I know you are eager to know what happened when I followed Maya to

  the backyard. I have to say that I am taking things easy with her.

  Maya has had a harrowing life. Raped and deflowered by her own

  father at a tender age, maniacally protected by her mother as a result,

  she is not the kind of girl you follow to the backyard and begin to lift

  up her skirt. It seems to me now that she may be ready for some

  fooling around, because one evening when they suddenly took light, she

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  found me where I sat on the soakaway slab and searched out my eyes

  in the darkness and said “why have you not tried to touch me?” So far I

  have refrained from describing Maya?s bodily features in full because

  you may think I am exaggerating or carried away. But anyone who

  shows up at number 225 Kata Street for the first time and sees

  Maya will believe Mr Cosmas? cosmic assertions about circumstances of

  birth, because it would only take something fantastic for a being like

  Maya to turn up in this dump. Perverts for whom face-me-I-face-you

  was designed will happily fill out hell?s register and check in without

  thinking twice because of her. But I have earned her trust, and respect

  I hope. And it is equally important to prove to her mother that ?Calabar?

  people are not dogs. So I will leave Maya and the backyard thing for

  the time being.

  I like Saturday mornings at number 225. The day starts at 5am with

  Sister Esther disturbing our early morning sleep with her amplified

  admonition to the whole street to repent