In West Africa, it is either sunny or raining. Summer, here in Canada, coincide with their sunny half of the year. The raising of the sun, in this season, is usually very spectacular. The sun rises through the horizon reluctantly as though too fat to emerge through the narrow slit between the clouds and the landmass. The light produced, paint a golden hue on every creation and as it gathers confidence, it gives everything their true complexion. This comes at the price of sweltering heat. It was on such morning; at the converging point of the River Niger with the ocean; a place called Nigeria where I spent my summer holiday; that this story began. Women, in the compound, had risen with the rooster to prepare meals while the men prepare the animal to be barbecued as the day progressed. The children were slumbering; dreaming and hoping the holidays will continue. Saint John’s Lodge was busy with the bustle of my uncles, aunts, in-laws, cousins, siblings, nieces and nephews, children, mother and husband, Julius. The barbecue was my idea when I was relatively younger. A plan not backed unanimously by my parents. My father’s compound, Saint John’s Lodge, has been the venue for this event ever since. It is a
land and a big fan of architecture, erected the conspicuous edifice in the middle of this large expanse which held a wooden work shed and a storehouse within the confines of its walls. Apart from the trees that line the drive way creating a boulevard, there is bougainvillea hanging on the high walls. Lemon grass shrubs scatter on the background of carpet grass while few orange and mango trees litter the compound. Though I grew up with my siblings in the lodge, we cannot claim complete knowledge of it. As children, we discover new hiding places anytime we play “catch”. It was exhilarating.
Responding to writing and to the writer.
Writer’s circle and writer’s conference helps writer to discover topics to begin the writing and also helps writer to develop to...
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