Whenever I remember Dede, I would sit alone in my room, stifling my sobs with my pillow.

I would think of him until my heart ached, knowing that he is gone.

Dede came to live with us seven years ago.

He was a little boy around my age—eight years old—who had eyes so wide they never seemed to blink. His hair was full in some areas and parched with ringworms in other places. His arms were thin and gangly they stood out of the sleeves of his oversized tee like writhed broomsticks as he raised his thumbs to his mouth to suckle on them, loudly and delicately, with such intensity befitting of a famished beggar that he produced gurgling sounds that reminded me of my baby brother, Chidi’s laugh. His feet were broad but his legs were lean, so lean that if exchanged with his arms, they would make no difference.

Dede had a mouth sharper than the fork I was using to eat noodles where I laid on a couch in our parlor, burrowed under thick blankets, that evening he was brought home by my father. Immediately my father swung the door open, he rushed in, dashing recklessly toward me, hugged me so tightly I could smell the mango he had eaten, and then turned his head to ask my father who was still clenching the door’s silver knob, “Is this my sister, Ola?” and even before my father could answer, he continued, “She’s so pretty. Click to continue reading https://uwagood.com/2022/10/26/my-parents-adopted-him-just-so-they-could-harvest-his-heart-for-me/

Fake story.

Olodo