WRITTEN BY NZEH UCHE
I held Paul’s arm as we walked straight towards the junction where they all stood. I recognized the woman attending to her customers, but couldn’t place the face. She sold beans cake. From afar, she saw me and wore a smile. As we got closer there, the aroma of the beans cake commanded nostrils to beg for more air.
The people stayed in a queue awaiting the service, but Paul moved, jumping the queue like he was obligated to. A voice came from within the queue and called out, “Peter, Peter the youngest beans cake seller,” then, a hand touched me. I turned to see who it was, the same voice asked,
“Why do you have bandages wrapped around your head?” I didn’t have the answer, I just stood and stared at all their face as they stared back waiting for my reply.
Paul quickly responded, “He does not know, he’s got amnesia.”
My problem is, I don’t know what that word means. And why was he calling me ‘Peter the beans cake youngest seller’?
I thought my name was em…em…