WWJD? He’d be too smart to get involved in public office

Hola peeps. ¿Cuál está todo alrededor?

Solar walked in to see Boiler crouched over someone’s knee. He jumped in delight; finally he’d see Boiler in action. Of course he had heard the stories, all his mates had. Now he’d get to see Boiler - for that was the name he had been christened by his mates for his adroitness and willingness to pop boils that develop on skins – do what the good Lord surely placed him on this planet for.

Like a skilled surgeon Boiler instructed his ‘patient’ to lie down and bite on a pillow while he laid out his now familiar ‘instruments’: toilet roll and a jar of Vaseline. Glancing around for a ‘nurse’ Boiler beckoned to Solar and instructed him to pad the toilet roll and place it around offending boil. He then went to work applying pressure around the circumference of the boil with his thumbs, massaging a different point around boil each time. This went on for two minutes before Solar got bored. (At this juncture it must be pointed out that this incident took place in the mid-1980s so Solar wasn’t clinically characterized as ADD, but come to think of it now, dude had the attention of a moth…on crack.) To alleviate his ennui Solar decided to lighten the mood of the ‘operation’ by sticking his tongue out over the patient’s knee.

“Na na na na na”
“Solar, stop it!”, shouted Boiler. “It’s gonna pop soon.”
But Solar continued unperturbed. “Na na na na”
“Solar, I warn u, take ur mouth away from there”
“Na na na na na”

Another minute passed and Solar’s jaws were beginning to hurt, or maybe it was the ADD again. Just as he began to shut his mouth a popping sound was heard and the room fell eerily silent. It was obvious that Boiler had conducted another successful surgery, but where were the cheers from Solar? Solar seemed to have lost his voice even though his mouth was still open.

“Solar, are you okay?” asked Boiler. But Solar, still agape, didn’t utter a word. Instead he dashed out of the room like the wind and spat on the ground profusely. Turns out the contents of the boil inexplicably made a bee-line for the inside of Solar’s mouth. The entire room burst into laughter and Solar would be reminded of that fateful day the rest of his years at FGC Warri.

Tunde laughed out loud at the recollection of that incident, wiping tears from his eyes. How he wished that Boiler was somewhere within earshot, as he glanced at the huge protrusion on the small of his back; the result of a bed-bug bite. It was two in the morning and yet he could not sleep due to the excruciating pain. Recalling his mantra, WWBD (What Would Boiler Do?), he clenched his jaws and pressed out the puss from the inflammation, dabbing the opening with tissue and rubbing baby oil intermittently as Boiler would.

That would be the last time he would sleep shirtless on a hotel bed. No, this trash heap didn’t deserve to be called a hotel. He could not but vilipend the firm in Warri for booking such a dump for his accommodation. The PH branch was cheap, but at least they booked one-star hotels. This here trash heap didn’t have a twinkle let alone a star-rating. His mind wandered, as was his wont:

Hmmm, ‘The hotel has no twinkle let alone a star-rating’. That’s good, real funny. I have stayed at so many crap hotels since I moved from Lagos I should probably start my own Zagat survey on rubbish hotels. I can just imagine the title: ‘Hotels To Avoid While Travelling Through The Niger Delta’. Yeah, that could work…

He could be pernickety at times but in this case he was on point, the hotel was truly dreadful. The day he checked into his room he discovered it was untidy, almost as if no one had resided there in ages. He walked down to the reception to complain and while there he asked for a remote control for the TV in the room, but the receptionist looked bemused. Not only did none of the TVs in the place have remote controls – they probably bought them second-hand – there were only four channels on show: CNN, NTA and two (yes 2!) Nollywood channels. Arrrggghhhh.

Tunde walked up to his room and attempted to MacGyver a remote control, okay not so ‘remote’, out of drink straws and broom sticks but packed it in after twenty unsuccessful minutes. He stormed out of the room and went for a stroll around the hotel premises. While sauntering along he discovered that the messed up hotel had three satellite dishes. Yes, three satellite dishes and only four channels broadcast! If he wasn’t so sure he’d have sworn he was on a hidden camera show. He couldn’t believe he had four more nights to stay in this decrepit dump.

The only thing he had to look forward every morning was the trip to the clients’ homes to shake his good stuff. As the days went by s-l-o-w-l-y he discovered new stuff he hated about the place, culminating in the bed-bug bite. The rooms weren’t cleaned properly; the bed sheets weren’t changed daily; the generator was only turned on after 7pm; the food was, oh that deserves its own paragraph.

After his first night there Tunde quickly discovered the menu was either a prop or someone’s sick joke. A variety of meals were listed on it, but apparently that was for show because the chef only prepared meals consisting of rice or garri. And even worse, the hotel had a food roster so if one has a craving for jollof rice on a day the chef’s scheduled fried rice one has to suck it up or forego a meal. On a certain evening Tunde got so frustrated he went across the road to purchase some barbequed beef, suya. That tasted worse than burnt rubber and gave him the runs the morning after.

Surely there had to be some positives from his stay at Nigeria’s Fawlty Towers, right? Wrong. On the eve of his departure Tunde decided against room service and went to the restaurant not sure if he was in the mood for rice and stew or stew and rice. As he walked in he saw a man holding court so he pulled a chair.

Raconteur: “People, u won’t believe it, but after I quarrelled with the chef last week because of his monotonous menu I retired for the night and went straight to sleep. I was awoken about 4am from this weird sound outside my window. As I endeavoured to walk across the room to the window my leg gave way. I swear I couldn’t move it and paradoxically it was the same chef who helped massage it the next morning. It took four days before my leg was the same.”
Audience member 1: “Ha. Ha. U saying it was because you argued with the chef that ur leg gave way?”
Raconteur (*sotto voce*): “I don’t know what else to tell you. All I know is if you don’t like the food don’t tell the chef to his face. If you do do something that crazy make sure u swap rooms with someone. Ha.”
Audience member 2: “I sure say na your enemies cause your leg to hurt. Maybe you dey owe person money and you no wan pay.”
Raconteur (*obviously miffed*): “Ehen, what if I owe money? Don’t you know all rich men owe money even if they have the funds. Look my friend, if you want to live long it’s best to have lots of creditors. That way you can be sure they’ll pray for you daily so you’ll live long to repay their debts…”

Tunde had had enough; the ramblings had him with no appetite for food. As he stormed out of the restaurant one of the waitresses asked him if he’d like food delivered to his room. “Keep ur rubbish food”, he shouted. “Thank goodness I check out of this pigsty tomorrow morning.” Back in his room he lay down on the uncomfortable bed and slept off. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning he was awakened by a weird sound outside his window. It sounded like a combination of crickets and helicopter blades in full rotation. Recalling the tale he had heard back at the restaurant he didn’t dare move from the bed. The sound grew louder still, but Tunde dove under the filthy covers. Then someone tried to work the door handle…….(to be continued if he survives the night)

Tot ziens and God bless.