The Interview

On a thunderous windy day, the sun was beat. The sweltering heat from the whipping blades of the sealing fan’s speed. A hot breeze forgoing the cooling tease. Outside the flat, the forecast read forty degrees. Inside the flat, the thermostat read forty five degrees. A supposed environmental discomfort.

Lingering goosebumpy stress due a pending panel interview in two hours, stress? Just like unidays, late preparations were to blame. This was for a shapeshifting opportunity of work and play, earning moolah whilst at the game. Sheesh! No pressure to bring him to his knees then.

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My 2 by 4 Inglish, bare grammatical errors. I man, result to broken English.

Deh propa name be pidgin, mix am wit our local dialect, code switching.

Boarding school initiated, adding its own rules n ting, strengthening a language tool.

Come back to London Town with a heavy accent. By the time one realises, in this “melting pot” from another “melting pot”. Cockney sounding, awite mate, chill out! African cockney, a uni mate once said to me.

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