This piece is sponsored by me. I thought you were a middle-aged man, began my host, whose head, chin and [ahem] have fully embraced the grey hair invasion. Youre a very young man, he added, emphatically, as if Im not aware of my being young. Im not young; Im only short and, well, gifted with a baby face, I thought but swallowed my wd-be response. That was two days ago. Today, while the sun woke up, someone called and asked for my help. Reason. Because you are an experienced journalist. Riyale? I protested. Ive read your print articles and your social media posts, and Im convinced well need you on our team, he insisted. Let me tuck the idea under my pillow, sleep, and dream over it; Ill report to you later, I requested. But dude wouldnt listen. Tututututu!!! Oldman, ojja kundeta amalala, eh? Stop the madness; Im simply a youngman, with a a sentence of a profile. Experience and good are two words I dread so much, like stepping on my balls.
Posted on: Fri, 26 Dec 2014 17:58:32 +0000
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