Mother, I want to be a linguist...



My new female boss walks into her opulent living room every evening, swing in her step, bag in hand, ''Did you wash my towels and handkerchiefs? “Personal items these, clearly a breach of manners.


Unknown to her; I too belonged to the boardrooms. What happened? when?


My French language prowess was legendary in school; twelve out of ten in all French compositions. And Mrs. Patel would have no one else read aloud the comprehensions except me.


"I want you to be a doctor!"


My father would later push the last nail on my career trajectory. So that I could live his moribund medical dream, and the rest is a story. Today I am still a pedestrian, now washing clothes as a caretaker. This is after losing my nondescript job in the health arena- journalist/linguist in medical garb.


Profoundly exhausting!


'Wash my shoe today!" she commands as she leaves, the company CEO.

I could have done better in the boardroom, you know, the ones in high places, I, once the unrivaled writer.


Anyway, hours later, I dive into her swimming pool to remember a skill I horned in the two national schools I had graced as I shot through my education in a blaze of brilliance performance. And hours later, I sneak into the languages class close by.


I am still looking for my mojo at 55, but with mouths to feed and educate now, before the sand runs out of the hourglass.


But who can forget my father's parental smile that December day when he beheld my exam result slip. who? '


''FATHER I WANT TO BE A PILOT!''


LET THE BABIES CRY OUT AS THEY LEAVE PARENTAL WOMBS!

Let’s meet in the Harvard boardrooms any day.

But money is needed.


794 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All