One particular Thursday, to go to the church, she could not afford to prepare dinner for me. To this day, she handed me money. “Go Kentucky. Eat chicken.” In her mind, Eating out was KFC, like ordinary families and young people said ‘’Let’s go McDonald’s.” “Ah…Is there any other way? It’s so oily.” “You said you want to eat ‘chicken,’” she said with her angry look. that was when I knew, for her, speaking of “chicken,” nothing better than Kentucky Fried “Chicken.”
No matter where I eat, I can not enter her house by myself. “You’re right. I will go to Kentucky,” I gave in to her. “Sorry to bother you again. Please tell me how to open the door.” She still looked irritated. She fit one key after another into the locks and handled the door knobs roughly. “You understand?”she looked at me with a ferocious expression that was enormous pressure on me. ”Okay, thank you very much,” I said; she disappeared.
I remained standing by the door of my host house as a BMW drove up and stopped. A young chauffeur got out and opened the rear passenger door. She walked like a big shot through the darkness. “Phew, you waited for me, ha ha!” I did not know why she was in high spirits.
Next Sunday morning, she was trimming the shrubs in her garden. “Can I give you a hand?” I asked. “Phew, you want to cut, ha ha!” she handed me a pair of shears and sat in the chair shaded by the roof, and gave instruction: “cut one time,” “further in,” and “that’s right”―like she was a film director. Then she read a book over coffee. Then, one hour later, the neighbors came over, chatting. Now I was done and she had slept.
This afternoon, after swimming at Pigeon Island, I rushed home―she was so pleased I had done trimming that she was to take me to the church. The door was left open; she must prepare the chauffeur like her henchman. “Sorry, I was a little late,” I said, entering her house; she sat in her own chair. “K … I am exhausted,”she did not move from her chair.
The meals with sugar she cooked kept high quality, and the next thing I knew I ate up all the food on my plate. After dinner, I was supposed to study English in my room, but I went straight to bed and slept. Then I woke up midnight. She would sleep deeply. With that, I opened the door quietly and tiptoed to the dim glow near the kitchen, where there were a few cooking pots on the gas stoves. I picked up a pot lid―delicious pieces of fried plantain. This was my home and I reached for a slice.
Sugar is as dangerous as tobacco. I was always sleepy and craved for something sweet. In the evenings I would have watched the DBS news in my room. Diabetes. Diabetes. Diabetes. Every single day, everyday you would hear from the newscaster, the man like a bodybuilder who was irrelevant to it. When I rolled up my T-shirts, I realized I put on some weight around my waist.
In the mornings I ate breakfast at the dining table while she watched TV away from me. Sit in her chair, laughing boisterously. She would not look around unless I talked to her. I took bread, a muffin and a banana, curled myself in a ball around them, and left the room; saying “I’m done. Thank you for the good meal.” In my room, I put them in a plastic bag, stuffed them into my bag and went to my office.
Whenever walking to client’s house, my colleague, a middle-aged woman dropped in at shop to buy snacks. And most of female ones bought box lunches that were sold by local shops. What astonished me was that they ate about three times as much as I did. In contrast, I had never seen a Japanese woman do more than me.
On the fridge in the corner of the office, I saw a notice up, saying,“inventory.” As they devoured their lunch, I opened it slowly. The inside was full of light-resistant bottles. “What are these?” I asked one of them nearby. “Energy drinks,” she stood up and took one from the fridge looking at the nutrition facts on the label. “Vitamin B2 … vitamin B6 ‥ good. It suffices for those who have diabetes.” They seemed to think energy drink offset diabetes. “But, high-carb …” I said. “Yeah,” she twisted it open and drank it in one gulp.
When I went home she put an ice pack on her knee. “What happened?” Basically I do not talk to her. “Swollen,”she said. “Do you feel pain?” I asked. “Yes.” She was silent for long. I left my stuff in my room and came back to her. “Would you show me your knee?” “Sure.” I kneeled down beside her, placed my hands on her knee, and begun massaging―“you’re a good guy … When are you moving out?”she asked. “Day after tomorrow,” I said, without looking at her. There was silence for a while. Then I heard a voice say: “I’ll miss you … ”