Everyone has a story

Today I glanced at myself in the mirror and for a brief moment I did not see me. Instead I saw my mother. Ye pa, for those who don’t speak Yoruba OMG! My mom is very attractive so looking like her is not a bad thing. And I guess that’s an inevitable part of aging that once you’re firmly entrenched in your forties you start to resemble your parents more. That realization sent shock waves through my body and I felt as if I had just been drenched in ice and smacked with a serious koboko. Don’t get me wrong I have no problem aging, even though I still don’t know where the last 22 years went. But I never thought that all of a sudden I’ll no longer be a youth. I always fancied myself as an explosive bundle of energy contributing enormously to the planet in my youth and then poof… exploding out of sight, dynamically. But instead here I am a middle aged prodigal still wandering through the diaspora after almost 30 years, with stories from 4 continents that still tickle from within. One of these days is my constant refrain…

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