The Stories I Tell...

  Hey. It's been a while since you left, but I still don't know how to start writing what needs to be written. But I've never been good at starting things. I find myself in the middle of a thing without knowing how I got there, and I guess that's what happened to us. Talking with you was easy. I am always double-checking my words, holding them up to see if they would match the image I'm projecting. But with you, I never had to do that. Maybe because you talked less and listened more. I believe that people have too many opinions. They forget that life is not a one-size-fits-all. We each have our unique experiences of the same things. You understood that and listened more. In hindsight, I wish I had encouraged you to talk more. Now I feel like all I did was take, take, and take.  They say history repeats itself, and I was determined not to repeat my parents' history. I know I told you my mother and I were estranged, but I never told you why. It was because my fath

     James must have eaten thousands of meals in his lifetime, but only a few held strong memories for him. Not an easy feat, considering there are only so many times you eat a particular dish before it becomes commonplace.      There was the bean porridge his aunt Chinanza used to make during the primary school holidays, which he and his siblings spent at her house. The porridge was watery, with fragrant fresh pepper and soft yams sliced into it. At that point in his life, he didn't enjoy eating beans, but he always enjoyed Aunt Chinanza's. He hadn't spoken to Aunt Chinanza since the big family fight, but whenever he thought of her, he thought of her beans.      Then there was oil rice, which his brother Tom used to make when they were still in secondary school. Tom was a bit of a mad scientist when it came to the kitchen. He would go into the kitchen and concoct meals that their mother certainly did not teach them. Nobody knew how he came up with his recipes, but they alw