I arrived at my parents two days later. This quiet city, Ilorin, heralded my arrival with its heavy sunshine, the hustle and bustle of Yoruba market traders all along the way calling out for customers to buy their wares, Hausa mallams lining curb ways with their fruit stands. The whole city was alive, most especially as it was just a week before Christmas.
As I entered the house, I got on my two knees greeting my parents as the Yoruba people would do.
“Ekurole Ma, ekurole Sir”, I greeted with utmost respect.
“Ba woni, how’s your journey?”, my mother asked.
“It was fine, the journey was a bit slow but I’m home, we thank God”, I replied while taking the cup of water that I had been offered.
“Pele my dear”, my father chipped in.
Without allowing the conversation go on anymore, I excused myself to go freshen up.
Back into the town and house, I grew up in, I knew it was only a matter of time better the storm I had been avoiding will hit me…