That day in church, as the priest went sing song in Igbo translated to “Everybody, touch your neighbour and tell her you love her,” I remembered Ebola.
My mind drifts from time to time.
In church. On my bed. On the road. On a project. At work. Dream state. Etc.
I have to carry my Idea Pad around, almost always.
One time I took it to church, my mum spied me scribbling ideas in it.
She came home and went, “Stop writing in church.”
“No buts. Focus in church. Listen, this boy. Listen.”
I was a young man then. Did she just refer to me as a boy? This boy – really?
“Who said I wasn’t listening?” I asked like I didn’t already know she said so.
“You were not.”
“Ahn. Ahn.” Like, is it her ears? Or is it her listening? Nawa o!