Whisky and Bananas

Today has been so much better.

Didn't get to sleep until late due to a shop over the road throwing a Bob Marley tribute party. No, every little thing is not alright. I hate feeling like a party pooper but, truthfully, I'd take sedatives over a joint any day. However, I did manage to get a lovely, lazy lie-in.

Threw myself in Nyarutarama pool at around 11am. Luxuriated beneath their hot showers (the changing rooms have certainly had a makeover since I left). Painted on my best smile and decided to tackle Immigration.

After the boys in black came to play nice cop, not-quite-nasty-but-rather-more-sullen-than-probably-called-for cop, I was told to come in and pick up my passport any time 'next week'. 'Next week' was last week. I gave it that extra week for good measure. Still, when I arrived, no passport, only the following advice:

- Did someone tell you to come in?

- Yes. <Name> told me to come in and collect my passport any time.

- You have to wait to be told to come in. 

- I have been.

- Who said you should come and collect?

- <Name, again>

- When did he say this?

- Two weeks ago.

- Have you tried calling him?

- I have e-mailed, I have called, and I have texted. I never get any reply.

- You must be patient.

- I have been. But I was told it was ready. If it is not ready, and I cannot contact anybody at Immigration, what should I do?

- You need to talk to that person at Immigration.

- Well, if they won't reply to my e-mails, my calls or my texts, how do you suggest I do that? I am at Immigration now, can I talk to that person?

- <thoughtful pause>

- Hold on.

And, just like that, a magical man appeared, listened to my story again, disappeared for fifteen minutes (plenty of time to hear how the guy next to me had been waiting for his visa since February - I felt rather bad complaining about my three-week delay) and returned with my passport, complete with visa.

A 'communication issue' apparently.

'Nta kibazo.'

I am now legal, and I can leave the country.

Not that I'm planning on going anywhere, except perhaps to see Lucky in Buj. But I was very happy to be reunited with my passport all the same, and glad that I went to pester them about it, otherwise my visa may well have expired by the time I received it.

After that gripe, it's probably being cancelled as we speak.

Should have seen me, though. I exercised Zen levels of calm. I was completely tripping on endorphins. Swimming is, for me, one of the greatest pleasures. I keep getting complimented by broad-shouldered Rwandan fellas on my speed. My arms are aching from pulling that extra weight, though. It's a little alarming. 

Had to laugh when I got home. When I know I'm out for the day I send in the cleaner. It's lovely to get back to a sparkly fresh apartment, but every time she folds my bed covers into some new form of origami. It tends to be quite elaborate.

Rustled up some dinner. It comes to something when baked beans are considered a luxury. Served 'em up on toast with cheese. Comfort food.

I was just losing myself in 1920s gangland Birmingham when my would-be estate agent called. Found myself across town in a bar with him and my friend Fidens, who was there to translate through the kinks in the contract. Seems like we may have an accord, and I may have a new house. A big house, with a garden, two large bedrooms (one en suite), a huge living room on two levels, a big office cum third bedroom (as if! I need an office), a new water tank, hot showers, a large private enclosure with a lawn and a vegetable plot, and a domestic called Damascene...

May.

If all goes according to plan.

Seems the landlord liked me. Which is nice, because I liked him too. 

Should know on Monday.

Fidens had to go straight after the meeting, meanwhile I finished up my beer and continued to chat with Mr. Agent. He's actually a nice guy, just not the best estate agent I've ever met, and the bar is pretty low. Still, I politely accepted his services, dodged his disappointment that I was 'really going home?' (yes, really), and hope to see him on Monday to conclude the deal.

My first house was in Kagugu, my current one is in Gikondo,
my future one may be in Kanombe, up by the airport.
54 minutes by car? A moto can manage it in 20.

Gods, I hope this one works out. I really can't take another move. It's a strain on the brain and the bank account. 

Came home, had a table delivery. I asked for a preparation table for cooking when I first moved in. By the smell of it, it's just been made. Tomorrow I will put my nice wooden chopping board on my nice wooden table, but for now it's just got whisky and bananas on it.

Delivered by the landlady's son, who was wandering around reception with his top off the other night. Like some sort of elderly prude, I covered my eyes with my hand and said 'Don't worry, I won't look.' Weird reaction. He's completely ripped, next time I'm just going to smile and stare. Honestly thought I'd walked into a Coca Cola commercial.

Finally flopped down on the couch for the next episode of Peaky Blinders. Only got one more left and I am loving it. Joined them in a dram. Found this stuff: Bond 7. For around £2 a bottle I was bracing myself, but it is actually pleasantly palatable. Feeling much better than I was after my last post. Gradually getting myself sorted out.