There was no more me, only Kudaisi. I felt what he felt, saw what he saw. I had become him.
As a little boy, after spending the better parts of the day playing and running around the whole neighborhood with friends, I would end up on Iya Agba’s bed after dinner with his head on her bony thighs as she either tell me a story or sing a song while her fingers softly caress his head. She will only stop when I’m drowsing to take me to his room, or after I doze off and I will wake up the next day to find himself in his own room, on his bed.
One thing about those times is, I am always secure in the warmth of her bosom, like the kind of feeling a chick has staying under the wings of its mother. I was immovable, untouchable, I was free—unrestrained.
The same feeling encompass me now as Iya Agba’s scent invades his senses—the scent of home, of love, of the feeling that nothing can ever go wrong.
“Kudaisi.”
I groan, re
