Sometimes a thought hits me about my association with the horrors happening in the world that fills me with regret.

When I was little, my father was stationed in Nigeria as a civil servant engineer. We had Nigerian servants who “stole” bread. They lived in three-walled cement huts behind the house.

I remember my mother complaining about the “thievery”.

Now that I can guess what my father was doing in Africa, I’m filled with remorse that my mother couldn’t have sent our servant shopping telling them to included whatever they and their families needed, including extra bread.

In my lifetime, I never met a Nigerian I didn’t like.


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