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This is what I couldn’t tell Mother.

My mother is the dark fat woman who roast plantain at the bus stop, you will always see her tie a scarf, so if I don’t tell you, you won’t know how rough mother’s hair always is, because she has no money to make it. Beside her charcoal stand is the parking space of Okada riders who most times buy our plantain on credit.
I know not enough about Papa but he is a soldier who barely come home for holidays, we were told he died at war on the first of March 2008.

The noise at the bus stop has been a very strong part of my life, it keeps ringing in my head even when I get home to do chores. Dusty feet of hawkers running after vehicles, their rough black skin that has been beaten by harsh weather of life and eyes whose emotions cannot be read…

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