In bed, reading Chika Unigwe’s On Black Sister’s Street. First impression: A brilliant story. Great writing.

It started this way:

“The world was exactly as it should be. No more and, definitely, no less. She had the love of a good man. A house. And her own money – still new and fresh and the healthiest shade of green – the thought of it buoyed her and gave her a rush that made her hum.”

In Yoruba, that should be:
“Ilé ayé rí gẹgẹ bó se ye kó rí. Kò sí àseju bẹẹni kò sí àìtó. Ifẹ rẹ n jẹun lokan ọdọmọkùnrin ọmọlúàbí kan. Ilé kan. Àti owó tirẹ – tó tuntun yanranyanran pẹlú àwò ewé té rẹwa tó sì jọlọ – rírònú nípa rẹ lásán mú inú re dùn dé ibi wípé ó bẹrẹ sí n kọrin laìlanu.”

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