My stomach hurts. Not in that way that has me hunched over begging the Lord to take what little life is left in me, but it doth hurt quite a bit. Contrary to what you may have been led to believe from my posts regarding visits to various medical practitioners, I hate drugs. Given the option I’ll inhale ‘fume of paracetamol’ any day. That is far away from hitting the shelves in pharmacies because the guys in the labs over in England are more obsessed with confirming that ducks like water.
I cannot tell with certainty from whence this pain cometh, but I have a couple of suspects (none religious, none male).
Potato Salad
My kid sister recently put together a meal comprising potatoes, mayonnaise, carrots and onions. Basically anything she could lay her fingers on in the space of about twenty seconds. I suspect if she had been given more time we would have seen some green pepper and ice cubes in the mix. These ingredients were then forced to engage in, quite possibly, the first mass wedding involving foodstuffs. The result, a delicacy known in Western circles as Potato Salad and in certain sections of Uganda as ‘Lumonde ne creamu’
Unfortunately by the time this meal was ready; I had either left the house or gone to bed. I have the worst memory. Long story short, I did not partake of it while it was still ‘fresh’.
Now, anyone that has enjoyed potato salad will be quick to tell you, the damn thing never goes bad. Whoever advances this sentiment will go on to contradict himself, “if it does go bad, you just add vinegar and voila! It is fixed”.
Before you start heaping praises upon this colorless liquid that doesn’t know whether it should be liquor or water (and just sits in the middle as food juice) it is important to note that it doubles as ‘effective’ suede cleaner.
I finally got round to eating the potato salad last night, roughly three days after it had been put together.
It is on that note that I submit to you my first suspect for the agony that wracks my body.
Meat Samosa
This one appears on the list just because it is ‘local’. It is not its fault, you realize, but it doesn’t even try to defend itself. There are no attempts to be something else. Not even an up market Samosa. You see, the thing is, when these ‘triangular flaps of dough with traces of meat ‘are presented in restaurants, they have a certain appeal. From time to time they are backed up with a slice of lemon. I don’t know who decided that lemon and meat make for a great meal. Is there some packaging some place that says, “just add lemon”? I hated the Proctor & Allan Cornflakes boxes because their serving suggestion had a banana on the side of the dish with the cereal. I think the executives at P&A went on to inbreed and gave produced offspring that came up with any odd weird combination that you may have witnessed in high school. Weetabix as Bread spread, anyone?
Suspect number two, ladies and gentlemen.
Chapati
This one came from the same shop as the samosa and my ma’ always said birds of a feather flock together. In which case, I won’t be using anything that leaves the shelves that line that establishment. Not even their toilet paper.
Hey, the pain has gone away. I guess it was just a case of THE MONDAY!
In other news, today is Africa Day. We went to work and won’t get discounts on African products, so I think it may be safe to assume that it doesn’t count for jack!