That was the last thing on my mind although it was clear to me there was something amiss about Gina. I was lost for words. My body felt numb.
It was an experience I could not imagine as a man. All I could think of was how humiliating it must have felt for a person you didn’t want to pin you down and force entry into your body.
I sat there for a long time and could not utter a word. I could not find any statement of consolation to bring calm to Gina. She looked paralyzed. It seemed the best thing to do at the moment was not to say anything. Perhaps by not saying anything, I could pretend it did not happen.
I looked out through the window. The grass was not yet tall enough to mow. It had rained, and green life was returning to Austin after the long winter, and spring was almost fully here.
But the snowstorm of a month ago in Texas dealt Austin a cruel hand and plant life has not really recovered.
“José,” I said, “The lawn doesn’t need you yet. Maybe in a week, two?”
“I need the money, Mr. Moyo,” José pleaded.
On my 64th birthday anniversary, I celebrate my mother, the one person most responsible for who I am today.
She does not even know the date of her birth.
But she keeps mine so close to heart.
My father, Oladejo Okediji, is the known one. He is the famous author, who wrote novels, plays, poems, and essays. When he passed last year at 90, nobody even mentioned my mother once, as they poured deserved eulogies on him.
I’m building an art gallery in Austin TX.
The gallery is now nearing completion—hopefully, it will be ready in January 2021.
It’s only a modest gallery, just to satisfy the need for an African art gallery in Texas, such a great state, yet without such a gallery devoted to the art of Africa.
The architect is Beau Frail, from Florida.
The Engineer is R.D. Hammond, from Texas.
My annual (NOT monthly) salary as a Senior Lecturer at the Obafemi Awolowo University in 1992 (right before I left for the United States) was N9,600.
It’s not a typo. N9,600 only, for the entire year.