I was on Grandpa’s antique zebra-skin sofa with Kenny, arguing over whether we should watch BBNaija or the championship league.
Baba was on the veranda, the smoke from his tobacco wafting in like wisps of air.
Mama’s voice rang from the kitchen, complaining about how long it was taking Nkechi to return from the market with the stockfish for tonight’s ègúsí soup.
Wait, was that the ègúsí’s aroma I was perceiving already?
“Tee, are you awake?”
It was Miranda, my new Harvard roommate.
And it was the ‘aroma’ of the toast and coffee she’d made I was perceiving.


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