Exercise One: Sound

Did you decide to dash the decree I dropped upon you? Yes, mamaka was huffing, puffing, not bluffing, straightening her shoulders while strapping her arms across her strapping bussom. Did I not demand you deny yourself the delight of delving into a department store filled with the devil’s devices? A mouse could have fallen into the valley made by the peaks of her mountainous brows, fallen into that valley and become lost forever. Jingly-mingly, that’s what this is! The froth that issued from her face, mostly from inside her mouth, fell upon our crestfallen faces. Jingly-mingly! I will not condone this direct defiance to my didacticism! My sibling and I lobbed glances at each other, lob and snatch like we learned from our football lessons, helping the other lick his laceration at the lingual licking we were loaded with. Mamaka scooped the Zest Chest, tomatoish, redish all over its portliness, with greenish stem at its top, nucleus for spices from all over the cosmos, each in its own clear tear-dropish capsule, scooped the Zest Chest, unfastening it from the floor, and unsheepish in her gaze, darkened the blemish upon her cheeks. Janger-minger, she blurted, not bemused by this beacon of buffoonery defenceless in the destructiveness of her dactyls. Do you know what janger-minger is? Have you heard of jingly-mingly? Do the dulcet of these words display themselves as duplicitous to your eardrums? Jingly-mingly, she declared, is junk-stuff, goods that grow into garbage the instant you bring them home and don’t use them, letting it garner alcoves for spiders to spin their webs. But mamaka! My brother’s voice bobbed up from the basement of his belly, bubbling brightly from his buccal cavity. Boy oh Boy oh Boy, you are asking for a beating, she blurted. My brother snatched one of the viles from the vine unripened tomato, snatched it and scorched a seam through the sandalwood shag that stretched itself to the scullery. Mamaka was stunned. I was stunned. Even the stenograph of my granny Stella was stunned. No turning back for my brother. Nor did he turn his back to cast us a glance. We ran after the sound of his maniacal laughter emanating from the kitchen with the smell of simmering sizzling slippery sauce. Paprika! he proffered, pinching a pinch of paprika, placing it parallel to the popping  pastiche in the pot. It will please you to know that paprika will pressure this suppertime sauce to be more piquant, peppery, and more pleasing!  Bimbo, I bellowed, don’t do it!