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...
I was weighing 43 at that time. It was not easy balancing school with work. But I needed money. The money my parents were sending was not covering up my needs. I needed a backup and that was why I took a job at an African restaurant, owned by a Nigerian couple back then in London. Jobs like this were reserved for students or for the undocumented. I could not babysit because the timing would clash with my class hours and that was why I settled with washing plates in this restaurant after classes. I had done this for a week and could notice my fingers fading away but I didn’t mind at all. All I pictured was my monthly pay. The next week; on a Wednesday, after classes I resumed work as usual. I had washed the first round of plates and then I heard the voice of my boss (the wife) saying: “Favour, you will be the one pounding yam from today. It is part of your job description…” That voice echoed in my head and it still does till today. It echoed when I nodded in ag...