When Baba took the opere from his late father, he had you in mind but your mind was on the streets of Lagos, on flashy cars and beautiful women.
You told him to let the gods take care of themselves but he wouldn’t listen.
Every morning, after chewing bitter Kola he would take some gin and wash his mouth, you knew what he would do next because he came to your hut, the one that smelt of your six year old sister’s urine, to wake you up for the morning sacrifice.
“oya dide, eledumare ti dide, orunmola naa, opere sii ma side ni sin yii.” wake up, God is awake…opere is waking.
You would roll to your sides and pretend not to hear, he would repeat it like some kind of chant and you would stand up slowly irritated.