Bujagalati times: The massacre that came in late

I’m hungry. I’m very very hungry. Give me anything, onions even, I’ll eat them. Garlic even. Scatch that, no garlic. Been scanning the area for a restaurant…anything, it’s that bad. I’m desperate now…and then I see something. It looks like the kind of place with fairly slow waiters…but fairly slow’ll have to do…for now at least. (grumble grumble)..Stomach’s starting to protest rather loudly…hold on baby, steel yourself for some broth that’ll probably make you even grumpier.

I step in and he runs over like a puppy set loose. Good sign, attentive waiters. ‘Bujagalati rhymes’…I read his name tag. Odd name…or maybe that’s today’s special soup. With a name like that, the soup is probably bad. It probably went bad soon as the chef quit doing his left palm, cleaned himself off and decided to call it that…only chefs who do their left palms can call soup that. And let’s not even get started on those that do their right ones…

‘Is that your name?’ I volunteer.

His eyes roll unsteadily in their sockets as he considers his answer…I could almost picture the whole process; ear gets sound waves, they fight their way through the wax and somehow hit the ear drum. The ear drum barely flinches, taut from years of exposure to hardcore lingala…the kind that pygmies in remote Congo make babies to. The ear drum grudgingly passes the message on, and the responsible jimmies pick it up. They run through walls of goo, to the brain. Panting, they pass on the message. And then the brain says, ‘Pardon?’. Three odd minutes later, Bujagalati responds to brain and says ‘Pardon?’ And I consider repeating the statement but I picture the spent ear drum and let it be. I place my order and he skips off, relieved to be away from a coherent being.

Time ticks.

5 minutes…he has finally reached the head waiter and passed on my order.

10 minutes…he has mentally undressed female customer 4 times. You can tell how many times by following his gaze and observing the excited quivering of his palm.

12 minutes…Buja,BJ if you may, has managed to spill soup on 3 customers, 2 females 1 male.

13 minutes…’Hey, I’m starving here. Where’s my order?’ He picks himself up, drags himself over to the counter, fumbles with something there, turns round and walks over. He then hands me glass of hard liquor. I can almost see the passed-out guy who last used this glass. He won’t be awake for the next three days or so. But seriously, dude, who ordered for hard liquor?