Photo Credits  –  Google

Uncle Yemi returned from America much leaner than when he left. In truth he hadn’t been the most rotund person around, but he had way more flesh before he travelled abroad than what he came back with.

The first thing I noticed was how frail he looked as he walked out of arrivals in hesitant steps, his black bag slung over a drooping shoulder. His hair was bushy and almost entirely grey, and when he came closer there were deep lines etched in the ebony skin of his unsmiling face. He was also wearing glasses, a different look from how I remembered him. If I was a cannibal seeking the substance of my next meal, the Uncle Yemi that returned from America would definitely not make my mouth water.

Unlike many of his peers at the Airport he didn’t have any luggage, and his one bag, when he finally unzipped it in the confines of our guest room was almost empty, save for a not-so-new pair of blue jeans, a brown hoodie, a rumpled long-sleeved shirt, and a white New York Yankees baseball cap.

Twelve years away in God’s own country, and all Uncle Yemi returned with was an accent and stories.

Many stories.

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