Moisture covered everything – and just like the little beads of water running down the walls of the front room and the mildew forming dark spots on the carpet; it ran down my face into my mouth making me want to spit. My linen sleeveless blouse and jeans offered little protection and stuck against my skin
The door opened.
He wore a clean white vest and Sokoto; loose trousers made out of traditional cotton print. My father walked slowly now and was much thinner, his hair totally white but his eyes remained the same in that canvas stretched tight by living, his eyes youthful pools of light, searched mine for answers.
Your mother was dying…why didn’t you come?
“You look just like your mum.” He lowered himself onto a chair.
I had to swallow back another chunk of the past and felt it slide from my tongue…
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