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PART ONE OF MY ROMANTIC ADVENTURES: JOGGING.

 PART ONE OF MY ROMANTIC ADVENTURES: JOGGING. By Sunday Ajibola Edobor People get into activities which they did not plan or bargain for by chance. It just happens. And unconsciously, the interest grows and grows therefrom and never leaves. Young people make as many friends as possible and they get involved in various activities, thereby. Its amusing that I have an abiding and enduring love for jogging. I would not pass up any opportunity to partake in it. And ironically, I have never been a sports person. I never partook in it or any of such physical activity as i was not good in any field event in my primary and secondary school days. I did well in Table Tennis but my interest was in football, in which I was bereft of talent or ability. I performed better, standing between the sticks as a goalkeeper during our "set" games at Muslim Primary School. All the youths of those days had interest in football. I was once drafted to be the goalkeeper when St. Patrick clashed with CAC

OPEN LETTER TO MY LATE MUM: MY PEREGRINATION IN THE HANDS OF FATE

     Open Letter To My late Mum: my peregrination in the hands of fate. By Sunday Ajibola (Edobor) Life can be interesting, agonising, depressing and fulfilling at times. It often throws man into emotions of varying degrees. Certain happenstances rekindle memories of decades and make one feel as if they just occurred. This open letter is one of such. Pardon my digression. Momo mi, I am sorry for not getting in touch with you all these years; 27 years to be precise. I have no doubt you have forgiven me even before I asked for it; you have never held misdeeds against me. Though, most of the time, I remember you. But mainly, your special position has not really been fully occupied. Its after your demise that reality of the Yoruba saying "orisa bi iya osi" (there is no deity as mother) dawned on me. Now, I realise that i forgot to ask you so many questions. But then, questions are never exhausted.    That very day you finally bowed to the icy hands of death, your state of health