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An even better question would be; what the hell would anyone in Papua New Guinea be doing reading my weekly ramblings? Then I thought it must be an adventurous Kenyan working for an NGO, doing maritime research and he found himself down there, by the beach, putting rare plants and animals in a small jar, forming a nomenclature. I used to see him last month, one lone reader from a random nondescript country. What the hell would anyone be doing in Papua New Guinea?Maybe it’s some Kikuyu guy from Molo who is running a curio business, speaking fluent Tok Pisin (but with kuyu accent, naturally) and who all the natives now lovingly call Swando: “Hey Swando, we saw Yengo throw a spear right out of the stadium on TV, is he one of your family?” Kids shout at Swando as he opens his curio shop and he smiles and says, “Oh yes and he’s called Yego.I thought maybe it’s an Ex, some girl who reads me while constantly rolling her eyes, bile streaming out of her ears and nose and finishing each article by mumbling, “boooring! Maybe it was a chap who found himself on an unlikely honeymoon because his new bride had always wanted to visit “that place that is called PNG” and they got booked into this grungy hotel by the beach that had deceivingly great pictures online.So maybe he’s lying there, naked, next to his snoring bride (they somehow never snore before you marry them) and reading this blog while trying not to stick his elbow in her ribs to stop the snoring.A few months ago some lady called Viva Muzungu sent me a long message via Facebook, saying she is a big fan etc etc and finally at the end she said her boyfriend who is an even bigger fan and the one who introduced her to this blog (it’s normally the other way round) was turning the big 3-0. Nobody talks about the lovely hills, the infrastructure, the terrific groundnut sauce, the Umuganda where people diligently come out once a month to clean their neighborhoods (sounds like high school), the odd shaped corrugated roofs, or about the law and order, the mildness and politeness of the people, or how they drive on the wrong side of the road and from the wrong side of their cars or how shit generally just works down there. And how amazingly hot they are and how the place is a hotbed of hotness.She said that if I could just make a phone call to him on his birthday it would literally kill him because apparently he’s in the habit of quoting shit I write here or saying stuff like, “I wonder what Bikozulu would think of that.” (Aww). That’s how I ended up in Rwanda last week – to kill two birds with one stone. You hear so much legendary stuff about the beauty of Rwandese women that you imagine that when you step off the plane you will be knocked out cold by a rush of beauty.

So would you please call him on the 28th of August? So I told her, look, I’m supposed to come down to Lake Kivu but I will hang on and align my trip with his birthday and then maybe we can surprise him? You imagine streets upon streets of beautiful women with sparking eyes, long slender faces, longer legs, chocolate skin, glorious asses shaped by mother nature, long hair and that look that says, “rescue me from this beauty please, rescue me, it’s too much.” You imagine aisles upon aisles of hot women in supermarkets, reading labels of products, their supple lips moving silently, others fondling and pressing fruits in the vegetable section while some others bend over healthy products, their hips blocking other customers from passing through.You imagine that they all speak French and that they could be telling you “excuse me, may I please pass?


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