Second Nigerian

Sharing the Envy with the big Deaf Bruiser who gives massages at the Wadi tables and scrounges meals by the looks. While the apple was being diced the man enquired about a drink, not exactly asking, but clearly implied. No way the fellow had tasted this class of fruit; the price he would never believe. (A number of meals at Wadi could be got for less.) Almost sumo size; maybe 120kg. After the first quarter the man waited nonchalantly for what would follow. The avocado sushi sat right there before him on the table. Best behaviour waiting. It would take a good bit of fuel to move that big engine that was for sure. Married with kids from memory, Hussein’s younger brother Sharrif had said. Sharrif had bought the man food a number of times and tea also, with strong-armed massages returned that made Sharrif wince. The Arab Sharrif was no pygmie himself either. Nothing for it, the man had to be offered the second quarter, a time lag like that was stretching it. EVOLVE Mixed Martial Arts tee XXXXL added further suggestion of menace. Fair candidate this man for an ancestry associated with the little known leg of the human trade from Africa, over to Southern India and from there the rubber plantations and mines here. The Tamil “Nigerian,” as his fellow Indians at Har Yasin called him, came to mind; the pair had a lot in common, and very little indeed with the locals. In the Deaf’s case all was compounded of course. The sushi too must have been another adventure, tiny morsels clasped rather daintily between thumb and forefinger. There was no avoiding the drink either afterward, pen and paper making it simple enough. TEA O. English form; that educational sector would not be so well equipped with bahasa. That was all very well as far as the preference went, but was that to be hot or cold? Man wanted the paper back again. No need, no need. “Cold” signed with the shivering and fist shaken in front. No, not that; the other, the man replied. Coming right up. A little fit of peevishness would keep the roasted almonds in the pouch; the meal was light enough as it was. For the Nigerian of course the tidbit he had been provided was a drop in the ocean. While the tea was being fetched the man went out back and returned from the Western Food stall with fish and fries, unexpectedly the mayo left on the side of his plate. Required form hereabout was to offer your table companion; a grace that had escaped the Nigerian at school. Never mind. A passing bike exhaust that had many us cringing seemed to have been within this man’s scope; or otherwise he had merely followed the turning heads. Late-30s/early-40s—as in the case of unfamiliar racial groups, difference difficult to judge.

Publication news: "Sumptuous Nan & Puthena"

Hello all

A little bagatelle of mine has just been published in India.

Literary Yard has earlier published a couple of my pieces more or less on the topic of Indian food/eateries.

This recent flash concerns Nilla Restaurant in Johor Bahru old town (Malaysia), opposite the temple: fluro-lighting bouncing off the white tiles, aluminium tables & chairs screeching across the floor, sunken below street level — yet the loveliness on offer at Nilla with the staff, the patrons and the pretty good grub to boot rather spectacular.

Titled, “Sumptuous Nan & Puthena”— here’s the link, free access

https://literaryyard.com/2019/01/20/sumptuous-nan-puthena/

Cheers
Pavle

Lake-Side

A newspaper search inevitably made you look foolish now. Judging  by the reactions behind the counters you must have shown some disturbing faces never seen before by sale staff in these parts. Newspaper? Ah, no sir, sorry…. There was an Indian shop up along the way, one young Scarf had offered. The Indians might still read and sell papers, the girl seemed to think. Two kilometre plus round trip that turned up only The Star and the woeful shopping strip into the bargain. Humanity was done for without any doubt. Suda, finished, beyond all redemption. White goods, massage places, mechanics, a French bar the standout and pet shops clearly in the majority. There had been a number of the latter on the main drag too yesterday, including at least one home kennel that momentarily tricked a weary Swag in search of hammock. One of the shops on Mutiara Enas specialised in the premium tucker that Auntie Helen back at Carpmael served her litters, Royal something or other in handsome regal packets. The supermarket product of course appalled any true pet lover. (The meltdown of the homo sapiens can be measured by the rise of pet mania. Gay marriage, alcohol & drugs, divorce rates and the other traditional indices were less telling; outpouring of lavish doggie & puss love far more.) Sixty-seventy metre fake grass matting lay under the umbrellas and high stools at the Cote d’Azur place on the corner that must have gathered the crowds in the evenings. Curvaceous timber inserts over segments of paving there winding round the bend made the passage especially treacherous. Pushing shit uphill in a leaking barrow seeking to convince anybody of the escape and joyfulness anywhere along that long strip. The gated community opposite shopped at these places spitting distance away strictly for essentials only when the drive around to the better quarter proved onerous. Google showed a central lake somewhere behind the towers—palms, porches with fairy lights & paddle-boats safe to assume. Over near the Petronas pumps on the highway a couple of Chinese operations were two-three rungs above in décor, potted plants, floor furnishings and the rest. Little wonder the ex-PM and his lady had sought out Central Park, Ascot and the other proper getaways. This flimsy con here was a hard ask; well-nigh impossible. Up in the capital and much-touted Langkawi Island they would put on the show more artfully, but the mimicry doomed these efforts always and irredeemably. (The ex-PM had a favourite resort on the island of Langkawi when jetting further away was difficult in a busy schedule.) Ni in a block overlooking the tale of woe on Enas was caring for an old/not-so-old Chinese ahma, twelve years non compos mentis after her stroke. Two sons lived a couple of hours away further north in Johor; two daughters in the neighbouring Republic. For her devotion Ni scored $SG750 monthly—a little better than the average in Sin’pore for standard domestic service. Here Ni dished up her delectable fare every day, bathed the old duck, administered the insulin and other meds and each night shared the lady’s bed. Incoherent, though still capable of angry outbursts, incontinent (diapers needed regular changing), feeding impossible unaided—it was the utter catastrophe. Yet dressed in military camouflage, hair brushed and in a certain light, photographs showed the figure of a HK actress, as Ni put it. Characteristically, Ni had developed a certain affection for the woman. This kampung folk always found human bedrock in the challenge of living. Hungry love-making ensued late night, early morning and in the middle of the night when Ni could safely slip away from her charge. By some fluke The Ardens Hotel had been happened upon a hundred metres from Ni’s block. The Chinese owner of Ardens had another establishment over the other side of JB Central, the young Tamil waitress revealed, which might have featured another IKEA resto chosen by the man’s wife. Somehow the colour schemes, furnishings and fittings of the Ardens’ rooms were more or less unobjectionable; the designer had possibly sought additional costs for the resto.