They would come every year, arriving suddenly at our home with their chatter in a language I struggled to greet in. My late father’s two sisters came with gifts of oranges as if the fruits could absorb the jolt of their arrival and act as succour. They also came with their portable spittoons. Tins which had left Lagos for Makurdi, filled with the chocolate grains of Bournvita, now returned half filled with grains of sand which they spat into until the grains could hold no more. I could hear the sickening sound of spittle licking against the tin walls whilst they plodded around. After a few days, the familiar nauseating reek would fill our house and I would begin to resent their presence and their amazement at my continuous inability to speak tiv our language. Their presence permeated our three bedroom house making it seem much smaller than it was…

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Posted on June 13, 2014, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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