A recent experience tempted me to put these matters in font. I was strolling on the streets of Nairobi when I got the urge to fulfill a small call of nature (note the word small). Thank heavens Iko toilets (zIko) everywhere nowadays and all you need is a coin and excreta and all your ‘calls’ can be conveniently ‘answered’. So I get into one to help build the nation with other Kenyans. First, the atmosphere of many ‘men at work’ in a small space is repelling. Then the urinal was a blatant abuse of personal space: the bowls too close and a tad bit too high. It seemed that the designer was totally oblivious of the fact that basket ball players are less than a minority in this country. Acrobatics seemed essential for shorter men if they were to have their private moments in comfort.
When my turn at the urinating bowl came, I was pressed almost to a break-dancing point. I went ahead to relieve my latest troubles amidst an applause of farts in the background. Mid stream, a disturbing noise rent the air: a phone ringing. It wasn’t mine and even if it were I wouldn’t dare pick up. But after a few uncomfortable seconds the owner in one of the water closets picked up with a very constipated ‘Aro…….., I'm ferry pissy, can I call you pack soon?’ I never had a chance to eavesdrop the rest of the conversation due to laughter echoes filling up my cranium. I wonder however how he sounded from the callers side. It even got me thinking of those times that 'matters of faecal importance' bring a funny twist to otherwise normal daily activities.
For instance, imagine you had an infection and you self prescribed strong antibiotics, curing it but leaving you with violent diarrhoea instead. The doctor explains that the drugs you took killed all your ‘friendly’ intestinal bacteria hence the bowel overdrive. Then he goes on to prescribe faecal biotherapy. The thought that you are so ill that you need poop from someone else to get better is disturbing enough. Whoever thought that a faecal transplant could save lives? The irony is that other body valuables such as kidneys are hard to part with and easy for patients to accept but when transplanting goes the crappy way, the converse applies instead.
This other moment most of you can relate to. It’s in the morning, you are in your favorite white shirt, and you feel confident, look good and smell good. Everything feels perfect until a big bird flies by and offloads on your white shirt. Worse still, the aim is accurate: right on your collar and shoulder, and the dump foul and sizable: large enough to make you reel back on impact. That’s when the music in your head stops playing, and the whole day grinds momentarily to a halt. Now that’s crappy is it not? It would only get worse if alternatively you were a realy tall fellow walking in hostile territory (read- area with flying toilets!).
Talking of faecally incontinent avians, I remember this film I watched way back where the king of a certain African tribe was chosen by the gods, signified by a bird taking a dump on his head. Perhaps our former colonial masters need to borrow a leaf now that their country is in turmoil. The comic relief could ease the political tension, and maybe that sort of change is what they need. Picture a number of monarch hopeful noble Britons standing in line waiting for a fleet of crows to fly by and dump. One ‘lucky’ guy lands a generous poop helping on his now half-grimacing-half-ecstatic face and proudly turns around to look at the people. Then the archbishop of Cantebury points at him and shouts in acknowledgement in a heavy british accent at the eager crowd below, ’Holy crap! Behold, I give yee Sir Dunghead Guthawker Winterbottom, all hail the king!’
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