Bongo liked to pick up strays.
He told me that the more cattle you had, the more women you could fuck.
He had no cattle, he told me, 'But I have money.'
It was regular.
Every fortnight.
And Faith drifted into his life.
From Kenya, early thirties, with massive tits, she was a real find.
Bongo told he found her outside District 9's public library, on a park bench.
She spoke perfect English.
Bongo spoke English well enough when it suited him.
When it didn't, he'd blow bubbles with his checks, like he was sucking a big bulbous cock and dither on.
A terrific way to not say anything that would incriminate yourself, I explained to Rosie.
'What day is it,' she asks.
Monday Rosie, fucking Monday.
Every day she asked me what day it was and every day I said it was Monday.
But today was Tuesday.
I wasn't going to tell her.
She didn't need to know.
'Just shut the fuck up and listen to my stories,' I said, and continued telling her about my new roommate who was sharing Bongo's bed.
I just coveted her tits, I told Rosie.
She looked interested.
Anything to do with beautiful women, always got her dribbling.
And she dribbled saliva all over her bib.
She had the dyke in her.
She never loved Peter, her husband. She only loved his money.
When they arrived to District 9 in 1983, Peter paid 40 grand in cash for the house.
Rosie was the eldest of twenty children.
She worked for Guiness in Kuala Lumper; she told me.
A great back story.
I just never saw her as a woman who worked hard.
She had big hands.
One of her feet had crab like toes, that crossed over each other, a deformity I found quite disturbing.
Rosie was disturbing.
'Stop digressing,' she'd say, always breaking me from reveries of stabbing her to death.
She was better off dead than sponging from the State.
Ouch, I say.
She's pinched my balls.
'I heard that,' she says.
Had to be the pills speaking, I confessed, embarrassed that such evil thoughts would ever be entertained in such a good-natured mind.
That's how I saw myself. I looked for a knife.
She had already put them away, in her bedroom, where she hoarded whatever she could get her big greedy hands on.
Not today, I thought.
Not today.
'You evil son of a bitch,' says Rosie and starts sweeping me out of her house with a Golden Horse grass broom.
I'll visit her tomorrow.
She would have forgotten what went down today.
That's what I loved about Rosie, everything you told her was forgotten five minutes later.
