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A scale
A scale drops from my eyes, and gradually these terrains of the future open out to me.
All around me, I find these characters from the future visiting the present domain.
They are sculpted out of fire.
Last night, I went to get some fruits at the groceries.
Last night, I went to get some fruits at the groceries.
As I returned, there was an unusual line at the intersection with a gas station.
Rather than wait, I cut through the gas station and joined the road to my house.
Immediately, a police car followed me, it’s light flashing like it was Christmas, commanding me to pull over.
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY 1981 (Part Five)
Obaseki, looked cornered. He certainly was not anticipating an encounter with me at the restaurant. His shrunken face looked collapsed with fatigue. The anxiety that he was feeling was palpable. His face began to twitch. It was bad enough when he saw me entering the restaurant. But the moment I informed him that Rufus was on his way to join us, his system could no longer handle the tension. He stood up. He patted his pockets.
“What is the matter?” I asked him. “Is everything fine?”
“Oh, I was-was-just checking my—my—my pocket. For my-my-my-house keys.”
“And is it in your pocket?”
ENGLISHMAN IN BENIN CITY: (Part Thirty-Three).
Madam Ngu looked at my most recent painting and from the expression on her face, I could see that she did not like it.
She sat on the big chair in the center of my studio in the Ekenwan campus. I had arranged my paintings around the wall as she requested, ready for her critique.
“Muyo,” she said, “you need more life drawing classes.”
“Yes, madam,” I responded.
The Day We Went to Steal Yams in Benin City
1980: One Friday, Rufus told me that we should visit the messenger of the University of Benin, Department of Creative Art, whose wife just gave birth to twins, both boys.
I told him that we needed to go to the bank to withdraw some money. I kept the purse for both of us. We were out of cash, and it was the end of the week. But Rufus said we would go to the bank later.
WHAT’S ON YOUR MIND?
“I was cursed by a mad woman,” said this caller.
It all began with a message I found in my Facebook messenger box.
“Prof, what is your WhatsApp number,” the Facebook message reads. “My number is xxx. I want to discuss something important with you and I don’t want to write it on Facebook.”