It is not good enough of me to associate going to my hometown (Mubi) with torture, but I do. It’s supposed to be five or so hours from here, but because of the horrible road, it is nine plus hours. There was a way someone described that stretch of road- that it has been lifted up and thrown aside, dragged off in chunks, twisted, squeezed… - I cannot remember how she said it. Last December I threw up violently four times, and all they said was sorry. I wish they added ‘next time you don’t have to come’.
It’s not just the journey that makes me miserable. When we finally get there, there will be so many people… so many things to do… unending kitchen work as troops of empty stomachs come and go… no one to rant to (all my sisters are married now)… weeks of gathered positive mental attitude will be decimated in the face of great resentment… my face will grow long and they will say I should smile because I look ugly when I bone, which will make me bone more, which will vex them more… and so on. It is bad enough that we must go every new yr, but now for Easter/weddings. That’s not fair.
But when Sgt. Baba says ‘yes’ nobody can say ‘no’.
Unless… I fall sick a few days before… he is a reasonable man, so that should save me. Now, I just need to conduct myself well/not behave suspicious. Then two days to go... bam!