Over indulgence is sin, and the wage of sin is constipation and the runs. I went on a gourmet spree yesterday, now I am paying pack in stools. Mea Culpa
I had the usual wake-up cuppa, steaming aroma coffee. A breakfast of tea with toast before I dashed for the Island- while good christian folks were in Church. Between here and there, I was swilling lager all the way. Then I was at Terra Kulture where I had another cuppa; then at SilverBird Galleria where I had waffle and mixed fruit juice- it wasn’t even lunch time yet- I had a Lunch date with a delectable Dream Girl, I wanted to stuff myself so I wouldn’t seem too voracious or glutinous at lunch- Lunch was pizza and Heineken at Debonair on Ademola Adetokunbo street. Then a cappuccino at Frenchies.
I had had much too much to drink at the free wine-tasting promo at Park ‘n’ Shop/Spar shopping mall. I had swilled various red wines, and white wines- dry wines, wet wines, and Vodkas- much too much to be Kosher, and this was supposed to be Ramadan when good muslim folks were supposed to stay off food and liquor (and sex) between sunrise and sunset. I broke it all. Astahg’fir ‘llah.
I had continued on the beer all the 2 hours ride home. I couldn’t resist the sweet smelling savour of fresh fish, beef and orishirishi-garnished egusi soup with eba for dinner. I have delved in, ever so greedily, cleaning out my plate and asking for second and third helpings. It felt like the good life: lazying away the rest of the evening in front of the TV, remote-control surfing the channels, watched the finals of Big Brother Africa, where some other lazy glutinous drunk -Keagan- won himself some whooping $300,000 for being lazy and moronic. I also saw Hussein Bolt create a new world record in Athletics so effortlessly in the ongoing London 2012 Olympic games. It was like I had no more ambition than to fill my guts with food and drinks.
Well, for whatever efforts I have put into my own day, I rewarded myself with the “sure banker” Night Cap of black coffee. Putting on a Earl Klugh CD on the repeat I hit the cold soft bed, hugging my pillow, and thinking of Phisayo: the Smoothest voice on Smooth 98.1 FM. I am having a crush on her, she was looking smashing in that gorgeous Ankara skirt today. I could give a year’s wage to kiss that inviting red-lipsticked mouth of hers. She didn’t come to my dream; maybe she did, but I had gone too dead in sleep to know, or to get It up.
I woke up with a start. Someone. Had pinged me in that ungodly hour of night, but another stringent emergency alarm was coming from my tummy. I had to go. I dashed in the bathroom, I’d barely flipped the cover of the WC than I sat on it, and the poop kept coming in a mighty rushes, punctuated with loudly-echoing farts. It took me series of flushing to get the shit to go down the drain, and to get the water to become clear again. I repeated the shit-routine for about three times- each time I got a brimming WC of multi-coloured poop- stinking poops. The time was still a few minutes past 4 am. It’s 8 am now, and I’m still feeling queasy and out of sort with the world. Not even coffee have an appeal for me now. I feel sinful, the belch stinks of haram. I must purge my soul of this evil with Psalm Chapter 51 to save the staff of purgatory the work. So help me God.