Bwana the Malarial, of Porlock via Africa, is leaving this country that does not want him and returning via Porlock (and a week on a friend's couch because his wife will no longer have him) to Africa, this time to a job in Mbarara, Uganda, and, he hopes, to his African (Kenyan? I wasn't listening) girlfriend and a steady supply of mail-order Viagra. This is the clutter he leaves in the porches of my ear.
So he stands the place a round, and all is promise and free beer as he goes for his wallet and coat. But foreign barroom jabberers must operate under a valence system: just as he goes out, he meets a man coming in, and the stranger speaks an American variety of English. Bwana directs him to me, and he hovers now, but I hunch and I scrawl.