The 41-year-old bed-wetter

Hola peeps.

Man, ana fatran. Dunno why but lately I have been doing what I heard TD Jakes once refer to as “sleeping without getting rest”. For instance, I returned from kickboxing class yesterday at 3pm, avoided calls and planned to fall asleep while completing Season 3 of Better Call Saul – great show by the way. But with eyes were still wide open afterwards, I decided to do some work though I had sworn to keep work stuff at work and not bring it home with me.

Now it’s 9pm and though I purposely bailed on a dinner date I am no nearer to snoozing. This ain’t helping with bags under eyes especially after I shaved off all of beard on Wednesday. Most folk look younger after shaving but it’s the reverse here. Likely due to beard covering up gaunt face. I walked in front of the mirror earlier and must admit I am as skinny as folk say. What is wrong? I just cannot compartmentalize work it seems. End up thinking and re-thinking stuff, mostly to do with a huge presentation I’ve got coming up.

Real looking forward to this presentation after one I gave earlier this month. I am usually loth to speak in public but had no choice this time. I practiced everything I learnt from my crush Bimbo Oloyede – maintained eye contact, paced myself and had a good command on the subject matter. The latter I would suggest is most important when giving a talk ‘cos mind wasn’t darting everywhere hoping I would not get asked any gotcha questions by zetetics in the audience. To get over fear of that I actively welcomed questions during speech to make it interactive. The talk went over like a hot knife through butter. Folk came up afterwards to congratulate me and best of all my message was delivered. So much so that I have random folk still approaching me, over 2 weeks afterwards, talking about the subject and requesting a copy of the presentation. Now you get why I am antsy about impending speech to a much larger audience than the 200 persons I spoke to a fortnight ago. Chances are this address would be broadcast on Juba terrestrial TV to boot. No pressure, eh? Good thing Black Damme aka Full Contact aka Jean Claude van Dammit aka The Nigerian Panther thrives on pressure. What he doesn’t thrive well on is drama.

For the past month I have noticed cleaning lady has been doing laundry at least thrice a week. I am creature of habit; I leave out dirty clothes from weekend to be laundered on Monday and that from rest of the week to be done on Friday. Simple enough, right? You would think cleaning lady would be happy with not having much work to do especially as I wash up dishes after using them and not leave them lying around like neighbours are wont to do. But noooo, she actively searches through wardrobe for clothes and since they aren’t many she’s taken to changing bedsheets every other day. I mean, c’mon, no one is that filthy. If she keeps this up neighbours are gonna think I am a closet bedwetter or something.

Now I am stuck having to play hide and seek laundry with cleaning lady. On Wednesday, while musing over best strategy to concealing dirty clothes, I may have stumbled on a reason for her recent weird behavior. She’s getting hitched in December and feel she may be getting jittery about upcoming nuptials. Before you scoff at my attempt at armchair psychology I need to also reveal that about the same time I began noticing her quest to ensure I only sleep on freshly laundered sheets, I kept returning home to find TV on some Asian soap. One of those shows where a man from a higher caste and his maid from a lower caste sneak glances at each other and…. wait, is cleaning lady trying to re-enact what she’s seen on TV?! Maybe she thinks this clothes concealment thing is my way of wooing her away from her beau? Uh oh. Nah, surely it can’t be. Shall alert you if I ever notice rose petals on bed spelled out in words providing clues for assignations away from the apartment where we would be outta prying eyes. Am I getting paranoid or is the lack of rest making me go all loopy?

One thing that cannot be attributed to insufficient rest is stench of my feet. You know how you fart so bad you wanna run away from your butt? Same is happening with feet. Was at yoga class last month and wondered how someone would come to such a public setting without giving themselves a good scrub? Turns out I was the guilty individual. Have avoided yoga class since. I mean feet smell alright most of the time, but especially notice a funk while stretching in the morning ahead of HIIT cardio exercise. Could this be ‘cos of ankle supports I wear during kickboxing class that clump toes together? Hope to investigate further when I am in Lagos next week. I am going for last stage of root canal treatment and plan to use the opportunity to get a full checkup, especially of lower left side of stomach near crotch. It plays up whenever I attempt abs exercises. Just wanna ensure it ain’t anything to do with the appendix.

What I don’t need a doctor’s opinion on is state of lactose intolerance. I am officially over it now. How do I know? I subjected myself to a series of “tests” during last trip to the UK where I ate ice cream like crazy, had milkshake twice in 2 days, and guzzled down a pint of full cream milk in one sitting. Nada happened. Clearest confirmation yet would be McDonald’s strawberry milkshake. If stomach does not act up following that then I am totally cured. That said, I won’t be able to test out my thesis until Q1 2018 as planned US trip this month was cancelled. Could my anticipation of an “all clear” be why I am overdoing pepper consumption in order to find out if stomach’s also overcome its tendency to “run” after it gets hit by hot sauce? On Friday night I got Mexican takeaway then loaded it with some spicy sauce I got in Uganda. Boy, I went to the loo 3ice on Saturday and on one of those visits I spent 43.2 minutes on the loo, a new record. It was one of those dumps where you gotta take off all pieces of clothing, not even underwear should be around ankles to allow for maximum maneuvering. Returned to bed after that battle and lay in fetal position while dreaming up Rube Goldberg ideas that could pick out towels from closet, dip them in a bucket of icy water, dab my arse gently then repeat every 30 seconds. Man, my arse felt like there was a hot flame lit directly under it with the flame intensity increasing every second.

Loo experience wasn’t improved by crap bog roll I bought last week. In bid to avoid chaffing caused by previous rolls I went around a few supermarkets in Juba pretending to be carrying out market survey on bog rolls for a new manufacturer. After an hour of tasking work, I ended up buying a new, softer bog roll. Problem is one must fold it multiple times to avoid fingers piercing through and getting poop on hands. Never bothered with the term “ply” on bog roll wrappings until I bought this new set. This had no ply rating and suspect it is ½ PLY – if there is such a thing – or less. I friggin’ use one bog roll a day….and this remains true even on days where I do not take a dump! Bog roll is like cotton candy on saliva; exposure to moisture air seems to cause it to shrink. I swear this Snapchat bog roll vanishes into the ether on its own.

While we are on the subject I must say it doesn’t help one’s concentration on a run when one is desperately searching for a bush, a shrub, anything that can provide cover in case doodle pangs get excruciatingly bad. A month ago, I decided to go on a run with neighbours who were training for a marathon. Just 2km in I started having the well-established feeling of knowing poop was about to come out. It took all of God’s grace to hold it in for as long as I did. Trust me there is nothing, save a gun to the head, that can bring any dormant religious feeling to the fore like thought of pooping one’s pants in public. You start recalling previous times when the good Lord saved you from letting go of your bowels in public, you start contemplating worst case scenarios of how you gonna wipe your butt with your underwear if you need to run into a bush to answer nature’s call, you start wondering how those marathoners do it race after race without pooping their pants, you start wondering what the headline in the local newspaper would be should someone take a pic of you taking a dump in public: Foreigner Damaging Juba’s Reputation?

While trying to take mind off poop I tried thinking of different stuff but mind got stuck on Hawaiian pizza for some reason. Like who was responsible for that sacrilege? I mean, like really? I imagined myself as the Terminator going back in time to kill the guy who came up with the recipe. Before I finish him/her off I would want them to take me through their thought process. “I mean why pineapples? You do know that pineapples leave a bitter aftertaste after drinking water, right? So, did you design your pizza not to be consumed with water? Did you try other fruit? Mangoes? Coconuts, maybe?”

It’s at times like these one is glad Juba is pretty small ‘cos when pausing with the race leader at the 20km mark for others to catch up I realized I was a 5-minute jog away from office so made some excuse about needing to go check on stuff and offered to catch up later. As if. Ran to office like those dudes in competitive racewalkers at the Olympics and prayed on way there the security guard would not be out on a ciggie break. Thankfully there was someone at the gate, but not the usual dude that’s there during week days. Told him I worked in the office and before he could enquire further I pushed him aside, scaled the stairs like The Hulk and offloaded in the office toilet while thanking God for not allowing my enemies triumph over me by pooping in public.

All in all, I completed 20km in 2hrs (sans poop break). That was the first time I had gone over 10km and surprisingly I wasn’t gassed or bored. I suppose it helps when you have someone to talk to during the run. Oh yeah, did I mention I went kickboxing afterwards? Yup, the Nigerian Panther is a problem yo. Think I need my own theme song like Rocky does during his training montages. For mine however, the music will start off at a high tempo then ease off when I need to poop or nurse hurt knees and swollen ankles. Yup, after a few mini marathons I now realize my knees have their own internal odometer. Once I hit 10km they start going faulty. At 9.5km no problem, at 9.99km no issues, but once I clock 10km they give up. Reminds me of chick with 50 quid car in Bradford I musta told you about. Yes, 50 GBP! The jalopy was all well and good to drive around Bradford in but soon as it sees the “Goodbye from Bradford” sign it starts spluttering and coughing up smoke. Once driver make a U-turn into the “Welcome to Bradford” sign it miraculously becomes sound. Eerie.

Took about 3 days for knees and ankles to get back to normal and ‘cos I had a noticeable limp during the healing period all sorts of folk suggested varying remedies, but weirdest I heard was oxtail soup. Not chicken or any other meat no, it’s gotta be oxtail. The elderly lady who suggested it was crazy serious too and wasn’t impressed when I asked genuine questions like, Do I have it in a container to drink while running? Must it be drunk pre- or post-race? Do I imbibe it or rub it on knee? If the latter, is this pre- or post-race? Fun times.

Went for a massage to work out knots and y’all will be glad to know I have finally found a non-pervy masseuse in Juba. Problem is I honestly feel she is doing stuff to make me return as she fixes one ache and few days later another appears on a different part of the body. Maybe she has a voodoo doll in my likeness she pricks whenever she runs outta money? Once walked in and dunno what she and colleague whispered in Kikuyu, but swear she ended it with “ATM” while pointing in my direction. Yup, she definitely is the cause of my aches.

I know carrots are supposed to be good for the eyes but had no clue papayas are good for the ears. Since chef, or as she’s been known to refer to herself, Number one lady in Tunde’s life, has purposely been disobeying instructions (again) to avoid buying papaya and kept right on buying papaya, I now have superhuman hearing. How else do you think I was able to hear voodoo priestess masseuse referred to me as an automated teller machine sotto voce? Seems the more my hearing improves the worse chef’s gets ‘cos she followed the papaya debacle with cooking meat even when I clearly told her I wanted to transition from meat to fish-centric meals. If meat was not so tasty I may have flipped. Chef’s behavior – as I overhead my brother’s neighbor once blurt out when their security guard went awol as usual - is “becoming unbecoming”. Ha…becoming unbecoming….one of those quintessentially Nigerian phrases one can’t hear in any other part of the world. You just gotta love us.

I have fallen out with chef so many times I have lost count. Sad thing is as much as I may huff and puff I always go back. Guess it’s ‘cos I know it’s more convenient to have her around ‘cos if she leaves my eating habits would be worse off and I would be even skinnier. Yeah, I tried to blame my weight loss all on work earlier, but workout regime ain’t helping either. Been doing HIIT at least 4 times a week for the past month. Why? I wish I had an answer. Only gonna skip it tomorrow morning ‘cos I developed a blister on right palm from kickboxing session today. Spent Saturday kickboxing classes working on techniques while hour on Sundays is spent on conditioning. Was maneuvering on the monkey bars – made from one of those DIY welded pipes thingamajigs - without gloves when I got a blister from scraping palm on its rough surface. Did not help that earlier I had lifted car tyres without gloves either. Add this blister to knuckle scrapes I endured a fortnight ago while hitting punching bag without proper protection and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that this Nigerian Panther alter ego will be the death of me if I don’t ease off. What am I trying to prove? Who am I trying to impress?

Case in point was decision to go back to the field in September, barely a month after that field trip from hell. Coulda delegated someone else to check on welfare of field staff but had to prove to self I was no sissy, and that last field experience did not scar me. Turned out to be pleasant, having a clean accommodation this time surely helped. Once again, the authorities messed up reservation on departure flight so had to spend an extra night in the field. Unlike other time, I embraced this unplanned scenario and chose to spend the evening catching up on movies. Unfortunately, I wasted 3 hours of my life watching The Deer Hunter. Suckedddddddddddddddddddddd. It’s like the 70s directors never heard of editing. Wonder how Christopher Walken won an Academy award for that movie? It was awful. Only highlight was seeing a young Meryl Streep. No screw that, that movie had no redeeming feature. No wonder I never completed that movie as a kid. Also watched Deliverance. Now I remember seeing that as a kid, but not sure I could decipher the rape scene then. I recall Ned Beatty screaming like a pig, but for the life of me could not quite understand why.

The sheer awfulness of The Deer Hunter musta zapped brain cells ‘cos the next morning I panicked when electric toothbrush ran outta juice just as I was about to clean teeth. I hadn’t brought along charger ‘cos hadn’t expected to spend that much time in the field. While pacing back and forth and debating merits of spreading toothpaste on finger I finally got over my stupid trance and remembered I just had to move hands up and down for powerless electric toothbrush to do same job as a regular toothbrush. Duh. Not my proudest moment.

Went to Kampala weekend after field trip for David’s 40^th birthday soiree. Had loadsa pork. Got a pervy massage. Lost more valuable time watching the crap Wonder Woman. Hey, riddle me this, why did all actresses playing Amazon women need to speak in a strange accent? Probably to accommodate Gal Gadot’s accent, no? And they say Hollywood is misogynist. I for one can tell you Caine, Connery, Van Damme, Schwarzenegger and even Stallone never got that treatment.

Once again, David’s mates who I have met a gazillion times before still do not get that I don’t drink alcohol. Being sober when folk are drunk offers a unique perspective. For instance, there was a girl at the party with bleached blonde hair trying desperately to be Amber Rose but looking more like Amber Grass. The next morning while trying to describe this hilarious set up to David he couldn’t remember a thang. Sometimes I wonder why folk still drink knowing they end up acting erratic when drunk. I suppose it is like asking me to give up chocolate. Touché.

Hold on, there’s a knock at the door……Guess what? MY number one lady just walked in with a pot of fish stew. Gonna eat it on bed so other lady in my life at least has stuff to do tomorrow.

Tot ziens and God bless.