I am not my skin colour or facial features

I am not my skin colour or facial features

This afternoon at the children’s school playground Me: *** Reading off my ‘phone’s screen and at the same time keeping an eye on screaming, sweating, racing, exuberant little humans. *** A male parent of my acquaintance walks by, and halts by my chair when recognition sets in. Him: Ah madam, I didn’t see you there. Good afternoon. Me: ***Smile in acknowledgement just before I yell my son’s name [the unabridged Yoruba version of it].*** Be careful on those monkey bars! Him: nkwobisigininwanyino ***He says in incomprehensible Igbo Language. *** Me: Excuse me? ***The look on my face would just as well have asked the question. *** Him: kitakeduodinmabia. ***Repeats incoherent Igbo statement before…*** Madam, are you Yoruba? Me: My husband is. Him: ***Triumphant*** Eh hen. *** shoots off yet another Igbo comment my way.*** Twice I haven’t responded in kind. Doesn’t that tell him something? I think. No, he had to add a third for good measure. Three times the charm, I guess. I relish his surprised and somewhat disappointed look when I speak again. Me: I am not Igbo. I don’t look like one now. Do I? My ugwu seller For as long as I’ve bought vegetables from this[…]

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