I quickly surveyed the stall. There was a wastebasket containing some disposed tissues, but they were flecked with blood. No one else was around, and the outhouse was far enough removed from the compound that yells for help would go unheard.
I generally bring a book with me to the commode, but this time had left it in my room in my haste.
It was then that I remembered I had a single birr note in my pocket, worth about six US cents.
Money is about the filthiest thing on the planet and birr rapidly disintegrates into cupcake paper, but this note was relatively clean and crisp. It was the clear option.
I hesitated. What could be more colonially haughty than wiping your ass with another country’s currency? The symbolism was brutally overt. Six cents, I kept saying to myself. Six cents.
What do you do?
