The Official Version
Long ago, on a cold, wintry day in January, a bouncing baby boy (slightly on the heavy side) came into the world and brought happiness to an exhausted mother and relieved father. Their joy was such, they called the baby Chidiebere, which, in Igbo, means ‘God is merciful’. I was that baby, and must confess, during the time my parents and I spent together on this planet, they often claimed my behaviour (and results thereof) challenged the notion of God’s mercy. Many man years later, and loaded with the insight that comes with age, I realise our seemingly endless series of fractious episodes were all down to misunderstandings caused by our spirits transmitting and receiving on very different frequencies. My parents have been gone for quite sometime, but were they here, right now, I’d probably say: “Mum, Dad, you know what? All those hours, days, and years spent trying to figure out why this was up, the other stuff down, who was in, and what was out helped me become the storyteller I am today. Thank you for that.”
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