An old man who looks like he's in his mid-80s has been frequenting the compound dustbin lately. He is partial to plastic containers and corrugated cardboard boxes. Like all scavengers he is nomadic, and walks all the way to Project 4 and other places and back. He is at our dustbin at least two times a day. Lydia and I do not send him away because he is quite neat and orderly. He segregates our trash, sweeps the dragon tree leaves off the driveway, and functions as our part-time security guard and janitor. Whenever he comes upon dumpster food he sets them aside and feeds them to his dog, who has reddish-brown fur like raw sienna mixed with a tad of red ochre, who always looks clean and well-groomed--and who eats only what she likes of the dumpster food. I let them nap on the platform between our two side porches. I suspect that they also come in the middle of the night and sleep there.

I have yet to ask the old man his name, but, this afternoon, I asked him what his dog's name is. He said that her name is Camille. I wonder if he spells the name that way, but I've decided that he does, because old scavengers are transient, urban hermits: they have knowledge and wisdom surprisingly superior to that of ordinary citizens, and they have extraordinarily keen powers of observation.

On Saturdays I buy lunch for the old man, usually a deep-fried chicken thigh and rice. He goes outside the gate and hides away from me to take his lunch, but I know that he eats all of it and then gives the bones to Camille.

Maferefun, Eleggua Okada!