Becquerel: Fart Lives Here.

Did I mention that I was to share the same room with Becquerel with no option of bail and no early release, at least not till I secured housejob? Well, now you know.

My first night was … hm. We were three in the room. My wonderful sister had not returned to school yet. When we finally finished rearranging the room and settled down, Becquerel slept off first. Great, right? Just wait.

My sister was somewhere between awake and waltzing into lala land. And your sincerely? I was wide awake, drawing close to my first experience of an orchestra.

The first fart from Becquerel hit the atmosphere and my sister woke up, sharp sharp, alarm written all over her. My equally shocked face did not help her alarm.

“Aunty Eunice, what was that?”

You see, this is why it is good to be awake in some situations. You get to be the tale bearer. You tell the story, as e dey hot!

I pointed at Becquerel, gladly playing my role as the accuser of this ‘brethren’. She was looking so innocent that we just smiled and shook our heads and my sister went to sleep, fully.

I was left alone.

So when the orchestra of farts began, I had no witness.

It started as a round of applause, followed by a long drawn trumpet sound ushering in an array of gunshots, reverberating and bouncing off the walls of the room.

I could not laugh. I could not cry.

That night, I realized, “Fart Lives Here”.