Saturday, September 18, 2010

The Jaybaleh: an exercise in crude humor [fiction]

The merr sat outside the room in a row of plastic chairs. Some were slouched over, their heads resting in their hands, others were laid back into their chairs, beginning to nod off. The night was well advanced, and it was beginning to grow cold. Everyone else had left, only they were left, the witnesses.

By and by there came the sound of a repeated banging from the bedroom, punctuated by whimpers, which did not seem to indicate pain, but rather seemed delivered as a sign of extreme pleasure... There was a rhythm to the banging and it seemed to go on for a long time, the merr looking increasingly scandalized. Ya Haddy stopped telling her beads, her hand and expression frozen, open-mouthed.

Well they seem to not be having any problems, Ya Yandeh said, to some light titters.

All I know is that a mooti just opened, Ya Haar said, would not leave itself amenable to such passionate philandering.

The titters died down as they thought about what she was implying. Then the banging and whimpering stopped, and there was a collective sigh of relief...

....only to start again, now right up against the wall on the other side of which they sat. Aaaaah! it began, a long drawn-out scream (because, the merr thought, it could not be a moan: what a moan that sounded like that said about the moaner and her sexual experience was something that did not bear thinking about). Then a series of short Uh!s, and what sounded like two pounds of beef being pounded together over and over... Surely the person who made those sounds must be in some pain... And her voice sounded so squeaky, so high-pitched...

The young man is deaf, it occurred to Ya Astou, perhaps he does not hear the result of the damage he causes...

Several merr winced at the image this conjured.

But if he cannot hear it surely he can see it, Ya Arrette said, her hand over her mouth, or is he blind as well? The poor girl.

Now the Uh!s sounded even more desperate, and in between they could hear the sharp intakes of breath.

Poor girl, Ya Arrette repeated, what she must be feeling,

The thing about kids these days, Ya Haar scoffed, is they do not know how to close their legs and cover their mooti.

All this talk of mooti, someone muttered from the back, it is hardly becoming of a young lady, let alone an old.

Ya Haar took out her sorchu, spat off to her left, then put it back in her mouth. At least some of us, she said, stayed intact until we were married.

The atmosphere was tense, and might have devolved entirely if at that moment the screams from the room had not suddenly increased in intensity (how was that possible?). They seemed to be building up - finally there was one loud unearthly cry, what sounded like a woman screaming for help, cut off midway in a strangled gulp. Then the laughter of a man as he insulted her. The merr sprang to their feet, and ran for the door.

Inside they found a strange sight. Isatou lay off to one side, her mouth open and drooling, fast asleep in her nightgown. And next to him - ah what a sight, that shocked the merr and got their high blood pressures shooting up. Assan Musa, the new husband, sitting up in the bed naked, black upon black, his hand in a half-empty tub of diwi ngalam next to him, staring with intent concentration into the TV. From which came the screaming noises they had heard, and on which, haraam on haraam, there was a blonde white girl, a midget, and a black man dressed as a policeman, and what was he doing to the poor girl?!?

Ya Haar passed out.

No comments:

Post a Comment