What to do?

Fatuma woke up on the third crow of the cockrel, it was 5am. She quietly pulled out the dishes, from the previous night’s dinner, from underneath her bed to wash. She did not want to wake her baby up. Her husband was dead asleep. He had plunked himself in bed in his favourite, now ripped and faded, trousers with a urine inspired map of Africa around his crotch.

His stringy shirt now a solid brown from several fellowships with the rich brown soil had matted with the sweat patched armpits and back. The dullness was all lifted with evidence of a well fed meal plastered in digested form on his chest. All crowned with the foulest stench of chang’aa seeping out through his chocolate teeth butting out through his scaly, cracked pale lips.

As Fatuma tilted the jerrican of water to fill the basin to wash the dishes, it accidentally slipped. And hit the edge of the sufuria and sent all the dishes into a domino effect with clanging.

“Weeeweee Maish! Waaachaaaaa upuuuuuuuuuusi!,” Masi, Fatuma’s husband grunted out loud, startled by the sound. He flailed his hands in the air as if in a seizure and eyelids heavy and attempting to draw back to see where the noise was coming from. In a weak attempt, he fell back on to his bed and landed on his vomit filled chest and snored himself back to sleep.

“Nkt! Upuzi wa Mwanaume ndiyo hiyo.” Fatuma exclaimed under the sound of scrubbing the heavy ugali laden sufuria. 

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