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Pepper Soup

There are three sides to most stories, the side The Observer jigsaws together from the bits and pieces that fall off the dining table, the side The Observed eats from the bowl that Life has served them and the side that Life itself cooks while stirring its brass pot.

Life will cook a spicy, eye-watering, tongue-burning soup, and with each torturous spoonful, The Observed hops uncontrollably whilst inhaling air into their mouth to cool their burning cheeks.

The Observer, who has no way of seeing the steaming bowl, simply sees the seemingly rhythmic hopping.  Some might exclaim in admiration “Ah! He is break-dancing so well”, some might ask suspiciously, “Ah! Why is he dancing?” and others might conclude disdainfully, “Ah! I can dance better than him”.

For in the absence of X-ray vision, they cannot see the peppery soup wreaking havoc as it viciously embraces the throat with its heat and travels down a fiery path to the belly of The Observed.

Perspectives. You see this way, I see that way. We are both seeing.

Yet again, the snake-like fuel queues have returned, the Naira is entangled in its awkward “stop it but I like it” romance with the Dollar and the crude oil boom has deserted us like a runaway husband given the news that his wife has just birthed their third set of triplets.

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