You forcefully open the double doors to your room to see your reflection in the large spotless mirror staring at you, as you try to avoid the Master. Your image kills the mustard seed of hope you have been trying to nurture – your eyes exhausted from too many tears. Your lips are chapped, and the glory of your skin is in the past - your beautiful skin as your mother would remark. You wonder if it’s because of its fairness or the hairless sight of it, or the chubby feeling when touched. And then you reckon the eyes of your mother are not yours. Your beauty lies in your freedom, you think to yourself. You affirm that you don’t belong here, not in this castle with grey walls, lofty ceilings, and heavy brown curtains. Not viewing ancient paintings of wars. Not on a bed for a crowd and certainly not wearing these expensive clothes too pure to smear. You recall the first day of your arrival at your new home. You were greeted by a servant who avoided your eyes as he bowed his head and sai...
SHADES OF KINDNESS That woman. One would have called her a bully with such body structure. You could tell she hailed from the Niger Delta region, she had the speech swag called WAFFI. She had one of the biggest behinds I’ve ever seen and an understanding heart. Her voice was raucous but her laughter truthful. When I got on the bus, the first voice I heard came from her: “Sister you get change? Driver go para if you no get o abeg sidon if change dey your hand.” And this was her job as long I remained in the bus. She would gather moneys, give changes, direct incoming passengers on where to sit, making sure she was not inconvenienced. “Sister you know as e dey na, dis place too tight so make we three (instead of four passengers) just manage dey go like that until no space again for bus before we allow anybody sidon here.” Sitting side by side, we both laughed. Half way through the journey the driver was provoked by a teenage boy who hung on the boot of the bus trying to ...