CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I swore never to allow myself to be bothered by a woman again, when I was finally discharged from the specialist hospital, that fateful tenth day of July 2013, with a truckload of medication. Boma’s magnanimous branch manager had offered her official car and driver to take me home.

I said goodbye to the Nigerian, Syrian and Indian doctors and nurses, who’d taken their time to cut and stitch me for more than three months. I was amused at Boma’s tears of joy, as we journeyed to her apartment that afternoon.

“Please drive us to the church….” The driver looked surprised, while he stared at the traffic lights ahead.

“Madam said I should drive you home from the hospital, not…”

“I want to go to the church and thank God.”

“Okay, just drop us and we’ll use a taxi to church-” Boma cut in. The driver seemed not to hear us until I made one last statement.

“If you don’t take me to the church before going to her apartment Mr Kennedy, I’ll come to her bank tomorrow and tell the manager you drove us
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