Eccentric goofballs, Publicized Fiends, Complex Chillers

In the afternoons, an old, fat man props his gut at a right angle against the road and walls of the small business opposite Fort Jesus. Shirt off, mouth running like a filibuster, his words cannot be translated, the meaning behind his speech indecipherable. The universal language of bodily gestures and vocal inflections, however, suggest the muse of anger is never far from the discourse. His nighttime scrolls are reportedly written in his own language. A repository of insult and revulsion, he is somewhere between Ignatius Reilly and Charles Barkley. I plan to walk up to him during a particularly potent outburst, squat down a couple paces in front of him, and take some detailed portraits with my SmartCapture feature. I do not foresee him having the ability to stop me, nor do I expect others in the neighborhood rush to his aid. He has long since forfeited any benefits to be derived from ‘respect 4 elders’ sentiments.

Late one night, I poked around the canons outside the Fort that border the sea, hoping to find a perch suitable for singing at the ocean, away from those who sleep outside. Every spot was, is, taken, or vacated as a result of excess trash influx. But seated at a foldable table, concealed by fortress shadows, is the Somali that the others call “Boss.” The Boss says his is 20 years old, and speaks a simplified, immigrant Swahili with old eyes, eyes that give his accounts of guns and war across the border a heightened authenticity. As we talk alone, he commends the quite solitude of his miraa-chewing perch, doling out to me gradual portions of the drug-plant as I gradually articulate opinions and observations conveyable in Swahili. We explore conversation in alert relaxation. How and why police suck, that there are many poor and smart Ugandans, estimating the number of cats that prowl the street. Hours probably pass. We are not hungry, tired, or stressed; simply in the mood for some more miraa.
As our dialogue begins to finish with all insight contained in the language we can share, another man approaches. He’s older, swaying, and mumbling shouts. Boss tells me to shut my yap, lest the passing drunk gleans my northern speech rhythms and decides to become my hanger-on. My silence does not make the shadow black enough to shroud my skin. The drunk ambles over, dragging erect a lawnchair, making a small gesture toward pretending to clean dirt off his seat.
Blending Swahili and English, the drunk specialized in nailing American expressions with a Kenyan accent.
“Don’t mind me, I’m on my own high, man. I see you are young. You go your way, I go mine. That’s what I told my wife, it was very difficult.”
“Let’s get drunk, get high, I wanna get problems off of my mind!” [In Old Town, the strong Islamic element leads everyone, save for this Drunk, to publicly abstain from taking or talking of alcohol]
The Drunk rocks back on the plastic chair, smoking and chewing miraa. “Hah! I am a rich man. Look at them [hotels and fancy apartments in Nyali, visible to the North], they are paying for that. But me? I am paying nothing to enjoy myself right now.” [Turns, remembers he is next to Ft. Jesus] “This is a special place, here. If we come together, we can do something really great for the community. Gotta come together though. Brothers. [Boss nods, not bothering to inform him that the Fort is used by dozens of small tourists throughout the day, weddings, public speeches and other political ceremonies, soccer teams in the evening]
“Rain, coming, see those clouds? Definitely rain. I’m FEELIN RAIN. [sniffs air] I smell rain, you smell rain?” [it would not rain for several days]
“All my life, I’ve wondered: why am I such a loudmouth?”
Boss begins playing music off of his phone. He apparently has the audio from the extended movie version of “Thriller,” so after minutes of spoken word, and baffled, disapproval from the Drunk, the instantly recognizable “Thriller” song kicks in.
“Killin it, man. LOVE this one, great choice.” [While stroking a cat and slouching in his chair, Drunk begins to rotate his shoulders in opposite directions, his feet posing to beats. I’ve never chewed so much miraa in my life, and will never take so much again. I bid the Boss, Drunk, and cat goodnight, slip home to grab a couple hours shut-eye ‘fore sun-up]
Enduring advice I think someone said a while ago: You look ridiculous if you dance. You look ridiculous if you don’t dance. So you might as well dance.