Every Sunday

Every Sunday, mom will call me to a corner and then draw my ears, injecting in them whispers of words that makes and mar men to and fro excellence.

She will say “son, never allow your rod crave for solace in the organ between the thighs of Aphrodite’s descendants, for this act has brought destruction even to the finest of kings”. Her words were akin to notes emanating from notes played by Mozart, imparting sense of moralities in the faculties of my frames.

Lastly, she will say “son, always seek advice from a multitude of counsellors, for in them lies wisdom that gushes from wellsprings of life”.

Written by Daniel Ezeokeke

Also Published on Kalahari Review

https://medium.com/the-kalahari-review/every-sunday-ffff7a7ea224