Someday when I’m standing on the rug in our parlour, I’ll ask my father to pull it from under my feet.
“Why?” He’ll ask.
“Experiment,” I’ll tell him.
He’ll look at me like I’m mad and almost going market mad. I’ll look at him in a knowing way to affirm his thoughts.
That night, he’ll possibly pray for me to not run mad. That night he’ll remember when Tonia Amaka said, “These books you’re buying and reading up and down, don’t run mad o.”
That night… is fiction. I won’t ever ask my dad to pull the rug from under my feet.
I’m not being totally honest now, am I?
Maybe I’ll ask him someday. But not that night.