I would sit on it’s cookie-pestered edge and wait for the water to lap at my feet fling my fishing rod.

This was made from tree branch, string and a cork from one of my father’s discarded wine bottles. Sometimes fisherman came close, rowing in a rhythm that pleased me more than chewing on fried trip; their skin charred, almost gray from sun-dried sea salt. They spoke in the warble of island people, yodelling across there canoes.

I was never tempted to jump into the lagoon as they did. It gave off the smell of raw fish and was the kind of dirty brown I knew would taste like vinegar. Plus, everyone knew about the current that could drag a person away/bodies usually show up days later, bloated stiff and rotten true.

readmorehttp://naijamusic59.com.ng/2020/06/25/ijmb-2005-read-passage-and-answer-all-questions/