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and body remained
motionless. His eyes and body were fixed, focused on what he alone
could see and feel.
    Tunrayo sighed in relief and started
after Chike. Wole gave Eze one last look and hurried after his
friends. He glanced back after ten steps and was shocked to
discover that Eze’s cold dead eyes were following them. His cold
gaze made his heart skip a couple of beats. Steeling himself, he
turned and hurried after his friends with Eze’s eyes fixed on his
back until he disappeared from view.
     
    45 minutes later
     
    Wole walked down the long narrow
street leading to his house. He was alone now. Tunrayo and Chike
had left him at the point where the bush path joined the main road.
He sighed as he remembered the cold silence that had engulfed their
ranks as they made the forty-five minute trek back home.
    Tunrayo was furious with Chike. He
could not say he blamed her. Chike could sometimes be as stubborn
as a goat. She had barely glanced his way as they walked. The few
times she did, her eyes blazed with rage. Chike returned her angry
looks with defiant ones, as was his way.
    He sighed again as he considered
this. He had known Chike long enough to realize that he was very
stubborn. If he came back to the world again, Wole was very sure he
would come back as a goat.
    It was the things you insisted he
did not do that he loved doing. If you did not want him to do
something, it was better you told him to do it. Then chances were
he would not do it. He had never met anyone quite like Chike
before.
    The strange thing was, as annoying
as he could be Wole could not help liking him. He suspected that
Tunrayo also felt the same way. A smile lifted the corners of his
lips as he thought this. Tunrayo was furious with Chike now, but he
knew she would not be for long. Their fights hardly ever lasted
more than a day or so, so he was not worried.
    “You appear deep in thought. What
worries you my dear boy?” A warm very pleasant voice asked rousing
him from his deep thoughts.
    He turned slowly, his eyes coming to
rest on the wizen old man seated on a wooden bench on his right.
The bench was backed against the concrete walls of the sunflower
bakery, which was the only bakery Oraromi had. The old man wore
long baggy trousers made out of faded Ashoke* material (expensive
Yoruba ceremonial cloth). His wrinkled torso was covered by a dirty
white singlet, his jaw line almost hidden by scraggy looking facial
hair. The shock of white hair on his head was growing afro
style.
    Scattered around him were more than
two dozen shoes, all in various states of repair. Directly behind
him was a wooden box like container, which held needles, razors,
pins, threads, bits of leather, shoe polish, and half a dozen other
things, which he needed for his trade. After all a cobbler was
nothing without his tools.
    “Good afternoon Baba Adora.” Wole
said bowing low; his bow was a sign of respect for the old and
elderly in Yoruba culture.
    “Good afternoon Woleayo.” Baba Adora
replied looking pleased by his bow.
    Wole sighed. He could not understand
why Baba Adora insisted on calling him by his full name. He
shrugged with a disinterested look on his face. It was probably
something old people enjoyed doing.
    “You look well young Woleayo. How
was school today?”
    “It was fine sir.”
    “Hope you learned well?”
    “I did my best sir.”
    “Diplomatic answer__” Baba Adora
said chuckling. “I like that. You are well on the way to becoming a
great man.”
    “Thank you sir!” Wole exclaimed
looking very pleased. His smile disappeared a few moments later at
Baba Adora’s next words.
    “Don’t let praise get to your head.
That is the first thing you have to learn. Be meek and humble. Add
hard work to the mix and you will discover that the journey to
success is already half done. Praise has been known to have brought
the downfall of many great men so beware.”
    For some strange reason, the way
Baba Adora said it made dread steal into his heart. He