> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://club-yme.ghost.io/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # PAY ME WHAT YOU OWE ME AND VOMIT WHAT YOU ATE - URL: https://club-yme.ghost.io/pay-me-what-you-owe-me-and-vomit-what-you-ate/ - Published: 2026-10-12T21:20:41.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-16T17:41:57.000Z - Description: Soul warmed its way through the Stern Grove hills as the three-horn section tooted away, playing the tunes that have enchanted bedrooms ever since Al Green was a spring chicken and you were possibly being conceived. - Author: Timi Iwayemi Hey y'all, Each day has been a disappointment, a continuous search for ideas worth developing and words that deserve to be memorialized. It's a pitiful performance: watching the cursor blink against the white expanse of the screen. No fruit has come, but I've still tended my garden, mostly by letting other people's spells wash over me. I lost myself in the travails of *The Palm-Wine Drinkard*, marveling at Tutuola's invention of his own tongue and his rejection of convention in its many forms: syntax, morality, allegory. All of it serves a most extraordinary mockery of the typical heroic romp. Once you accept, anticipate even, that the phantasmagoria Tutuola lobs toward you will rupture your relationship with reality, you can luxuriate in this playful rendition of the Yoruba oral tradition. Indeed, if I were, like the Drinkard, a "father of the gods who could do everything in this world," I would risk it all—depart the land of the living, break bread with the dead, wield my juju against every obstacle—just to once again sip from the gourd of my favorite tapster. And with that juju in hand, anyone who mistakes kindness for weakness would simply have to *pay me what they owe me and vomit what they ate*. **The Palm-Wine Drinkard – Amos Tutuola** > I was a palm-wine drinkard since I was a boy of ten years of age. I had no other work than to drink palm wine in my life. In those days we did not know other money, except COWRIES, so that everything was very cheap, and my father was the richest man in our town. > > My father got eight children and I was the eldest among them, all of the rest were hard workers, but I myself was an expert palm-wine drinkard. I was drinking palm-wine from morning till night and from night till morning. By that time I could not drink ordinary water at all except palm-wine. If you dip your toes into Tutuola's shapeshifting supernatural waters and feel a similar irresistible urge for baptism, then Gabriel García Márquez is your *John*. Flip through the pages of *One Hundred Years of Solitude* and embrace with childlike wonder the tale of the Buendías, particularly how readily it prods you to imagine the impossible as ordinary. You'll be struck by the vibrant descriptions of the mythical Macondo, tucked in the Colombian jungle, where magic carpets cross the sky and Father Nicanor sips chocolate before levitating; by the sensual portrayal of characters whose passions and obsessions guarantee their demise, often preceded by a retreat into solitary refuges; or by the fluidity with which each word and transition is sewn onto its predecessor. It's freeing to settle into the metaphysical plane García Márquez develops, to imagine oneself as part of the myths of Macondo, to rejoice at the discovery of the promises of modernity, but also to recoil at its often unanticipated power to strip away what seems most precious. **One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel García Márquez** > It was as if God had decided to put to the test every capacity for surprise and was keeping the inhabitants of Macondo in a permanent alternation between excitement and disappointment, doubt and revelation, to such an extreme that no one knew for certain where the limits of reality lay. Others played their words for me, uniting my compatriots and me in song and dance. When Al Green swaggered across the stage, all our eyes tracked him and the roses he tossed into the crowd. We hung onto every word, awaiting the next instruction: to sing along, to respond, to find the ones we dream about and let them know *there's so many good things you could say* about the way they love. Soul warmed its way through the Stern Grove hills as the three-horn section tooted away, playing the tunes that have enchanted bedrooms ever since Al Green was a spring chicken and you were possibly being conceived. Time has collected some of its tribute from Mr. Green's signature warm falsetto, a toll yet to befall Samara Joy, whose velvety voice soothed every soul at the San Francisco Symphony. Joy's dynamic take on the classic compositions that shaped her own unique gifts entranced all comers, who left enriched by the luster of the latest member of an illustrious lineage tracing back to Mahalia Jackson. And there was Ballaké Sissoko, whose power resided in his fingers. It seemed to have been birthed centuries ago, deciding each generation whom to ordain with the gift to summon our tears, adulation, and awe, one stroke of the kora's strings at a time. When the maestro's hands raced across the 21 strings, he led us all on a pilgrimage to the sandy Malian plains: the source of this living, rhythmic epic. These are the spells of those who've mesmerized me since I last sat in your inboxes. I hope some of it reaches you through your headphones and speakers. Enjoy! [All Teeth When I See You by Timi Iwayemi on Apple MusicPlaylist · 18 Songs![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/42/62/42621783-74d6-4656-b2c3-928d7c378ea1/content/images/icon/favicon-32-d1171e2c-90a5-4505-b43a-054407f6f41d.png)Apple Music - Web Player![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/42/62/42621783-74d6-4656-b2c3-928d7c378ea1/content/images/thumbnail/1200x630wp-60-b891f78c-4e5a-4472-8fe7-0464fb620356.jpg)](https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/all-teeth-when-i-see-you/pl.u-yZyVXbLTYolXNAM?ref=club-yme.ghost.io) Spotify embed for my email friends: [All Teeth When I See You](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/40qdeX7Pu7Cdx4EZIWJdtH?si=e7fx9OPASaKaG9JVsXke4w&ref=club-yme.ghost.io)