Debbienho !

He spied his table. To his left, Basic Stats. Right, Mass Communication. Centre, oh, African Studies. Mchew. Small journalist wey he dey wan chop.   Tso . Even Anas and Nana Aba all couldn’t have done all this. And he didn’t want to think of all the Freud analogies he still had to appreciate… Double   mchew . He unzipped his bag, pulled out a phone. Around him stood shelves and shelves of books centuries old, or hours old, works of great dreamers and thinkers and lunatics alike, a reader’s heaven, a student’s prison. Scores of UG wannabe grads, and visitors who thought Balme Library a spectacular word of art and ageless, timeless, collection of ideas—or had just downright lost their way, or marriages, and thought the Balme a soother in its silent predictable monotony—stood or sat or walked around. He shrugged. Let them. He was going to relax. And he stuck the pin in the phone’s hole, and plugged the headset on. Time for inspiration. * Eish. She was fl