Fuchsia Party

Fuchsia Party

You’re at the local sai hota, just across the street from where you work as a salesman at the fucking hardware store. You know, the one with the weird-ass logo. You hate it. You hate the logo. You hate the shop, hate the job. You hate the boakiba in your mouth, it tastes like dried up shit. You look around and see all these fucking idiots sat on their fat asses and chugging down gulha and bajiya and rosepan. You sip on the tea. You always have tea. You don’t fucking drink coffee, you told them so. You hate coffee. Just then you see Chompatay come into the hota. Fucking Chompatay. This guy is a goddam joke. He is always sweating. Motherfucker is a reservoir of sweat! Fuck that shit. But here he comes. He pushes a chair and sits right in front of you then retrieves something out of his trouser pockets. Ugh, you think, it’s that fucking handkerchief. Chompatay retrieves the fucking handkerchief.

“Balaaeh! The protest has closed off most of the roads! I was late for work.”, he says, wiping sweat from his face with the fucking handkerchief. It already looks wet and dirty. And then looking at what you’re eating he says, “What are you eating?”

He can clearly see what you’re eating. You bite hard on the boakiba. “Boakiba.”, you mumble flatly, showing it to him. He can fucking see it, what the fuck? You want to shove it in his face. But you say instead, “Shall I get some for you?”. And you look around to see if you can spot one of the fucking Bangladeshi waiters. You see one.

“Ey! Bring some more of this!! Nagoobalha!”, you yell but you only imagine saying the last part. You brandish the half-eaten boakiba for the entire fucking hota to see. The waiter nods. You turn to Chompatay. “What protest?”

“The opposition protests! Didn’t you know? Biggest protest O so far!”, he says, wiping sweat from the back of his neck now. “You know, we should join the party. We can do something. You should consider that.”. He points an index finger covered with the handkerchief at you.

“What party? Your fucking grandma’s party?”, you say, but not that last part, while sipping some tea you wish you could instead just throw at his fucking face for speaking nonsense.

“OUR party! The fuchsia party! What’s wrong with you?”, he says and then at the fucking Bangladeshi waiter, “Ey! Bring a Lavazza black!”. He picks a gulha from your plate. You only had two on the plate. Now there’s just one. For fuck’s sake! There’s a fork on the table someone has brought to eat their nasi goreng. You stare at it for a while and fantasize about picking it up and stabbing his fucking hand with it. “I can get people to support you. You know, financial support also.”, he says. “You can run for the Male’ city council in next elections. Anyone can. You see those idiots running the city council, you think they have some big qualifications? Let’s do this man! Who knows where it will take us!”, he says now after taking a bite from the gulha. YOUR gulha! Fuck!


There’s a lot of noise. Lot’s of people. Thousands of fucking people. There’s some fucking idiotic music playing on the speakers. It sounds sad but pretends to be happy, the music. It is loud. You just want to go home, watch some porn and sleep. But then you recall that fateful fucking day at the hota with Chompatay because you presently see him approaching you. The

bastard didn’t even pay for his fucking food that day, five fucking years ago. And now he looks like a fat fucking guiburi after years of eating other people’s gulha!

He nearly stumbles on the stairs. What a fucking waste of atoms, you think. Beads of sweat fall onto the stage. Wet patches on his white shirt make him look like a fucking Friesian cow and the fucking fuchsia tie he’s wearing is too short. What a fucking dipship. He shoves his hand into his pocket as he walks towards you. That fucking handkerchief, you say in your head. There’s a row of mics in front of you. You just want to grab one of them and whack the motherfucking sweat from his face for good. But you don’t. You smile. Of course, you must. You lean your head towards him because you know some fucking words are about to come out of that hole in his face.

“You ready? Remember to talk about building more flats for disadvantaged people. That’s important. And don’t forget to mention your biggest donor. He’s here.”, he says wiping his chin with the fucking handkerchief and nodding toward some fucking cunt in the front row.

You nod your head twice with your eyes closed, as if you’re receiving some fucking sage advice. Fuuck! But you don’t fucking give a shit. You do however take the opportunity to check your fuchsia tie and your white shirt and your Apple Watch Series 10. The watch face displays the goddam numbers but you only pretend to read it. You have a million fucking dollars in the bank now. You can hire someone to tell you the time if you fucking want! You’re way above that now. So, you don’t give a shit.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! And fuck you, you motherfucking idiots!”, of course you only imagine saying that last part, forcing the biggest smile you possibly fucking can. You look around. You notice a banner in the back that says, “President your-fucking-name ah Maruhabaa!”. You wait for the applause. “What a bunch of fucking morons!”, you think as you wish you could just take a flamethrower to it all.

But only for a moment because just then the million dollars in your bank account pull at your heartstrings and you feel a warmth inside your belly rising. Maybe it is fucking gastritis. May the nasi goreng from earlier tonight at Hotel Jen. Whatever the fuck it is, it reminds you that you are here for one thing only. For the first time you feel something stirring as you imagine how fucked up this is but know you will milk and squeeze it for all it is worth before fucking off. Haha, yes!! Maybe this is called having an emotional moment, you wonder. Something is happening to your eyes. A single tear is forming. For fuck’s sake! “I am fucking good at this! So fucking gooood!”, you say to yourself as you soak up the energy.

The cameras capture your watery eyes. The images are shown live on tv and on the screen behind you. The fucking crowd loves you even more. Fuck yeah!