These thoughts sting me, bite continually deep into my skin like bedbugs, I toss throwing the sheets around, rolling interminably, these thoughts are blisters on my skin, thoughts I no longer wish to remember, they spread all around my skin, in straight lines, zig-zaggadly, an uncoordinated plantation of worries. My earliest memories still hunt my dreams, finding me in a dark room, deprived of electricity from the higher authorities, mother sniffs loudly by my side. What troubled her? What troubles her? So much I will never know, they are my bedbugs, those bitter unanswered question swallowed like agbo jedi every other night, those questions that could possess and constipate you. Mother watched me question fathers orders continuously, I was constipated, mothers could tell such things, so she gave me extra spoons of agbo to swallow then offer thanks. What was a responsible Yoruba woman but a bouquet of thanks? I would say thank you even when the bitterness of the concoction threatened my sanity. I still say thank you, in fact I did say thank you when grandma sent me some of her old shoes, also when father licked his fingers greedily because of the efo riro I prepared, his generous belches were accompanied with loud praises of the good yoruba wife I will someday become; not concerning himself with little details of if I was interested in marriage, I offered my thank yous all the same. I also did not forget my manners every night prep behind the class blocks when Ola stuck his tongue down my throat.