Imposture Syndrome

The distance between my desk and the front of the class erased all the stories I had read from my memory. I stood in front pulling to tuck in my short fitting shirt, trying to adjust non-existing tie I ended up buttoning the collar button gazingdreamly at the truss. Remember Amuriodos of 1998 form 1 class truss graffiti stared back at the hopeless soul below about to be fried alive like mafendete.

I rubbed my eyes as if they are the doorway to my confused memory. My fellows were suppressing a laugh. Man I was in shit. Akoto beckoned.
“Aristotle it is your time. We are waiting.”

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Why I Celebrate the African Village Boy in Me

Every kid was involved to guard their gardens from the witty-thievery rodent. It was never an easy task. You had to sing to the accompaniment of shakers. The shakers were pebbles put in an old empty 1 Kg Kimbo metal tin hammered at one end. Songs were those to demean Anakamuna-the squirrel for his long bushy tail and laziness.

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