Squirrels and Palm trees

 I remember picking novels and basking in the euphoria of their amazing words in the balcony that faced the small farm in the compound, I would take sips of hot choco and savor the taste in the early morning sun, the sound of the wind hitting the tree leaves was like the music waterfalls made. 

  My grandmother would call me ‘Ikechukwu, bia rie nri’ ( Ikechukwu, come and eat) to a bowl of akpu and oha soup. I would gladly boast of her cooking back in the city to my school friends, it was as though she learnt her cooking skills from angels. 

   Her face was one that welcomed everyone to take solace, her scapular never left her neck, it was like a batch of honor that she brandished everywhere, telling them that she was a Roman Catholic Christian without words. In her old age, she was still very strong and somewhat agile, she rode her ‘ladies’ bike, as they call motorcycles that didn’t have gears in the village, she rode it with pride to mass every morning as it was her custom. ‘Ladies’ bike was common in the village, many people rode them to and fro work and home and vice versa.

  She was always happy and it made me envy her, was living in the countryside really less depressing? It was a question she answered with her blissful eyes every morning.