How Do You Solve A Problem Like Ozo?
We buried Ozo today—six feet down in the earth. His service of songs was as sober as the expression on his face when I went to have my last view of him. I had expected a face marked with the shock of betrayal but found one with a pensive look. If I hadn't been present in his last hours, I would have assumed he was asleep and was having a dream that left him thoughtful. His funeral had no fanfare, which was atypical for us. He had died young, so there was no need to celebrate his passing. The priest, I was told, had officiated out of compunction. Ozo's dad's money was the lifeline of that small parish. Another person who had no compunction about being at the graveside was his mother. I wonder if she stayed away because she had no tears for him; after all, it was her nod which had led us here. You see, Ozo died young but not unnecessarily. He was the son of one of our illustrious sons, so imagine our shock when a python gave birth to a cobra. As he blossomed in his teens and ...