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Dear Diary,


Fact: You are suddenly everyone’s friend when you have food.
By order of the realm, I am miffed. I sit down for a good two hours pondering whether I should buy food. You already know my disposition towards letting money out of my hands. It does not please me. Not. One. Bit.
Anyway, I eventually cave in to my primal urge to eat kelewele and grilled chicken and I take a considerable amount of money to do so. I psyche myself up for the impending meal (which isn’t hard to do when there’s kelewele involved. Kelewele is the best thing ever in all known universes. I am certain of this. So certain, in fact, that I will clap my hands over my ears and chant ‘la la la’ to anyone who says otherwise).
With uncharacteristic happiness and a bounce in my step, I whisk away to the kelewele vendor, buy my chicken from across the street and head home whistling to myself while deciding which to eat first – chicken or plantain.
Back in my room, I settle down, unpackage my food, set out my juice box and sit down in sheer awe of the amazing smell emanating from my plate. I raise my fork up aaaaaaaaaaand…
*Knock, knock, barge in*
Someone (whose name rhymes with Grace) pops in and merrily picks up my chicken and starts eating it. I sit there, dumbstruck. I open my mouth to protest and then she quickly pops an appreciable amount of kelewele into her mouth as well. I sit there, dumbstruck. Then she speaks, with a wide grin: “Hello!”

This indignity shall not pass unavenged.

Ticked off,
Cheese.

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