If you are reading this as soon as soon as it’s posted then I’m probably 39,000ft somewhere over West Africa, barreling towards the motherland in a KQ Boeing 787-8, non-stop from New York. If all goes to plan and someone important sends an email to another important person I will have ended up in Business Class,
“Gordon, your mother is waiting for you by the library,” the dorm captain told him, standing at the door of the cubicle that he shared with five other boys. The dorm captain was a big and cruel hairy ape of a man.
Someone emailed and asked why I don’t write about Tamms anymore, did we break up? (Ho-ho-ho.) It’s because she’s 10 years now, a few months shy of 11-years. And it’s a big deal. I know you must think,
“Should I take off my clothes?” I ask.
I’m standing against the wall. She’s standing across the table. She has glasses on. The room is small and bare and functional, a place you could sustain any form of ritual.
The first time George Kevin Jeki Jnr got married it was in a small church, in downtown Phoenix, Arizona. It was one of those small chapels they have in hospitals, like the one at Mater Hospital.
The millenial sticks her head around the door to my office. I have headphones on, which is the universal sign for “do not disturb”, but this is a millennial; they care not about the universe.
