SHORT STORY
“ Home is homeless. It can exist anywhere, because it's
only substance is familiarity. If it is broken by long journeys or tornadoes it emerges again, reinvented itself with new decor, new idiosyncrasies of morning, noon and dusk, and old routines.
”
Paraphrased from 26a by Diana Evans.
sounded different to me. He was looking outside now. Suddenly, he turned to me, and said, “Appreciate the beauty of life! Rural vegetation has rich green of natural glory! Urban vegetation mirrors weak green of artificial grace! Rural inhabitants walk their narrow paths! Happy and in peace! Urban dwellers spring about broad streets! Anxious and dissatisfied. Ironical life! I got a new light.” I didn't wait for him to prod with his stare this time, “One's root is one's life,” I quickly said. And smiled. He smiled too. We smiled.
only thank you. I thank you so much for coming and for giving me some salvation,” he said, his eyes glowing like the flame of a matchstick suddenly struck in a dark room.
They drove those of us who are students back to the University. And continued with the others. ******* Ibukun finished the reading, put off the light from his phone, but would not raise his eyes to meet the waiting gaze of Uzoma. It seemed to him as though shackles had fallen off his body. Ibukun felt like one who suddenly discovered sun in his night. His face, before he read looked like a clouded sky without the sun. Now, rays of smile melted the wax of frown from his face and his countenance shone. He was another Segun. The smile grew into a giggle. Then laughter. “What's funny?” Uzoma wondered aloud. And Ibukun’s laugher stopped like one from a radio shushed by Nigeria's Power Holders at the PHCN of NEPA. “You think I wasted that weekend,” Uzoma still wondered. “Well,” Ibukun said and cleared his throat, “well, I can
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