Dormant in the mansuetude romantic of a winter womb; we kids wake early for another day at the slave. Weekend life without laptops has motivated our developing taste for dimly lit cafes and happy hours where beers and sipping-oil market for the same rate. [Some novels get lost before you can share them] I am not sure when these moments occur, the cinematic –too sweet to be trusted in the truffle wrap of human memory, but her digital camera cues me: Was it gesticulating over piping curry, Afro-beating around Fela Kuti, or blowing on a kitten’s ear?
One can never unravel how or why, but when love comes, -little lightening, -it comes.
Can you treat it like an oil well?
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