Dinga-linga-ding. People pour into our living room so quick but I don’t notice.
An auntie, wearing all the gold she owns, waddles like a penguin toward me. By now, I’ve heard one too many exasperations about how tall I’ve grown but I endure just another. She asks me ‘what I want to do’, to which I itched to reply ‘leave but I can’t. This is my house and my Ma has painted me like a perfect picture to display to all of you so I can’t leave but for what it’s worth, I’d sure like to’. She slaps my wrist and tells me to stop day dreaming. I tell her ‘writing’ is ‘what I want to do’. Her eyebrows. Enough said. Continue reading