I Love My Mother So Much, Because

I Listen Mostly To Classical Music.

People Who Disagree With His Excellency, The President For Life And 'chief Of Chiefs,' Are Frequently Found To Be The Victims Of Car Crashes (their Bodies Mysteriously Riddled With Bullets); Or Dead In Their Beds Of Heart Attacks (their Bodies Mysteriously Riddled With Bullets); Or The Recipients Of Some Not-quite-fresh Seafood (their Bodies Mysteriously Riddled With Bullets).

The Rains Are Rhythmic, Coming Religiously In The Afternoons (after Lunch Has Been Eaten But Before Tea, So That The Nights Are Washed Clean-black With Bright Pinpoints Of Silver Starlight Hanging Over A Restless, Grateful Earth).

One Of The Things About Being Raised British In Africa Is That You Get This Double Whammy Of Toughness. The Continent In Place Itself Made You Quite Tough. And Then You've Got This British Mother Whose Entire Being Rejects 'coddling' In Case It Makes You Too Soft. So There's Absolutely Nothing Standing Between You And A Fairly Rough Experience.

Once, I Discovered The Skulls Of Two Impala Rams, Their Horns Locked Into An Irreversible Figure-of-eight; The Two Animals Had Been Trapped In Combat, Latched To Each Other During The Battle Of The Rut. The Harder They Had Pulled To Escape From Each Other, The More Intractably Stuck They Were, Until They Had Fallen Exhausted, To Their Knees, In An Embrace Of Hatred That Had Killed Them Both.