At home I asked what Papa did. But Papa simply dropped his lunch bag on the floor and aired his work overalls.

Then Mama said, “Papa needs his supper.”

So I waited.

Mama brought him garri and okro soup. The steam rose high to the ceiling. I caught some with my bare hands, but it melted away. I tried again.

And again. And then I gave up.

Papa was gobbling balls of garri.

When Papa finished, he hooked my head in his elbow and ruffled my hair. “What are you up to, son?”

“P-papa,” I stuttered.

“Yes, my child.”

“Nothing.”

He let go.

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Page 3 by Vivian Sihshu Yenika is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.