Maybe if we called him L-Mac?

She called me a pansy, because I told her I own a volume of Louis MacNeice. And I laughed.

Because that is ludicrous: How can I be a pansy? I am Ernest Fucking Bazanye, for crizzy! But I do reside round her little finger, so I am not going to belabour the point.

 

Onward in time: some circumstance led three Whitney Houston  MP3s into my home. Is It Just the Lonely Talking Again, You're Still My Man and I Know Him So Well.

 

I could start listing all the Wu Tang, Fela Kuti, Miles Davis, Royce 5 9, Hendrix, Chemical Brothers, Jigga, and mad guitar I usually listen to during the week, but the thing is, I was there listening to someone power-ballading "Is it just the lonely talking again" and enjoying it.

I could list all the hard music but it would just sound like a case of the pansy doth protest too much.

 

And now, a break:

 

Tumtumtum TWISH!  http://bazanye.wordpress.com  GabbaBANG!

 

And back.

 

 

NERD'S EYE VIEW CONT'D

 

So I was on Kampala Road in my shorts, looking misguided. It is at times like this that the most irrational fears rear heads. I used to be a secondary school teacher. A few years ago. The kids I taught should be in university now. What if one or more of them are frolicking about town right now and they see me? You know how university students are: they are very fashion-conscious. Their whole life is a catwalk. And you know how former students are: they are very vengeful. If my former students saw me looking stupid on the streets, they would, in all probability, stop the car, run out, point at me and laugh out loud.

 

I quelled those fears though, with simple logic. Come on. Like any of those dimwits would make it to university.

 

That's when a voice right behind me said, "Eschoose me, sir."

I responded as anyone would under such circumstances. By saying "Oh shit".

 

I turned round, fully expecting to see one of the ex-students draped head to toe in something classy like Dolce or Gabana. Maybe even both. I was trying out approaches for dealing with this. Part of my mind was weighing "Listen, I can explain" against "What are you doing gallivanting around town? Don't you have anything constructive to do?"

 

Fortunately, I did not need to employ either manoeuvre. It was not a former student. It was a tiny boy in oversized sunglasses jerking his thumb in the direction of a Celica parked a few feet away. "Eschoose me sir. Dat man he want to talk to you."

In the car was the fellow I had come to town to meet. Isaac.

 

He gave the little boy a thousand bob note for delivering the message and me, and the boy scurried off to wherever he came from.

 

"Street kids are dressing stylishly these days," I said to Isaac, as the boy and his sunglasses disappeared.

He reached over and opened the passenger door, saying, when he saw my shorts, "You should borrow a leaf from them."

 

I got in the car and he asked where the Worm was.

"The full story is, he is stuck at home because all his clothes, except the pyjamas he spent the night in, are on the wire, having been washed this morning by the cleaning lady."

"Why would she wash all his clothes and leave him nothing to wear?" Isaac asked.

"That is a question we plan to raise with her on our next meeting."

"This is no good." Isaac shook his head in disappointment. "This completely throws plans out of equilibrium. The Worm's presence is vital for this programme to succeed. We must fetch him."

"Will your programme succeed if the Worm is present in his pyjamas?"

"I will lend him some clothes of mine. Let's go get him." And off we drove. Isaac thinking deeply about his plan, me thinking deeper: what plan was this that would have one party in shorts, the other in borrowed clothes and only one of us looking decent?

 

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