The bum story

It often feels like the Spanish inquisition when an international guest check in as they are often concerned that they will be killed in their beds after being robbed of all their belongings and vital organs. I have a speech prepared for these types of enquiries and list all our security measures rather condescendingly. When Noreen asked me to come and talk to a new guest about security, I was ready to launch into said prepared oral.

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I was not ready for her next comment, “They’re a bit sensitive Mommy” she said “they were attacked in the hospital”. I was relieved. For a change someone else screwed up and not me.

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I checked in the reservation book and saw that they were in our fanciest unit. They are paying full price and have also taken the suite next door. “Be nice” I say to myself as I see the dollar signs in my head. I tentatively knock on the door, and a lovely female voice invites me in. As I enter, I see a woman draped diagonally over the king-sized bed, lying on her stomach. She is gorgeous. She has all the latest modifications one can have. By this I mean: luscious lips, eye lash extensions, hair extensions (and I can spot a synthetic job from a real Indian hair job a meter away) and nails which enable her to pick her nose without hardly moving her arm.

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“Come have a seat,” she says, only moving her neck and patting the bed next to her with her hand. The rest of her body does not move at all.

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I do the small talk for a bit and then carefully ask her why she feels our security is not effective. “Well,” she says, “I like to spoil myself as we work very hard there in Botswana. We like to look good” (I manage not to say, “Yes, clearly” out loud, silently judging the various improvements already made). She continues: “So this year my husband and I decided to get me a Kardashian bum. In our country we do not have surgeons to do this, so I Googled and discovered a doctor in your area who specialises in bottom-augmentations.” (Now reader, I do not know about you, but when I was at school, this was not a career choice our career guidance counselor ever mentioned).

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Her story continued: ”We paid our deposit in an off shore account (off shore of Africa I’ll have you know) and I checked in to the plastic surgeon’s clinic and we started the procedure. Nothing went wrong, but it appeared that I did not heal properly and the doctor referred to tiny blisters which she noticed on my bum. However, she told me not to worry and that I should get on the first plane back and enjoy the way my new bottom fills my R8000 Guess jeans.

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I arrived home and what was supposed to be a quick recovery turned into a horror. The little blisters became bigger and bigger and eventually became weeping open sores. We went from doctor to doctor, from Francistown to Gabarone, but no one could help us. We even went to our local Sangoma, but when he diagnosed it as leprosy caused by a disgruntled ancestor, we decided to come to the world renowned Wound clinic in Sunninghill. By the time I got on to the plane my lower half was rotting and big cavities had formed on my buttocks.” (Thank God there was no selfie of this! Can you imagine the torture!!) “The smell that enveloped me was disgusting and I covered my head with a scarf, wore sunglasses and wept with embarrassment all the way until we landed.

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We got to the wound clinic but they were more baffled than the Sangoma and did not even venture a guess. They told us to rather go to another super special surgeon. We knew we would never get in to see him, but once he heard what had happened, his secretary magically opened a space and he took pity on me and my vanity, which now literally came back and bit me in the arse.

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The surgeon spent the next few weeks doing a variety of operations and I recovered slowly in ICU, physically and emotionally.

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The doctor was so upset about my rear end that he found the bum-augmentation specialist and gave her a piece of his mind. He told the Bum-doctor that he would not allow her to chop tomatoes for a salsa judging on the state of my buttocks and that she should be scrapped off the role. Speaking of which, he discovered that she was not even actually a registered doctor anymore and her clinic was under investigation.

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I was too high on pain meds to take in much, but my husband (I heard blessor) was most upset. He kept vigil by my side day and night once I was moved from ICU to my private ward. One night, a gentleman dressed in a white coat and accessorised with a stethoscope and blue crocs came into my room. He greeted my husband and then proceeded to inject a brownish liquid into my drip. My husband got an awful feeling and asked for identification, upon which the “doctor” dropped the syringe and bolted out the room. We checked the security footage and saw that he signed in as a family member, then changed into doctor’s scrubs after entering the hall and tried to silence me forever…

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And so, here we are. I am delighted that I am out of hospital, but how do we stop them coming back to finish the job (and me for that matter)?”

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This terrifying tale suddenly had my mind racing. How do I know whether I am booking a hired killer into room 5!? Cameras and electric fences will not help in that case.

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So I picked up the phone and dialed my friendly terrorist Konradie (who is an ex Recce). We all have at least one on speed dial if we are honest. Oh, okay, just me then? Konradie, like many with Border war PTSD, used to run a rather clandestine operation protecting people you and I wouldn’t know. So, with the help of Konradie, and our local security firm, we made sure that our guest, her bum and her husband were never bothered while under our roof.

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She went home and has sworn to commit to a vanity-free life from now on.

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