rick ross got a lot of dough too

on thursday morning nkemaka, who had missed the previous evening's party, though he had confirmed the time with me three times, was knocking on the door at 6:20 as if it were urgent. he started calling. i turned off the ringer, went back to sleep. at 6:40 there is still knocking, so i place a call.
-i'm still sleeping. come back in an hour.
at 7:30 i open the bottle of rum they gave to me and serve him a shot. myself i'm drinking green tea. he has about four glasses and becomes garrulous, fumbling through a monologue about "you the whites . . . companies, jobs . . . because the government wants you to pay school fees . . . and here i am a farmer . . . if only you can manage to bring me there . . ."
i put on a congolese video and tell him to keep an eye on the house, i'm going to school. i return from school to find two more guests, one of which brought beer. they are locked in a tragedy of the commons that will not turn out well for anyone. the rum is not good enough that i will drink any before noon or care if it is all gone, but this is an unexpected windfall for my guests, who are pouring tall glasses and drinking them quickly so as to be able to pour the next glass, out of an instinct to maximise their consumption with relation to that of their convives, more than a desire to get drunk.
i have a bowl of soup and pack a couple of bags. then i turn off the ndombolo and put on some crying in your beer circa 1940s tejano. people are still talking loudly, so when one stands up i hold his hand and pat him on the shoulder, saying "you have been so nice to visit, let me escort you out." the remaining two continue drinking quietly and the bottle is finished by ten. a girl comes over around eleven and brings me a plate of fufu and eru with smoked hare meat. i lick my fingers and wash the plate and order the girl to go home, because they are hitting on her and she's only 16 and already had at least one abortion.
mpi is discussing with me in the dialect about how he can obtain for me a human skull from world war I and a stuffed owl. he gives me the last of the rum.
-you know you are an elder you must take the dregs.
-no. i'm not drinking today.
-this is your house you must take the dregs. it is the tradition.
-i know the tradition very well. and in my house i do the thing that pleases me.
-i only want to explain the tradition to you.
-you should not bother me about how i conduct my affairs in my house.
-jesse, i do not hate you, you know. you are my friend. i like you.
-we are together.
i tie up various affairs in the market between three and seven. mpi returns after a long nap to collect his bag and tell me that rum is a bad drink and he does not like it. by six the following morning i have been given kola nuts, bananas, avocadoes, a coconut, a carved head and a rooster. bruno says as he's leaving:
-no need for long speeches. we have told enough stories already.
i am in bafoussam by eleven that same morning.
in baham i tied up the cock and went to the market. it was gone when we came back. we spent an hour circling the neighborhood, involving about 15 children and teenagers in the search. several people have advised us on the mindset of a rooster and how far he could have gotten by now and how he will not go where the grass is tall don't worry. one woman tells us about a type of spirit that may have confiscated the cock. it ends up being in front of the house.

and... ya, se acabó