Moral Dilemmas

There are generally said to be two types of season in Kenya. Rainy seasons, and the seasons spent waiting for the rainy seasons. The rains are the powering force behind life in the region and to denounce them would be like driving a needle made from frozen lemon juice under the eyelids of every man, woman, and child in the country. Rewards of cash and rare jewels have been promised to the mad genius who can produce a device capable of harnessing the power of precipitation, while those who hint at even the slightest dissatisfaction with gloomy weather are advised to pack up and leave or risk being declared enemies of the state.

Requesting the rain to go away and come back another day is considered treason under the Kenyan constitution, so far be it from me to even entertain the thought. But a plague has descended upon my humble residence. A foul, putrefying scourge. The kind of unrelenting assault on the senses that makes rookie cops throw up into handkerchiefs, eventually dashing behind their squad cars to finish the job. It came on slightly at first. A faint, stale odor floating on the night air, creeping into my nostrils during my sleeping hours. I raise my head and try and identify the reeking source, but the delicate olfactory trail is lost as swiftly as it came on. Days pass and the haunting fragrance gathers potency, always strongest when I lay my head down to rest. “This pillow case needs to be washed,” I think, and the next day I seek to assuage the aromatic malady through a combination of bleach, boiled holy water, and elbow grease. The sanitizing miracle tonic works wonders initially, but the reprieve from my pungent invisible foe is short lived. Repeated attempts to cleanse my linens of this malodorous hex are becoming less and less effective, making it clear that a moment of resolution is fast approaching. The breaking point arrives one night as I’m drawn out of a deep, restful slumber by an overpoweringly rotten odor reminiscent of an aged wheel of fetid cheese which has been stored for seventeen sweltering summer months in the pouch of a sweaty kangaroo.

“Enough”, I decry, though it comes out as an inaudible groan in my still half sleeping state, as I cast the putrid blend of cotton and limburger as far from me as I can without leaving the comfort of my mosquito net. Having one of the rankest pillows in the history of stinky sleep paraphernalia is an inconvenient, though manageable, problem. Running into such a problem at the beginning of the rainy season, a time when anything set out to dry only becomes more drenched, is kind of a drag. I would never ask for anything that would make life here more difficult for those here whose livelihood depends on the rain, but one sunny afternoon couldn’t hurt, right?