By Dike Chukwumerije
I was being attended to the other day, and just before taking my debit card the sales girl casually cleaned out a nostril with the same finger that was soon to fold over my card.
True. I thought about saying something. But, sometimes, we introverts sink so deep into ourselves that the effort to get up, go downside, open the front door, walk round to the back, crank up the generator, come back inside, walk back upstairs, sit back down, just so we can turn on the switch that will allow us to use our voices – is too much.
So, I retrieved my property delicately, hoping that whatever it was that had relocated from her nose to my card was part of the family of things easily neutralized by muttering ‘blood of Jesus’ under one’s breath. And I left.
