#blanketsandbulls

The bodaboda had hardly come to a halt when the yelling began.
“You! What are you doing?!! What is this?? What rubbish is this on my veranda???!!”

Someone was lying under a blanket on the porch which was littered with papers torn from exercise books, pieces of broken yellow plastic, and sand from the nearby sandpit which the builders had been using to renovate the chipped floor in another house.

Ma Lihanna practically sprang from the motorcycle, charging for the being on her porch, oblivious to the fact that her short skirt had ridden up her thighs. She kicked at the dog-eaten, (very) dodgy-looking, stained piece of foam that had once served as somebody’s mattress, most probably picked off the dump as it waited for the rubbish truck to come. She was so disgusted that the words failed to come. “How…? You… Where…? Just wait for me!!”

The boda man looked on in shock as Ma Lihanna yanked the blue woolly blanket off and tossed it into the air. It was Lihanna under there. She had somehow fallen asleep amidst all the noise. She wore a very startled look at being woken up so rudely in this afternoon heat. It was not nighttime after all. Why was her mother home this early? Her startled look was one of “I’m in a pot of hot soup. REALLY hot soup!”

The little children who had been playing and singing around the veranda, and who had greatly contributed to the chaos melted out of the gate at lightning speed.

“Tell me, what is the meaning of this you stupid girl!”  What is your blanket doing outside here? Is this where it belongs?!! I swear you will see me today!! What is this?” she screamed.

The boda man started feebly, “Nyabo ssente zange…” He was not waiting here to witness bloodshed committed by this woman with whom, minutes before, he had been making small talk about the unpredictable weather and the dust, but who had been suddenly transformed into this raging bull, foaming at the mouth over a child lying on her porch. No, he wouldn't wait.

Somehow she heard him over her yelling, whipped out her purse and thrust him some notes. Lihanna was already on her feet, pulling at the mess, and trying to make it disappear somehow.

The boda revved off and Ma Lihanna pulled at the handle of the front door, which opens rather noisily. Lihanna grabbed at the blanket and quickly disappeared into the house. Probably to put it back onto the bed.

The next few minutes became a mix of frenzied adult yelling and a child’s cries. Sounds of a slipper connecting with something, someone making to flee, and being threatened that if she ran, then she could stay out forever. “Where is your sister??!!” Ma Lihanna roared.

Little Sister had crept onto the veranda, terrified, and trying her best not to let her Sunday best shoes make any noise as she cleared what was left of the clutter. For her, the pot of soup would be at boiling point because she had taken her sheets out as well. She crept to the back gate to see if she could sneak in. It was locked.

In this state of rage, even as a good neighbor, it would be almost impossible to approach Ma Lihanna and plead for the girls.

I turned up the volume of Botched on E.