First day back at home in Osogbo, I noticed a young, fair skinned girl on low cut working on something in the compound.
I faintly remembered mum’s reference to an adopted girl who was now living with us. Her name; Becquerel.
I congratulated myself on being able to recall her name and proceeded to be friendly.
“Hello there, how are you? You must be Becquerel.” I stood in front of her with my outstretched hand.
Ladies and gentlemen, this girl looked at me, up and down, left to right, wrinkled up her face like Emmanuela in the , “ this is not my real face” comedy skit and asked in the most village Yoruba ever, “How do you know my name and who are you?”
I could almost stagger backwards and back to the safety of my hostel back in Ibadan.
Was this one of my mean consultants taking up the form of a little girl just with the intent of tormenting me? Jesus take the wheel!
I managed to explain myself as the little madam had demanded, expecting a warmer response. When I was done, she just turned and walked away, leaving behind a trail of loud farts.
Please Lord, what is the temperature of farts again? Warm enough?