Of Questionable Taste

Contained here is an extraordinary account of something entirely ordinary, if not base or simply vulgar. This is one to be appreciated chiefly by the men out there; ladies, bare with me, and I hope you too can enjoy the final coup de graces.

I have shat many a shit in this fine country of Ghana. A real man knows how to enjoy his toilet time, and I am proudly no exception. I've had good ones, bad ones, long ones, and short ones. I've shat in Teshie, in Osu, in Roman Ridge, in Labadi, and the many other boroughs of Accra. I had at least two good ones out in Volta Region, and also in Kokrobite and Bojo. I have great plans for shits in Kumasi, Tamale, Mole, and a myriad of other places. Last Saturday night, however, was far and away the most unique experience ever to occur to your humble narrator on his porcelain journeys.

My old orientation guide, Osei, took great pains my first day to deliver this particular message: never use anyone's toilet paper but your own. You don't touch anyone else's, no one will touch yours. TP is apparently a very personal item in these parts, and not something to joke around about. Fair enough, I can play by these rules.

Unfortunately, twice now my TP has disappeared without explanation. The second occasion was the aforementioned Saturday night. Unlike the first time it happened, this time I was well into my business before I realized my predicament. Not only was my TP gone, but indeed all the TP was gone. Imagine my double take on this scenario, and the horrible considerations it implied.

Scanning the bathroom area I found no suitable substitute. There was an empty paint can, a waste basket, and an old toilet brush. No help. I would have gladly sacrificed a sock, under the circumstances, but I was wearing sandals. My options were narrowed to two: I could 1) soil myself, losing one of my only good pairs of boxers in the process, and then make a mad dash back to my room and hope that my stash of baby wipes could somehow at least cleanse my bottom, if not my pride; or 2) pocket check. Pocket check, you ask? I reached into my pocket and found what could only be termed divine intervention - perhaps, also, inspiration. What I found in my left pocket was a large wad of cedis, the remainder of my daily allowance.

The wonderful irony of the situation was incredible, and for the sake of future story telling I could not possibly let it pass. Needless to say I have now, in every sense of the word, had the (dis)pleasure of shitting all over Ghana. Adieu

ps- Having re-read this email I think it would be pertinent here to note, I am in fact aware of how horribly dirty most money is, having changed hands innumerable times. I would like to assure each and every one of you that, for the sake of hygeine, I used only the crispest and cleanest of my bills and even after such precautions, still did a follow-up job with said baby wipes. I hope this will help some of you sleep at night.