If gossip is talking about someone behind their backs, out of earshot, or in private, then I've decided it's not gissip if I say what I'm thinking about some people in the world's loudest, public forum. I really can't think of anything bad to say about these individuals anyway, so I suppose the worst consequences would be supersizing their egos or catapulting them into the spotlight of international fame. Anyway, if you've acquiesced to lend your ear to some pseudo-gossip, may I present the profiles of Mr. James, Abdraman, Santige, and the kid at the warf.
Mr. James gives the impression of time. He defines experience and is constantly wearing an attitude impervious to trivialities. A young'un wants to argue political history? Best not contradict him, he was there. A teacher is impassioned about a too-small increase in a pay check? You just earned a chuckle coming from a mile deep in his chest. Mr. James is living, walking proof that you'll get "there" on time without rushing, and the world will keep spinning tomorrow like it has for countless millenia. A wealth of gigantic, slow, mischevious smiles, his occasional one-line contributions are all delivered in an absurdely baratone voice. If this man ever looked at me and said, "Simba... Remember me..." I would laugh in disbelief, then die in sheer, gleeful contentment.
So Abdraman isn't made of the same stuff as us. I imagine the ingredients used to create him were as follows: A saw blade. A horn's worth of gunpowder. A dozen scoops of glass shards mixed with beef jerky. Like 5 trillion Y chromosomes. A level bushel of magma with melting tank barrels sticking out. G.I. Jane was his surrogate mother, and the egg extracted from a lion was fertilized in a tricky process by Zeus, the Kraken, and a T-rex that happened to be passing by. Seriously people, do you get I'm trying to explain this is a really tough dude? In a brilliant display of irony though, whatever astrological signs qued up to watch his birth decided to give him the personality of an infant panda bear. Really nice. What a great guy to have as a friend.
I'd guess Santige escaped from a cartoon somewhere around the age of 16. That was 484 years ago. From his blue hat and the silvery black hair flipping from under it, to his coal-composite feet that hurt the ground he walks on, this is one harmless fellah. He posts up by a post in a ruined building near the warf and spends his days... chillin. I'm constantly surprised that the prayer beads milling through his hands haven't turned to dust, and I think he saves his energy for the singular purpose of greeting psser-bys. Not exactly fast on his feet, I was surprised to see he'd followed me and my bike to the bread-vendor near the warf. IAfter spying some children gazing in abject terror at my bi-wheel, I glanced at my bike to find Santige singing a little song to it as he wiped mud-speckles from its metal frame with his own handkerchief. Okay, how endearing.
So there's this kid at the warf who, if the situation arose, would be rounded up with the usual suspects. This guy was created to create trouble, and hdoesn't seem to appreciate the concept of being quiet, proper, or always polite. You'd think that golf-visor he wears around would fall off during one of his thousand odd-jobs he does, or that his shirt would be dustier from the cars he scrambles around repairing. He told me yesterday that he had just visited Freetown and saw a movie poster. The man on the poster had my skin, hair, and nose so he started yelling in the street that "I KNOW THIS MAN!" His characteristic juvenile stupidity is absolutely charming... In short, if I'm lucky enough to raise a son in the future, I hope he turns out just like this punk.
There are literal thousands of people in Mambolo at least as interesting as these. I count myself lucky as having so much time here to meet so many more.
Mr. James gives the impression of time. He defines experience and is constantly wearing an attitude impervious to trivialities. A young'un wants to argue political history? Best not contradict him, he was there. A teacher is impassioned about a too-small increase in a pay check? You just earned a chuckle coming from a mile deep in his chest. Mr. James is living, walking proof that you'll get "there" on time without rushing, and the world will keep spinning tomorrow like it has for countless millenia. A wealth of gigantic, slow, mischevious smiles, his occasional one-line contributions are all delivered in an absurdely baratone voice. If this man ever looked at me and said, "Simba... Remember me..." I would laugh in disbelief, then die in sheer, gleeful contentment.
So Abdraman isn't made of the same stuff as us. I imagine the ingredients used to create him were as follows: A saw blade. A horn's worth of gunpowder. A dozen scoops of glass shards mixed with beef jerky. Like 5 trillion Y chromosomes. A level bushel of magma with melting tank barrels sticking out. G.I. Jane was his surrogate mother, and the egg extracted from a lion was fertilized in a tricky process by Zeus, the Kraken, and a T-rex that happened to be passing by. Seriously people, do you get I'm trying to explain this is a really tough dude? In a brilliant display of irony though, whatever astrological signs qued up to watch his birth decided to give him the personality of an infant panda bear. Really nice. What a great guy to have as a friend.
I'd guess Santige escaped from a cartoon somewhere around the age of 16. That was 484 years ago. From his blue hat and the silvery black hair flipping from under it, to his coal-composite feet that hurt the ground he walks on, this is one harmless fellah. He posts up by a post in a ruined building near the warf and spends his days... chillin. I'm constantly surprised that the prayer beads milling through his hands haven't turned to dust, and I think he saves his energy for the singular purpose of greeting psser-bys. Not exactly fast on his feet, I was surprised to see he'd followed me and my bike to the bread-vendor near the warf. IAfter spying some children gazing in abject terror at my bi-wheel, I glanced at my bike to find Santige singing a little song to it as he wiped mud-speckles from its metal frame with his own handkerchief. Okay, how endearing.
So there's this kid at the warf who, if the situation arose, would be rounded up with the usual suspects. This guy was created to create trouble, and hdoesn't seem to appreciate the concept of being quiet, proper, or always polite. You'd think that golf-visor he wears around would fall off during one of his thousand odd-jobs he does, or that his shirt would be dustier from the cars he scrambles around repairing. He told me yesterday that he had just visited Freetown and saw a movie poster. The man on the poster had my skin, hair, and nose so he started yelling in the street that "I KNOW THIS MAN!" His characteristic juvenile stupidity is absolutely charming... In short, if I'm lucky enough to raise a son in the future, I hope he turns out just like this punk.
There are literal thousands of people in Mambolo at least as interesting as these. I count myself lucky as having so much time here to meet so many more.
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