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Monday, 6 June 2016

NINETEEN SIXTY SEVEN


Mama gripped the pestle tightly landing blows repeatedly on the mortar without mercy; the afternoon heat from the sun added to the stream of sweat that trickled from her slender neck. She was preparing Fufu and Egusi soup for papa who sat in a reclining position under the Mango tree in front of our red mud house. Papa was steadily sipping his palm wine listening to the blaring music sounding from his new transistor radio that uncle Egboka had acquired for him on his way from the big town.

Ekene my seven year old little brother nudged me by the side trying to draw my attention to the drawing on the sandy ground he squatted over.

“Mine is better than yours” he chatted excitedly to me pointing to a second drawing that was similar to his.

The grumbling of my stomach prevented me from replying to his taunts, my eyes were glued to the