Zikora

by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

He had a boyish quality, which was not, as in some men, mere cover for immaturity; he was a grown-up who could still touch in himself the wonder and innocence of childhood.

and saw the pride in the eloquence of their body language: he had turned out as they had hoped.

I read somewhere that love was about this, the nuggets of knowledge about our beloved that we so fluently hold.

I cried and cried, and even though people said crying made them feel better, it made me feel frightened and small.

How you imagine something will be is always worse than how it actually ends up being,”

He came out with his mouth full of shit, and the bigger nurse, chuckling, said, “Not the best first meal,” while somebody swiftly took him away to suction the feces from his mouth.

How primitive that they wouldnt do an enema prior? US hospital??? Oh my gawd...

but we don’t do barbarism here in Europe.

Hmmm...not since Kosovo, or WWII?

I would die for him. I thought this with a new wonder because I knew it to be true; something that had never been true in my life now suddenly was true. I would die for him.