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‘Amiina mwattu.’ The amens from the gang could have been coming
from evangelists.
‘But I’ll start with the woman’s story.’
According to her, the story started when Nnam’s parents sent her to
Britain to study and better herself. She had worked hard and studied
and saved but along came a liar and a thief.
‘She was lied to,’ the woman with a raspy voice interrupted impatiently.
She stood up as if the storyteller was ineffectual. ‘He married her – we
have the pictures, we have the video. He even lied to her parents – look
at that shame!’
‘Come on,’ the interrupted woman protested gently. ‘I was unwrapping
the story properly: you are tearing into it.’
‘Sit down: we don’t have all night,’ the raspy woman said.
The gentle woman sat down. The other mourners were still
dumbfounded by the women’s audacity.
‘A clever person asks,’ the raspy woman carried on. ‘Where did Kayita
get the money to build such a house when he is just broom swinging in
Britain? Then you realise that ooooh, he’s married a rich woman, a
proper lawyer in Manchester.’
‘How does she know all that?’ Nnam whispered to her cousin.
‘Hmmm, words have legs.’
LE PORTRAIT MAGAZINE
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