got out my leger and wrote him an invoice. The money plus an autographed CD single of Summer Bunnies, cos that’s my JAM!
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