He has a stick, a bowl and a sack.
The sack is made from hemp, Grandma says those are the best kind of sacks.
He greets Grandma with gusto, his mismatched yellows shining from among the brown of his face, his hair and his clothes.
Mama Lati sells food near the garage.
So does Mama Funke and Iya Ibo.
The garage is near the junction of the road that feeds into the expressway.
Thus, there are many people there.
But the women always fight.
Over space, over men, over children, over friendships.
But Mama Lati's stew is the sweetest.
Auntie Bejide came back from the university with "fupa".
She said fitfam was no longer working for her.
Grandma looks at her and asks who the father is.
She says it was an accident, that it was unplanned. She hems and haws and yawns.
And Grandma calls Uncle Shina.
The man outside hails Uncle Shina.
He shakes his bowl, it is blue and white, it is also empty.
Uncle Shina looks over his car with a studied eye, he looks for dents and scratches.
Aunt Georgie cannot be trusted with tyres and gears, at least not yet.
The man's mismatched yellows are returning to their default position, the greetings have yielded nothing.
Uncle Shina raises a hand, dips in his jean pockets and presses a slim wad into the bowl.
Grandma calls the man a good for nothing swindler.
Auntie Bejide sends for food from Iya Lati: rice, spaghetti, beans, two boiled eggs, shaki, roundabout, pomo, fried fish, and a generous portion of stew.
The delivery man has an accident on his way back. The dogs enjoy the feast.
Grandma asks Uncle Shina to ask his niece why she has chosen to let the devil use her.
Uncle Shina looks down at his hands, at great grandfather's portrait on the far wall, and then at me.
I try a smile, and he grimaces.
Then he answers Grandma.
Grandma wakes up in the hospital.
The man takes his bowl and stick to visit her, she is his benefactor.
Mama Lati and Mama Funke and Iya Ibo deliver Grandma's meals like clockwork, she owns the land on which the garage is situated.
Uncle Shina and Aunt Georgie and Aunt Bejide do not come, the baby will be born a Canadian.
I watch the nurses skitter around me, their glances are quick, they try not to stare.
At me.
The family's resident abomination.
The End.
So, this entire idea sprung from a picture of a severely deformed boy I saw. Today. And his smile after his surgery was contagious, too.
So I thought, why not write a story from the perspective of one who would constantly be overlooked and regarded as unimportant? They'd know a lot and see a lot and hear a lot. And that's what I did.
I also tried not to offend anyone by not giving a vivid description of the narrator's state, physically nor mentally.
I trust you to use your discretion.
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