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The irony of the contrasting campaigns coming on the brink of running concurrently ensured an inconvenient but perhaps inadvertent clash of the two worlds. Talk about a spitting image of the Beauty and the Beast: the beauty of the West and the beastly roads that take you there!
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Typically, that’s the life-cycle of a corruption saga in this republic: money changes hands, a whistleblower sounds the alarm, the band of thieves pick a sacrificial lamb, and somehow the masterminds get to squirrel out of trouble, and that’s the end of that. Right there is how the crooked prongs of our justice system work. When the next scandal happens, press repeat!
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As soon as you swing the door open and hop out of the enclosure of the car, the first thing that hits you is a heavy aromatic wave of roast wafting through the air. In no time, your brain dispatches a memo to the oral juices alerting them to prepare for deployment at the frontline. The regiment down in your belly is on standby too–ready for battle!
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At 5:30pm my masseuse walks into the room. She’s a good-looking young lady. About 5ft tall. There’s a mask over her face. While I lay there on the warm massage table, she locks the only door to the room and then turns off the lights! What’s left is some really dim ambient lighting lining the edge of the ceiling. Sounding softly in the background is a playlist of every Kenny-G classic, particularly from his Breathless album. How convenient! Now I’m starting to feel like I could lose my breath anytime!
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Problem is, nearly everyone that passes you looks like the girl in gold and blue. Seems like a wonderful problem to have, but being new to the culture, you’re quite cautious whom and how you ask for directions—what if she screams and people think you’re harassing the girl! The last thing you want (at least not yet!) is to behold the Heavens opened and the Son of man standing at the right hand of God!
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Argue all you want to, but it’s general knowledge that every woman has got a minimum of two birthdays. Yet it’s only on one of those birthdays that you’re permitted to compute a plus-one to their age; and—wait for it—you’ll still not know how old she is! Tell you what: it’s probably easier to discover the whereabouts of Cleopatra’s tomb than it is to establish a woman’s actual age!
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