“Check out this hoarder,” Adam leans over to show me his smartphone screen.
It’s a van, packed with rolls of toilet paper. The caption says the driver was fined for overloading.
I am transported back to my childhood, to a pit latrine on top of an anthill in the middle of my grandparent’s compound. The door was partially hidden by the boldo plants that grew around it – our toilet paper.
With the manure in the ground, we never ran out.
Those were simple times.
I return to the shopping list in my hands and write ‘toilet paper’.