304H

Why do I always get to sit next to the strangest people in public transport? If it isn’t the lady that keeps unleashing heinous farts, and then wriggling her nose like the rest of us when the pungent stench wafts through the air, threatening to pass all of us out,Β  it is the freak that keeps looking down my blouse, hoping to catch a glimpse of my (barely existent) cleavage. If it isn’t the nitwit that sits like he owns the vehicle, it is the blabbermouth that will be talking down his phone like he is delivering a speech at a fully-parked Yankee Stadium, without the public address system.

Why??! Is it punishment for the slice of cake that I ate from the office fridge, then helped the owner to frantically look for, when she couldn’t find it? Or is it for that one time that I hysterically laughed at a man whose pants got caught on a screw and literally ripped apart, leaving his grim twin towers glaring at us? I mean come on! Even Kanye West would have cracked up at the sight of a grown-ass man (LOL, pun-heaven) wiggling about the bustling CBD, trying to cover his haunches with a newspaper, when his pants look like Kim Kardashian’s dress passed through him on her way to the 2015 Grammys.

//giphy.com/embed/xT5LMADLN3zGz4Y2VG

via GIPHY

Anyway, today on my way to work, a fairly plump woman got into the bus, landing on the seat next to me like she was jumping on a gym exercise ball. Now, I am not one to cause a fuss so I let that slide and kept scrolling through my NewsFeed. The ride was going fine and everything was pretty smooth, until Nick Odhiambo from Classic 105 decided to play ‘Nipe Macho‘. Immediately, the Christina Shusho in her was strongly summoned, and she began to excitedly nod her head to the intro. Which was fine. She then started to sing along to the music. Which was fine. Except the lyrics were terribly evasive of her, so she sounded like she was trying to talk with hot coal in her mouth. And my friends, forget missiles. The fumes that came out of that mouth would make for the best weapon of mass destruction.

Mwadhani!

210H

Have you ever felt like your brain is going on lock-down? Like your face will be whisked away into corrosive powder if subjected to any more of the putrid smell coming its way? I panicked. I struggled to open the window but the darn thing wouldn’t budge. I tried to cover my nose with my scarf, but the horrendous wafts just kept coming through, like air through ventilation holes. So I sat there, staring at death in the face, well, the mouth to be precise, and simply prayed for redemption. Prayed that I lived long enough to eat the halloumi sandwich I had carried for tea break, because it was too good to leave to ANYONE.

Redemption came, 5 minutes and 57 seconds later, when the song ended, and she coincidentally moved to another seat close to a window, just as she was picking a call. She talked on the phone like she was giving the stadium speech but I didn’t care. I. Just. Didn’t. Care. I was safe. Redeemed. I know that was you Lord, thank you.

Ladies and gentlemen, abeg don’t kill us with bad breathe.

Brush your teeth.

Pop a mint for fuck’s sake.

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5 thoughts on “Death By Bad Breathe

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