Morning Story

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In Abuja, the mornings came with questions. Did my father ever beat my mother in Kaduna, chasing her from the bedroom to the palour, or was it just a faraway dream? Will the Kaduna riot of 2000 replicate itself; men with knives chanting wide-eyed the name of God, swine feasting on decaying corpses? Did the young lady next door ever strip me naked and put me on her naked body, or was that too a dream? In Owerri, I would daydream: Learn to drive soon. Graduate at twenty two. Say to my sister, I love you. My father, too. It won't be weird right? Would think of goodbyes and slicing off a piece of oneself. I think life is the enemyof the young not death. And friendship is a word I'm yet to understand.