Label Restaurant Restrooms in English

As someone that appreciates the magic of language and loves to think about and analyze the words people use to communicate, I embrace any opportunity to learn a tidbit of the verbiage released by another tongue. However, when I'm in a mad dash to download an impatient dookie I don't want to have to decode the gender of a public restroom.

Roxanne had an urge for Bantu cuisine, so we dined at our local Mozambique-themed restaurant. I had some cream of uyoga soup that didn't sit right. My insides gurgled like I ate a loaf of saltpeter and I could tell that a considerable liquefied mass was negotiating the lumen of my alimentary canal with great efficiency and would soon be evacuating my body. I excused myself from the table, bun clutched, and waddled fast toward the restrooms.

The hot grimace on my face turned to horror when I could not figure out if I was a "Binadamu" or a "Mabibi". How the fuck was I supposed to know? If there was some subtle hint on the plaque I didn't see it. Perhaps my constricting sphincters demanded blood flow to be shunted from the eyes and brain, making a choice unclear. I had to make a decision... immediately.

The one I chose was empty and was perfectly fine. Any port in a storm. The substances that departed my person defied convenient classification, but suffice it to say that it was a testament to me that there is not a God that would let it happen. It looked like someone blew up a chocolate cake with an M-80.

Minutes later I sat silently sweating in the stall, listening to a bunch of Mabibis comment on the horrible stench in the bathroom. It was remarkably clear what the actual gender of the lavatory was, and it was not the one a bindamu like me belonged in. Sometimes the ends justify the means, and better in the Mabibi can than the dining room.

Maybe it would be a good idea to make critical signage a bit more clear.