Siete minutos, Ismael Camacho Arango [read with me TXT] 📗

“Yes, we are.”
Homer wanted to see some kind of proof but they kept on laughing.
“This will be their floor,” the first man said.
Homer shrugged. “It’s mud.”
“The children will love it,” he said. “We’ll get cheap materials from the streets.”
“That’s stealing,” Homer said.
“It will cost you more money then.”
They had to work before the rains turned the slums into a river bigger than the Amazon, where everyone might drown. Homer wanted the young widow to live in peace.
“Nobody cares about poor people,” the man said.
“I do,” Homer said.
“You must have your own reasons.”
He wrote in a piece of paper a list of all the things they needed.
“We don’t charge for anything we steal from the streets,” they said.
“I see,” Homer said.
“We can’t afford anything else.”
They would build a hut to shelter the family against the weather, while electricity, water, sewers or any other amenities of the modern world cost more money.
“What about the toilets?” Homer asked.
“They can go outside.”
“That’s not clean.”
“Poor people don’t care.”
As Homer stepped in the dirt, his feet slipped in the ground. He hated this place more than anything on earth.
“I want to find a widow,” he said.
“We’ll get them for you,” the men said.
Homer smiled. “It’s a deal.”
“We’ll provide you with the houses and the widows,” they said.
Homer imagined his houses as the children played with the rats in the bogs.
“We’ll build them in seven days,” the men said.
“That’s good,” Homer said.
“You must trust us.”
Homer found his bicycle amidst the mud. It had been a good day, when a beautiful girl had shown him a way of helping the world.


Homer attends a party
The inhabitants of the slums admired the young entrepreneur and as Journalists heard of the widow’s helper, Homer became more famous than Saint Francis of Assize. The papers spoke of the five chalets destined to redeem the widows of the violence.
“We admire you,” the journalists said. “First you marry yourself and now you help the widows.”
“I have many talents,” Homer said.
Jaramillo took Homer’s picture talking to the women and smiling at the children in front of the world.
“Homer’s like a father to us,” they said with tears in their eyes.
“Thank you,” Homer said.
One of the women hugged him for some time, a child wriggling in her arms, while leaving her essence of baby powder and cologne in his body.
“I could be in the gutter,” she said.
“Hurrah to Homer,” they said.
She made him frantic with desire, before disentangling himself from her arms and as Homer got ready to answer more questions for the nation.
“I want to help the women,” he said.
“Hurrah to Homer,” they said.
He showed the journalists pictures of the families living rough, before moving to his housing project.
“They needed somewhere to live,” he said.
“What about the rubble?” the journalists asked.
“The workmen will take it away,” Homer said.
“We hope so.”
The sewers stunk in the middle of the day as Homer tried to get money for his plan, even if a few of his workmen had been caught stealing from a building site. Then a car stopped by the huts, sprinkling mud all over the crowd.
“It must be the bishop,” Jaramillo said.
A short man, dressed in a black gown and with a crucifix dangling from his belt left the vehicle while other priests followed him down the path.
“I want to see Homer,” the bishop said.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Excellency,” Homer said.
As the bishop stretched his hands, Homer didn’t know whether to kiss the expensive rings the man had in his fingers. They had to be worth lots of money in the market or anywhere else.
“We have helped the families, Excellency” Homer said.
“That’s good,” the bishop said.
“They are building some more houses over there,” Homer gestured at an empty space, where a few shadows sat behind a wall.
“They didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Homer said.
“I see.”
Moving through the dirt, his Excellency reached a woman and her children lurking amidst the mud, the cameras recording the moment for posterity.
“We were afraid,” she said.
“Homer wants to help you,” the bishop said.
“Thank you.”
“God loves you,” the bishop said.
He blessed her in the name of the father, the son and the Holy Spirit, while she knelt down on the floor. She had to trust God’s representative in the slums.
“My children will thank you, Excellency,” she said.
The bishop touched her erect teats with trembling fingers. He had to have some satisfaction amongst God’s people.
“Will I go straight to heaven, Excellency?” she asked.
The bishop nodded. “You’ll sit next to Saint Peter up there.”
“I’m glad,” she said.
The bishop sprinkled holy water on her head, as the country followed the events in the first radio station in the city, the water absolving her sins forever.
“Homer is our benefactor,” she said.
“I know,” the bishop said.
He offered her his ring, as the