"The apartment is huge, but I live in this room and the kitchen -- don't we all live in one room?" she said. One of her guests, Gloria Vanderbilt, nodded in agreement, whereupon Adams complimented her on her blouse. "It's from Takashimaya," Vanderbilt said. "They have a sleeveless one like it."
-- From a New Yorker article on Gossip columnist Cindy Adams
My name is Kodwo. I live in this one room and the outhouse.
"Don't we all live in one room?" I say out loud, rhetorically, for no particular reason and to no one in particular. One of my guests, who is also my Uncle Kwaku, nods in agreement. He and his wife Falala have been living with me in this one room ever since the flood. Along with my cousins, Bango and Zwango, the twins. And Zwango’s dog, Mongo.
I compliment Aunt Falala on the burlap sack she is wearing.
"It's from Tusajigwe," she says.
"Tusajigwe?" I ask. "Your friend from the village in the valley?"
"My friend from the village at the bottom of the lake. She fought me like a jackal in heat for this damned sack!"
"It's very nice," I say. "I notice it's sleeveless."
"You and the mosquitoes both! They're eating me alive!"
I wander to the other end of my one room, where Bango and Zwango are playing checkers. They are missing a few checkers. And marbles.
"King me!" says Bango, grinning like a man who ate beetles for breakfast, which, actually, he did.
If "king me" means "please hit me over the head with an elk horn," then I guess Zwango complies, and the next thing I know the two of them are rolling around on the floor with the dog, trying to keep their heads above the water line.
My hut is not very large, so my one room fills it up entirely, leaving no room, really, for any additional rooms. Does that make any sense? If not, I'm not surprised. I've been under a lot of stress lately.
I wonder if the local witch doctor can give me something to calm my nerves. I decide to go see him immediately. I walk across the room.
"Dr. Olugbenga, can you prescribe something for stress?" I ask.
"I'm sorry, Kodwo. I'd like to, but my hut is under water, as you know, along with my prescription pads." The doctor looks forlorn. "I wish I could help you," he says, "what with you letting me stay here and all."
"Oh, that's okay, Doc" I tell him. Dr. Olugbenga is a good man. But he snores. You get to know who snores and who doesn't when you live in one room. And don't we all live in one room?
There's a knock at the door. It's my fiancee, Zuna, and her mother, Kajumba.
"Kodwo, I hate to ask you this," Zuna says, "but do you think my mother and I could stay with you for a while? Our hut was eaten by a hungry rogue elephant. We're very upset."
Oh boy. Zuna is a wonderful girl, but her mother is a real piece of work.
"Gosh, Zuna. You know, I live in one room."
"Don't we all live in one room?" she replies.
She's got me there. "All right," I say. "Did you bring any stuff?"
"The elephant ate all our stuff, Kodwo," says her mother with a sneer.
"I'm sorry, Kajumba. I should have known that. Please come in."
They come in and plop down on my straw couch between Bango and Zwango. I suspect this is the closest Bango and Zwango have ever been to a pretty girl, or even an ugly battle-axe.
I introduce everybody, excuse myself and go outside. It's a sad thing when the outhouse is an oasis of solitude.
When I return to the hut things are relatively calm. Aunt Falala has made a pot of tea from bark. It hits the spot and soothes my nerves. I hope it won't keep me awake. I have enough to keep me awake.
Cousin Bango seems to be flirting with my fiancee at the other end of the room. I think this is flirting, anyway, He's rubbing mud all over his face and laughing like a hyena. And yet, Zuna seems to be responding positively. Do I really know this girl? You really get to know people when you live in one room, as we all do, of course.
While Bango flirts with Zuna, his brother Zwango watches angrily. He is whittling something with a knife. It is another knife.
It's going to be a long summer, I think to myself. But since I can't really hear myself think around here, I say it out loud. Uncle Kwaku nods in agreement. I never thought much of Uncle Kwaku, but since he moved in, I see a deeper side to him. You notice things like that when you live in one room. And don't we all live in one room?