![]() Turning on his side, his gaze roved the familiar corners of his bedroom and rested on his going-out shoes, their brown leather polished to a dull lustre, placed at attention beside the door. When he opened his eyes again the air was silent, the bird was flown. Outside, a bird chirruped short piercing cries, like mocking laughter. He clenched his fists, squeezed his eyes shut, and sank on to the bed. His hands were not black but white … same as his legs, his belly, all of him. He stared at his hands, the pink life lines in his palms, the shellfish-coloured cuticles, the network of blue veins that ran from knuckle to wrist, more veins than he had ever noticed before. ![]() He sat up with a sudden motion that swilled the panic in his stomach and spilled his hands into his lap. ![]() He was lying nude in bed, and when he raised his head a fraction he could see his alabaster belly, and his pale legs beyond, covered with fuzz that glinted bronze in the cold daylight pouring in through the open window. Looking around in the darkness.’ - Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosisįuro Wariboko awoke this morning to find that dreams can lose their way and turn up on the wrong side of sleep. ![]() O gbodo ya mugun l’Eko (don’t allow yourself to be taken for a fool) - Words on the plinth of the Agba Meta (Three Elders) statue at the entrance to Lagos
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