The Boy Who Was Not
Deola insists that the market route is faster. You hesitate, because you hate its rowdiness and— "...and those silly boys that will be holding your hands and clothes because they want you to buy from them,” after saying this, you deliberately cringe in an effort to convince your friend to change her mind. "Calm down, jare," laughs Deola, packing her oversized notes into her tiny red bag. "See, we can stop by that my customer's place for fried yam. You know she will reduce the price for us." You don't have to see her eyes to confirm there is a mischievous twinkle in them. Deola is cunning. She knows the perfect bait to draw you in. And yes, you would shamelessly capitulate to fried yam. No one knows where your enthrallment to it began, but Deola is sure it is a curse. History has it that, at 3 years old, you found your way to your mother's kitchen, and somehow toppled over a small pan of hot oil, the reason for the scar on your lef