Peter Party (Pills and Potions Part 2)

If you missed part one, please start here .

He’s a policeman. There are lines of cars on each of his sides. Front. Back. East. West. They are hooting endlessly, agitatedly because no single line of traffic is moving. He gazes at the lines wondering what to do, wishing he could do it quickly but somehow he doesn’t. He just keeps on looking at the traffic jam as the cars continue to hoot. The traffic lights are all stuck on orange.

And then he falls. The hooting begins to wane slowly as the cars become blurrier in his sight. Even though he hits the ground like a sack of charcoal he doesn’t feel any pain. Darkness falls and he sleeps.

I suppose no one likes to wake up on Monday morning at a friend’s house. There’s a lot to do on Monday morning. Like shower, dress and go to work before it clocks 9. Monday morning starts like a stroll through downtown, avoiding batembeyi and their goods carelessly laid out on the pavements because dare you step on one of their items, you, my friend would have started another Luwero war. It then becomes a waiting experience at an HIV clinic. Bosses droning away about the start of the week, targets, repercussion of failure, motivation and the entire corporate harangue about responsibility. You’re being appraised and don’t know what to expect. Was last week worse, was it better? Am I being promoted? Fired? You breathe uneasily as the doctor gives you the talk before the result.

It’s Monday morning and he is in a strange bed. The light coming through the curtain is not the usual white yellow of 9am or 10am, it’s orange! Like the orange of the traffic lights. The orange of car indicators.

Lifting his head has never been easier! His head floats to the level of the window and he peers outside trying to understand why the light of the day is orange.

A car darts from below as it speeds downward toward a tall building with red light.

“Where the heck am I?”

He closes, opens his eyes, looks around the room to find a familiar sight. The clock on the wall looks like it’s melting. He tries to read the time but the minute and hour hand suddenly drown in the melting white of the clock. His heart begins to pump faster and louder. He can hear the drum rolls in his chest. He clutches at it and his hands go right through!

“Am I dreaming?”

Pitter patter of the petal platter
Part time pasta planting patter
Peter…Peter…Peter
And then the cock crowed the third time

Suddenly, like silk, he finds himself at the mountain of transfiguration and Golgotha. The Lord is turning white on the cross.  Judas is on the right, Peter is on the left. Judas has a tattoo on his chest, “Get Rich or Die Trying”. It’s carved out like silver and glimmers like a morning star. Before he can understand what is going on, he is now in Peter’s place on the cross. One of his ears is festering, like a dog bit it a week ago.

“Damn I will get rabies! Damn dogs.”

While he’s still complaining, a black Roman Centurion approaches him with a spear and pierces through his heart. He looks down and doesn’t see blood but he can feel the pain. The sky, the soldiers, the Jesus on his side begin to peel away like stickers being removed from a book. Darkness covers him, as he hears  the strange poem again

Pitter patter of the petal platter
Part time pasta planting patter
Peter…Peter…Peter
And then the cock crowed the third time

“Peter! Peter! Peter! Wake up.”

His eyes open for a minute second. He feels cannulas inserted into his veins, there is an oxygen mask on his mouth, and then her, with tears strolling down her face.

“Peter! Wake up!”

However, it’s too late, the eyes close. The darkness rests.

 

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