The youngest man of the house, whom the granny nicknamed “Gathee,” which means a crafty old man, has been out the country—his first trip on his own. He started his sojourns when he was only three, to the Yues, before Donald Trump declared our nations were extensions of toilets.
Then, when Gathee was asked how old he was, he would give any number that came to mind, like five or ten and perplexed Americans would respond with an extended befuddlement: oh reaaaaaallllyyy?
Gathee would smile and say nothing and we’d be left to clarify he was only pulling a leg. On one occasion, we experienced Americans’ paranoia when someone sprayed to disinfect a patch that Gathee pissed on, because he can be cheeky, and I wondered what Americans would do if they saw the “usikojoe hapa” signs that litter our land.
I can’t wait to hear the tall tales from Spain, where Gathee and his school mates went on a series of footie friendlies with kids Under 11. I understand the matches weren’t that friendly because the visitors were thumped more than ten goals to one or two, and the second match ended with a similar margin. The Under-13 team fared better, losing narrowly 5-6, or something close to that.
It seems Gathee and his teammates quickly put the scores behind them to focus on their shopping and the constant calls to him mum was to check if he had surpassed the set levels—because every swipe on the card was reported on her phone—and there was quite a bit of conversions from shillings to Euros.
