The Prodigal Lawyer

The Prodigal Lawyer
by Marina Osoba

I never underestimate children, I have always been in awe of their incredible ability to watch, learn and mimic the adults around them.  It is a big mistake to think that one can do whatever one wants in the presence of children because they are not paying attention. All one needs is one bad experience, just one.  You would have thought that having been through several ‘bad’ experiences over the years with the countless stable of children I ‘nannied’ during holidays that I would have learnt my lesson by now.  You would have thought that my training as a ‘Learned Gentleman’ would have thought me the virtues of conservatism and self-control.  You would have though that the agonies of pregnancy and childbirth would have trimmed the excesses of my sometimes-sarcastic tongue, but alas, I had to learn that painful and embarrassing lesson yet again, much to my chagrin.

The day was like any other; a school day, therefore a school run.  The homebound journey is always my worst, as I always seem to run into a renegade band of traffic duty police, the type who look like they are in the wrong place at the wrong time (but what the heck?) and who seem to have inside information that my MOT certificate just expired yesterday. (I am yet to catch the snitch in my household and when I do, woe betide them!) Never mind that all the other documents pertaining to my car are up-to-date.

Never mind that I have three different types of fire extinguishers, spare engine oil, spare brake oil, spare power steering oil, spare fan belt, spare steering wheel cable, spare window wipers, three C-caution signs, jumper cables, professional tool box, two jacks, four thick, short planks of wood (goodness knows what for!), a 25-litre jerry can of water and Omo, one torch light, one car brush, two terry cloths and  a 4-litre gallon of spare petrol. My car is a moving car repair shop because when one’s papers are all in order, you’d be surprised at what you can be asked to produce.  That’s why I have everything and the neighbour’s kitchen sink in my boot, and alas, no room for shopping or luggage.  I thoroughly check the exterior of my car daily for a “Fine me, I’m a klutz” sign; yet I have never found one. 

Sometimes I dress in Ankara to have an ‘I be ya homeboy now’ look, but it doesn’t seem to help.  Skirt suit or wrapper and head tie, I still get pulled over. That is why I have developed a deep distrust and dislike for anyone in a uniform and my lack f discretion has rubbed off on my kids.

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Last Edited on June 20, 2006, 10:00 am.  This page has been viewed 490 times

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