It was my stomach.

This infernally sensitive pouch in my midriff.

That tormented me.

Since my last two days in Paris, my flight to Toronto and the days since then.

It wasn't the sharp pain, or the hideous roaring and grumbling.

It was the gas.

Which had progressively gotten worse.

That invisible hideously noxious whispering.

So silent.

You unconsciously opened yourself to it without condemnation or protection.

Until it hits you with all its infamy.

And your life flashed right before your eyes.

Even I the whisperer was taken aback by the misleading nature of its quiet innocence.

So it was I had to go to the doctor to complain.

"... maybe it is something you ate in Africa."

"I was fine when I left Lagos. It started in Paris."

"Paris? Hmmm. What kind of food did you eat?"

"The normal European fare and some African food."

"It must have been the African food."

"I eat African food and the gas has never been this bad."

"How bad is it?"

"Very bad."

"How bad is very bad?"

"Very, very bad. Like Unbelievably inhumanely putrifying bad."

"Can you give an example to help me understand what you are dealing with?"

"There are no words to describe it."

"You are a writer Jude, words are not your problem. Try..."

I let it go.

A sweet relaxation.

Noiseless.

Soothing relief.

The doctor continued.

"... use something that relates to the sense of smell like it smells like an open drain, a dead decaying rat, a broken sewer. I am being dramatic here, forgive me. I know it can't be that bad..."

Then she stopped.

Her head turned left and then right.

Her nose cringed.

I watched.

She spoke.

"What is that?"

"What?"

"That smell. Oh my god!"

It came out peppered with horror.

Both of her hands flew to her face and cupped her mouth and nose as she rose up and continued speaking.

Her voice coming out muffled.

"Did you just fart?"

I nodded.

"What the hell!"

"That is the smell I was talking about."

"I told you to describe it not to fart."

"There was no way to describe it, I had to get you to smell it yourself."

"Get out! Please, get out of my office!"

Her muffled cries seeped from her enclosed mouth as she hurried out of the office.

Her steps short but fast as her tight skirt restrained her, so much so, she waddled.

I kept sitting there.

Whispering.

Noxiously.

As I finally remembered my friend in Paris telling me -

"Jude, you have to be careful with this soup o. I don't know if my experiment will work. I couldn't get the right leaf from Naija so I used this leaf that they showed me at the farmers market in the next village. They usually eat it raw as salads, but the farmer said it can be cooked, even though he has never tried it before..."

Toronto.

From Mr. Jude's collections

Truly hilarious

very funny piece u have there

mitchelljnr:
Truly hilarious

.
Lol, yes and what a MESS-age sent out to her, funny the doctor couldn't stomach it with all her years of experience. Lol

freshyoladipupo:
very funny piece u have there

.
Lol. Thanks