Disaster that awaits the city folk in the village

You arrived in the village to what turned out to be the rainiest month of the year. You did not go in your four-wheel and your car got stuck in the muddy road, about two kilometres from your home.

You parked it there, and with Carol, Little Farrah and your brother, you had to walk up the hill for the remainder of the journey.

Disaster: Little Farrah was fast asleep by the time you hit the muddy patch, and waking her up from her cozy car seat and plunging into the dark, to walk on a treacherously muddy road is not how you will make her love the countryside.

Catastrophe: Carol didn’t carry any mud-friendly shoes and has never walked on a slippery road in her life.

Calamity: You had all expended your phone batteries so there wasn’t a flashlight to light up the path.

Tragedy: Carol was supposed to be at the Coast and this was the alternative you had sold to her.

The walk up to home was muted, with you muttering a few unconvincing words. You walk at such a slow pace, lest Carol slides and falls. Of course, she does and the beige pants she is wearing, her favourite, are soiled a big deal. It is the presence of your big bro that stops her from a violent diatribe.

“Do it for love babe,” you joke. “You are not funny,” she says as Farrah nearly falls into a ditch. Your brother offers to carry Farrah. You want to carry Carol, but she has put on weight, pregnancy and all.

Eventually, you arrive home. But with the rains, it means there is no electricity. Apparently, it has been raining and the sun has been weak, so even the solar lamp is rather too dim, so they have lighted some lanterns and the whole household looks like a scene from the late 1980s.

For supper, the kid who was supposed to slaughter a rooster was not around and they have settled for some prepared vegetables. The first supper is so dreadful, Farrah barely touches her food. They get her some milk, but she can’t drink it. Lactose intolerance is real, so she basically sleeps hungry. Carol eats out of courtesy and surprisingly speaks nicely to your parents, updating her about work and all. But you know hell awaits you.

You get to your bedroom, and somebody last slept there like six months ago. It smells funny. You fix the dusty mosquito nets, spread the bedding that also smell funny and before long, Carol is sneezing like she is remote controlled.

No anti-histamine, no power, killer bedding, bad food. It is all Carol can do to stop from crying. You sympathise with her. The adjustment from a colourful coastal vacation to the darkest part of the continent is more than a woman can take. You try some small talk but she is in no mood. Your prayer is no one catches malaria. The rest you can handle the following day.

“Sorry, all this was not anticipated…,” you say.

“Even washing the bedding, come on!”

You realise sometimes silence is golden.