The papers are always full of armed robbers who are hawkers in the daytime. ‘Yeah, sure. What’s your address?’ Even if he is a thief, it is unlikely that he and his gang will get past my gate. ‘It’s fine. We’ll pick you up at one o’clock?’ ‘That’s really nice, Abikẹ. I’ll be here.’ It’s possible my father is right. The speech and manners may be newly acquired. Or worse, the road may make him seem more polished than he is. If he doesn’t come to my house, I’ll never know if he can fit into my life. ‘Don’t be late.’ ‘Same to you.’ ‘The prophet said I would know.’ ‘Know what?’ ‘I will just know.’ More and more this prophet kept appearing in our conversations, his robes brushing our faces, his sandalled feet treading on our toes. ‘Tell me about the prophet.’ I shouldn’t have encouraged him. Once you go back further than two years with Mr T, he loses his lucidity, perhaps even a portion of his sanity. But I wanted to know what was hidden behind this character that he could not stop mentioning.
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