One of the best classes that I took while in college was my Russian politics course. It was called politics, but as you can well imagine, the history of Russia was well intertwined in our various discussions. 

We first read The Communist Manifesto and then proceeded to observe how the country sped its delivery into a quasi-Soviet state. The aftermath of appalling governance demonstrated how the Soviet Union was cowed into economic and social reform that produced long-lasting consequences (bare-chested glamor shots of Putin, anyone?). In essence, the swift rise and decline of the Communist State read very much like a bad novel. If this history hadn’t been so recent, so palpable, you’d swear that it lacked all sense of realism.

Really, you can’t make this crap up.

Chalk it up to cultural differences, but a large part of my existence here in Dakar makes me feel as though I am living in my own bad novel, one that even I don’t wanna read.

I got home early today because I was up all last night feeling very ill. High on my agenda was curling up on my couch and waiting to feel a bit more normal. Alas, this was not to be.

As soon as I step out of my elevator I am greeted by two guys with a plastic chair, boxes, and some power tools.  They are excited to see me, but I can’t say that I feel the same way about them.

“Are you waiting for me?” I ask, surprised.

“Yes.” they say, as they gather their things and wait for me to let them inside.

Listen:

My landlord has a 20% success rate when it comes to delivering on promises. He’s like a politician who rose through the ranks of under-performing used car salesmen to become what he is now: a talking head filled with empty, yet politely-worded promises. This is obnoxious because I constantly change my plans so that I can sit at home and wait for no one to show up when my place needs attention. Alternatively, the times where he makes no such promises are the ones where I come home and my superintendent informs me that “technicians came by, but you weren’t home.”  This is the sitcom in which I am presently trapped.

Fawlty Towers. The original was so much better.

The dudes with the plastic chair come inside and tell me that they have to change something out. Fine. I have no idea what you need to do, but have at it.  “I need to turn the power off for ten minutes, max.” he tells me as he heads to the circuit breaker. Fine. I still have no idea what you are doing.

Ding dong.

I open the door, three more guys are there, this time with a big drill and an intercom phone. At least I was expecting this appointment. With the power off, it’s getting hot and stinky in my apartment, and there is a soundtrack of drilling and banging going on throughout. I’m getting thirsty, but I don’t want to get myself a drink. Normally, I would do so, and of course offer juice to my visitors- but I know that all of these guys are fasting. C’est pas poli to drink in front of them, so instead we all suffer together in this midday warmth.

My front door opens and shuts, opens and shuts. I’m sitting at my computer, wondering how long these guests are going to be around. Really, all that is missing is the most important technician: Ndaw, my internet guy. I think he has a crush on me, but I certainly don’t have a crush on him. Too bad, because if he didn’t drive me crazy I would try and sweet talk him into actually showing up when he and my landlord say he is going to come. Alas, that is not to be, and after five months my internet situation is still unresolved.  Like I said, a bad sitcom.

Twenty minutes later the power comes back on. The phone people and the mystery circuit breaker people all file out of my house. Alhamdoulilah, at last I can finally have some peace. Ahhh- hello, couch.  

Ding Dong. I change my gaze from the couch to the door. Grrr.

Is it Ndaw?

I open the door. Nope, plastic chair guys again.  

“You wouldn’t believe this,” one of them begins, “but we just realized that we were in the wrong apartment and need to re-replace the replacement piece we just installed here.”

Comment on dit, “YGBFKM“?

I let them back in, and they are very apologetic. I don’t want to be the angry toubab, so I just laugh to cover up my exasperation. Back in comes the plastic chair (I’m still not sure what this is for), and the guys goes back to my circuit breaker.

“I’ve got to cut the power again.”

Of course you do, and of course I had started to some electricity-required activities just as soon as you dudes left the first time. D’accord.

I’m beyond tired, but again I sit in twenty minutes of warmth as they do God knows what to my electric panel. Finally, they are finished, and they pick up their chair and head out the door again.

“À tout à l’heure (see you in a little bit)”, I say as they take their leave once again. They don’t catch my sarcasm, and I don’t really care.

So now I am back inside my house, eyeballing my couch. I am going to lay down now, but I do know that as soon as I drift off, my phone is going to ring and it will be Ndaw, asking me how my family is. It’s all in the script.

P.S. Putin, as it would appear, is enjoying more than his fair share of entrances and exits:
Putin fires darts at gray whale from crossbow