The other day we were talking about how we attach ourselves to material things.
I told her that when I was ‘serving’ Nigeria, I brought some of my clothes and burnt them.
She was happy about that.
But I didn’t tell her I brought out some of my books and burnt them.
She would’ve screamed. Or maybe not.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have believed because I love books. Why would I burn any of them?
Those books were the pathway to the reminiscence of my university education.
I love keeping memories but not the one in the above paragraph.
So I burnt them and gloried in the ashes that emanated from the flaming pages.
Joy. Joy. Joy.