I lowered the volume when my mother started ranting.

And she was as deafening as those of the vuvuzelas constantly blown by thousands of South Africans in the FIFA World Cup 2 ! . "ownstairs were my brother and his wife loudly arguing about which food tasted better# which actor$actress was more good%loo&ing# which man was richer# which man was gay# which was better'.. I was pondering to tell them which football player was the best % but I cancelled out the thought in time. "uring their argument# their overweight# three year%old daughter interrupted# ("addy "addy) *rrier'I go to ish&ul'I see *ro+'.so fat)( Strea&s of laughter burst from the dining room as I made my last step down the stairs. I was eager to complain again about the food when without failure my mother,s voice emerged from out of nowhere answering my thoughts. For some incomprehensible reason# I could not determine why I was not surprised. -n ./# flash news about the latest flash flood was shown. Captured images of the devastation showing houses dilapidated by the entry of water currents# cars overturned# an obese man sleeping free from his clothes outside a store at some mall# street children swimming in a pool full of half%submerged buildings as a motorboat delivers stranded swimmers to dry land. It was a sight triggering a strand of my childhood of something familiar. A short story I had come upon when my grandmother let me read the boo& of debauchery. It was written by the first ever pope of the Alcoholic church# 0ope "ebauchery I himself. I remember worshipping his portrait at our old house and laying my letters of prayer on the offering table before him# through which% my grandmother said% if burned# the words would reach him in heaven. I prayed to him whenever I needed something.