Ozymandias

Again and again, I try to go back to sleep, but this Ruuba orchestra is hell-bent on seeing that my interrupted dream remains unfinished. Four months in this godforsaken city and you’d think I’d know by now that a performance such as this does not jolt one out of his sleep only to lull him back into it. That dream is long gone now; I’ll never know what became of the vegan and his dog.

It’s like everything in this city is designed to make as much noise as possible. Why else would buildings and shops have speakers and megaphones mounted on their exteriors? Why are chickens running free in the streets clucking as noisily as they please? Street kids, hawkers, neighbours, all conspiring to rob me of peace and quiet. I can hear the preacher on the megaphone from three buildings away telling his congregation how much blessings the following week would bring, same as he did last Sunday and the Sunday before that. As though in competition, the church just two floors below is beginning to up its tempo. Its members are now in deep, frenetic worshipping, each trying to outshout the other in a desperate bid to win God’s attention. The holiest ones are speaking in tongues and I’m mad because I’m not understanding the rubbish they are saying.

And then, of course, there’s the worst of them—generators. Those mechanical noise machines are relentless. They do not tire, and someone always has them on. They are like giant metallic mosquitoes, close enough to frustrate and just far enough to avoid swatting. Even when there’s power, there’s always that one neighbour who hasn’t paid his bills, has a faulty meter, or is just unaware; now everyone must suffer the noise of his generator and hate him for it. There is no reason why so many people should have their generators on at 11:45 on a Sunday morning. Catholics! Back from their mass before my tongue-speaking neighbours downstairs have even begun giving testimonies. If only their services were longer, they’d be somewhere else now disturbing other people. Instead, they’re here polluting the air with the fumes of their generators interspersed with the smell of their Sunday rice that I won’t taste.

As if on cue, this girl has started disturbing my phone; like I don’t have enough problems already, now she wants to add her nagging. I’m sure she’s calling now because she wants to come over. These Ruuba girls that’s all they know, jumping from one man's house to the other. Yet every Sunday they dress like butterflies and march to church like holy ants. Look at this one calling me, barely 16 and still in secondary school, she is already pursuing man up and down. Her church hasn’t even finished service yet and already she’s looking to book an appointment with someone old enough to be her father. Alright maybe not father, but uncle or much older brother; I’d need to have been recklessly licentious at 12 to be her father.

I’ve sent her a message telling her to come up after the service, but only because I know she’d keep ringing my phone until my battery’s dead. She’s just responded saying she’s coming up in 15 minutes because the service is boring, and she can’t be home late two Sundays in a row or else her mummy will suspect something.

Now I’m rushing to prepare everywhere. I’m sweeping, cleaning, arranging toiletries, hanging some clothes, shoving others under the bed, removing used plates and cups. I’m even bathing and brushing at the same time. I have to wear my Lakers vest and Champion shorts because the only other clean cloths I have are for going out. I’ve sprayed perfume everywhere and removed all the cobwebs. Now everywhere is shining, but it’s still not enough. It’s still hot and I can hear the pastor on the megaphone urging his followers to put as much offering as possible so that God will bless them more.

So, I go to the corridor to get my small generator and the last 3 litres of fuel that I have. I was saving it for tonight, but I cannot allow the poor girl to suffer the things I’ve been suffering in this room. My generator is outside on the shared balcony so it’s not close enough to disturb me too much. Besides, now that electricity has come, I can turn on the fan and shut the windows to all the noise outside. The peace and quiet grow with each window I close. With the third and final, there’s so much relief and calm that it’s like I’ve just released piss I was holding for weeks.

Now she’s knocking at the door, almost 20 minutes after her message, and I’ve decided today will be different. I’ll be responsible today, talk to her, tell her she’s too young to be wasting her life like this jumping around with men. I open the door to find an expectedly butterfly-dressed coy-looking teenager with amateurish make-up staring up at me. I usher her in with the best intentions.

She’s lying on my bed belly down and watching an illegally downloaded movie on my laptop. Now that she has taken off her yellow jacket and matching round hat, she has transformed from a butterfly to a caterpillar, like reverse metamorphosis, with her striped multicoloured body-hugging dress doing its best to present her as a woman. Suddenly, my heart is beating faster and its as if I have spontaneously outgrown my shorts. Now my hands are going up her thighs, and her dress is rolling along. I pause to look up at her but she’s still watching the movie, though I doubt she’s cognisant enough at this point to be reading subtitles. Eventually, she closes the laptop in appreciation of the matter at hand, her legs parting slightly in agreement. Now I’m going to work, sweating, grunting, cursing, grinning, smiling, and happy. I’m happy because she’s speaking in tongues and I’m understanding.

As I finish, I’m thinking as I did last Sunday that maybe this is not a good thing, but what good has good done for man? After all, nothing matters in the end. We may as well gather stories of good men and toss them in flames, all the while chanting Ozymandias in mockery of their forgotten names. It’s not wrong; it’s just life. Now that she’s gone, a part of me feels sorry for her because God has fucked her as much as I have and, every Sunday, she must thank him for it.

Now I’m alone, I’ve turned off the generator, opened the windows, and gone back to hating my neighbours for all the noise their generators are making. And though the church downstairs has been dismissed, the one down the street is still going strong, thanking God for all the fuckery.