Stories are indeed pseudo-reality. Even fiction. A reality that we wear so well you get to admire the pattern and style of the tailoring. You are lost in the yarns and yards and prints and sew. You are dazzled by the rainbow colours of Joseph’s coat. It becomes your reality. But the reality in itself is relative. All that is written here is real, and it happened to that side chick at the far end of your street, the one you shake your head at every day you walk by the brothel.

She would laugh at your piety because she knows life. And you would laugh at her profanity because you think she’s heading for destruction. This, the lips on which our being will never rest is our story. Pressed between the pages of our minds are those memories which we desire never to relive or unlive. There is a reality in our being that constantly mocks our ability to feel. But, subconsciously, we live in these memories, they become us. They become our hug on a cold, lonely night. She is Esther. And this is her story.

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My name is Esther. I am what you would call one of the liabilities of the moral decadent society. I was born in Ajegunle, at the far end of the world. Here, dreams never come true, or we never dream. We allow our lives to be lived by the shape of the earth; the tilt of the world inclines us to the part of the world we never saw coming. But then, we don’t see anything coming. We just live. My mother was 14 when I was born, and her eyes were always swollen. She called me Esther; after the old woman that took her in. Grandpa sent her packing with his seed growing inside her.

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