These gray hairs do not lie (1)
The first blush of love
Hello there, dear grandchild. Why don’t you come in and take a seat, near me here? Take a load off your feet, won’t you? See how you’ve grown, dear child. Do you remember how we used to cuddle up when you were little and in my house for the weekends? Oh, I miss those days, those days when you were little and your grandmother was your best friend.
Yes, I miss those days, but I also love days like this. You know, with you grown and being able to talk sense with me, for me to be able to have a meaningful conversation with you.
Oh, baby, I can see the glow in your eyes, those emotion spots on your cheeks. And believe you me, your grandmother used to have those too, back in the days. You are in the first blush of love. Continue reading “These grey hairs don’t lie”
© Folakemi Emem-Akpan
The collar of your shirt is well worn, as is that of your only suit. And the elbows and arms of the suit are also frayed. But no one knows, no one will know, except they are up close and personal with you.
But you know, from a thousand or so experiences, that no one gets that close in an interview room. The fellow applicants for the same job will not get too close to you. And the interviewers will be sitting opposite the room from you.
At the door to the single room you share with your friend, you say a quick prayer to the heavens, petitioning the gods of employment to grant you this job, even though you know there will be at least a hundred of you vying for the same placement. Continue reading “The interview”
Daddy’s little girl
The rain sizzled on the rooftop. Angela stood at the window, watching the fat liquid drops literarily wash her garden away. In her heart, there was joy, trepidation, warmth, anxiety. Absentmindedly, she wondered how such emotions could co-exist.
It was early in the day, yet the sky was a grey carpet and the clouds seemed to hang low, almost a touch away from her window.
Tearing herself away from the window, away from the dismal sight outside, she settled into the worn sofa, Matthew’s favorite. It was one of the few things he had absolutely refused to give up, and sitting in it this morning made her feel closer to her husband more than she had in weeks.
How on earth could she love two men who were complete opposites?
Angela had been the proverbial daddy’s little girl. Angela was four when her mother died, and her father had refused to remarry, investing his energy into two things; his only child and his construction business. By the time Angela was ten, her father couldn’t live without either of these two things, devoting his mornings and evenings to her, his afternoons to his business. And he made a success of both. He was as in love with his daughter as she was with him, and he was now a millionaire more than a hundred times over.
Continue reading “Daddy’s little girl”