SHE IS AN OLD HAG—Yeye Omo, Iya Agba called her.
She was so old, withered, and bent that Kudaisi feared she would drop dead anytime soon. The faded brown and red flower patterned blouse and wrapper she wore did nothing to hide her skeleton frame. She tottered on a worn-out wooden cane held tight in her right hand, leading Kudaisi and Iya Agba into her decrepit mud hut with lots of wide yawning cracks in its walls. A lantern hung on the left side of the door casting an iridescent glow about, with its wick fluttering under the soft night breeze.
Kudaisi nearly found himself rushing to assist Yeye Omo as she weaves hard by the door, taking a moment to steady herself and enter into the hut.
“Go in,” Iya Agba commanded as he paused by the entrance.
Kudaisi eyed the walls for a moment, praying it holds still and doesn’t collapse and seal them to their deaths.
“Sit.” Yeye Omo waved a hand t
