Blueprints for my story
“It’s, it’s Bola.”
Yes, my stutter that became the in joke, a source of embarrassment and blushes,
probably the first words that anyone relayed back to me from my earliest
childhood.
Bola was 3 months
older and probably a bit of a feisty girl, the first child and daughter of one
of my dad’s best friends, he now deceased. I would think we were brought
together at small social gatherings or for a baby sitting, I cannot say. I was
a late developer, born premature at just six and a half months, I quick to
speaking but late to walking.
Our playful episodes
were definitely plagued by some disagreement and discomfiture which resulted in
my crying back to our adult supervision. “It’s, it’s Bola.”
Yet, out of the
recollection of events log ago, includes observations, secrets, intrigue and
scandal. Much discovered though unspoken, the speculations and allegations
might remain unproven but never fully discounted. For instance, the discovery
of a letter in a book in our library that suggesting an affair between Bola’s
mother and dad. Contents committed to memory but questions never asked.
Of my early memories
of my mother’s addiction to religion was Bola’s father presiding as white
garment priest in clandestine meetings my mum and I attended in the dark
Walsall nights, a woman desperately trying to save many things including
herself.
I do not know how
much I can gloss over the first few years of my life in England in both its
ordinariness and enchantments, I will have to retrieve a few pictures from
storage to flesh out the seminal moments. However, I can say, I was born a
miracle could not reproduce some 40 years on.
This or a variant of
it would appear in the first chapter of my life story.
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