When Life Happens

I walked casually to the door after hearing the rattling of the postman trying to push in the letters through the pigeonhole. My 3 years old would soon run to pick up all the letters for me as she normally does, but for some reasons that morning I wanted to do this myself.

I was expecting the result of my postgraduate assessment. I had toiled effortlessly in class, I was one of the intelligent few in the class, my views on the subject were highly valued. All my assignments attracted the highest grade. The last and final part of this course was the assessment which took place at work and I was looking forward to the outcome.

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The Stories I heard

I don’t recall reading bedtimes stories when growing up, but, I recall interesting stories that were told.

I remember the conversations I heard as a little girl to the folktales shared by families, neighbours and friends. Part of me contains songs, poetries and the vivid images of scary monsters painted to scare.

Imaginary plays, make-believes and visits to relatives occupied most of the summer holidays. With foods and songs, long lost friends who came around to visit each having a story to tell.

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My Shameful Little Steal

“Sheri!!!”, I stopped as I heard my aunt screamed my name. Something told me she had seen the little bag of rice and a bottle of oil I kept in the bag covered up in rumbles behind the door. I ran down the flight of stairs with gripping fear ready to be dragged through the rabit hole.

In my aunt’s hands was the bag containing the food I intended to take with me as I came to the end of my weekend stay. It was on a Sunday, my returning-home day. The ground sank under my feet while my aunt expected some explanation on her finds.

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