Fola grinned on the front page again, beside the president.
Why him all the time?
Where has he been that I haven’t?
I’ve been to the tropical paradise where green carpet damps the feet with comfiness. I’ve been to the brine that spreads itself in clear pristine blue. I’ve been to the floating city; woods sitting on water, pyramids of arcs hovering in the sky. I’ve seen enveloped layers of intertwined cerise emit awe.
And the proof? All in my head.
Well, I don’t like to speak highly of myself; I know how well people can twist honest words. They will say I spread my agbada like a peacock’s plumage or I carry my shoulder like one stricken with red ripe boils in the armpits.
But truth should be told when need be. Last night, I was with the president—a matter of national security. That rich man—the one who likes suit and tie—he was by my side; smirking in his usual manner, and he wasn’t smelling of cement.
As the president extended his hand towards me, something sang to my ears a familiar tune. No, it was not the national anthem, nor the stammering clicks of paparazzi’s cameras. It was that regular nightly serenade—a monophonic buzz that makes me slap myself while the unremorseful insect away flits.
Sweat beads on my forehead gossip of exasperation and I wake before the presidential shake.
I have browsed each page of the morning papers. I have even scrolled through Linda’s spreadsheet. Fola’s visit made the news, mine didn’t.


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