Bongo is a cunt, I added.
‘You mean John.’
Yes, that’s his Christian name.
And Obiajulu is his African name.
Yes, that’s his Christian name.
And Obiajulu is his African name.
It means his heart is consoled.
'Fako,' mutters Rosie.
He says he’s an evangelist, I continue.
‘Evangelist my ass,’ says Rosie, who is a devout Christian and takes offence at charlatans like that. Congo Bongo was from the Congo, hence the nickname.
He says he came over here on a UNHCR refugee ticket, I told Rosie, who scoffed at that.
'Another fucking fake refugee, seen my fair share of them while living on Christmas Island with my late husband Peter, god bless his soul,' she genuflects, 'from 1978 to 1983, the year after I met Bob Hawke.'
She had her moments of clarity, and this was one of them.
More like a dumb cunt, I said, continuing my bitch about my roommate.
I had been on the pills for only a few weeks now.
Not sure if the pills fast forwarded my destiny.
‘Yep,’ said Rosie, who nodded her head, then went back to her granny nap, on her chair, in the kitchen, where a round sky light cast rays, creating the effect of a hello around the old hag’s head.
‘He’s a dumb cunt,’ I said, louder, making sure to wake up Rosie.
I had something to say and just didn’t want her to miss it.
I was curing her of her dementia.
‘Don't’ fucking repeat yourself,’ I say, ‘it’s becoming tiring.’
They didn’t teach that in Cert IV, working with the elderly.
Rosie was my test speed dummy.
I took the speed, and she was the dummy, and I would throw in a test every now and then, to make sure she was listening.
‘What did I just say?’
She’d nod, fart, then fall back to sleep, briefly, before I prodded her with my walking stick.
I was practicing being lame, a cripple, so I could walk into the doctor’s clinic and beg for him to sign me off on Disability Allowance, which paid twice as much as Unemployed Allowance.
He says he’s an evangelist, I continue.
‘Evangelist my ass,’ says Rosie, who is a devout Christian and takes offence at charlatans like that. Congo Bongo was from the Congo, hence the nickname.
He says he came over here on a UNHCR refugee ticket, I told Rosie, who scoffed at that.
'Another fucking fake refugee, seen my fair share of them while living on Christmas Island with my late husband Peter, god bless his soul,' she genuflects, 'from 1978 to 1983, the year after I met Bob Hawke.'
She had her moments of clarity, and this was one of them.
More like a dumb cunt, I said, continuing my bitch about my roommate.
I had been on the pills for only a few weeks now.
Not sure if the pills fast forwarded my destiny.
‘Yep,’ said Rosie, who nodded her head, then went back to her granny nap, on her chair, in the kitchen, where a round sky light cast rays, creating the effect of a hello around the old hag’s head.
‘He’s a dumb cunt,’ I said, louder, making sure to wake up Rosie.
I had something to say and just didn’t want her to miss it.
I was curing her of her dementia.
‘Don't’ fucking repeat yourself,’ I say, ‘it’s becoming tiring.’
They didn’t teach that in Cert IV, working with the elderly.
Rosie was my test speed dummy.
I took the speed, and she was the dummy, and I would throw in a test every now and then, to make sure she was listening.
‘What did I just say?’
She’d nod, fart, then fall back to sleep, briefly, before I prodded her with my walking stick.
I was practicing being lame, a cripple, so I could walk into the doctor’s clinic and beg for him to sign me off on Disability Allowance, which paid twice as much as Unemployed Allowance.
Rosie wakes up again, all startled looking, snorting out of her nose loads of water that has been sitting on her lungs for the past few weeks,
Shower aside and the sprinkling of old lungated water over her food placed in front of her on the large round wooden kitchen table, laden with fruit, samosas and lasilamak, her favorite Malay dish - she launched into clarity mode.
'He's all bluff and no blow,' she huffs, 'don't let him bully you son.'
Then she drifts back off to the land of dementia, cured of any water on her lungs.
A true miracle to witness, I thought, as I slowly closed the front door, letting myself out.
I could still hear her snoring, but without the wheezing of a lung drowning in old age.
