Dear Stomach,

For nearly two months now, you and I have been engaged in a civil war such as has never been seen before for violence and suffering. Ceasefires have been signed and then rashly thrown aside, and still we are no closer to a permanent peace treaty.

I’m sure you must be as bored of this pitiful situation as I am. You can’t enjoy being pelted with medication missiles (with sexy names like ‘Flagyl’ and ‘Spasfon’) in attempt after futile attempt to annihilate your armies of amoebas. Time after time I thought you had finally thrown in the towel and admitted defeat, only to feel the drums of war echo through my swollen belly in anticipation of the forthcoming attack upon my lower intestine.

I know I have not been a kind and benevolent leader. I have forced you to consume unfiltered tap water, unwashed vegetables, meat of dubious quality and even halal hot dog sausages. Yet these are hard times: gone are the days of full English breakfasts, lamb chops, chicken tikka masala and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (1) . To my mind you haven’t even made an effort to appreciate the delicacies on offer here: fouléré and ndolé are really not that bad, and still you reject them in such a violently definitive manner.

To my shame, I have sought expert advice on how to finally overcome your insolent rebellion. I have visited the Hôpital CNPS in order to arm myself with better bombs and missiles, yet your guerrilla warfare tactics mean that you always evade my feeble attempts to regain power. Eventually, the Hôpital itself defeated me: aspiring bowel-dictators have to run a gauntlet of bureaucrats, doctors, nurses, laboratory workers and pharmacists before they can finally lay their hands upon those precious warheads that promise so much and deliver so little.

Please, stomach, I implore you, decease in your futile uprisings! What good do they serve? Neither of us will enjoy the last month in Cameroon if we cannot learn to live in peace. If you promise to end my suffering, I promise to only feed you mineral water and canned tuna until we reach England, and on your taste buds (2) and my wallet be it.

Yours beseechingly,

Emma

1 Note to parents: all of the aforementioned would make stellar ‘first meals back’.
2 I remember enough from GCSE biology to realise that stomachs don’t have taste buds; this was a rash attempt at humour. Not a very good one now that I read it again, but unfortunately I can’t be bothered to come up with anything better.