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    Sometimes I can not differentiate my past from my dreams. They come in  same shade of sepia, fusing into one body. One. I’m falling into a bottomless pit. Down, down, down I go. My voice stretched so thin as I call my mother. ‘Mummy!!!’ ‘Hang in there’ her voice reverberates. ‘The pastor will soon be here’ ‘Mummy!!!’ ‘You’re covered by the blood of Jesus. Nothing will happen to you’ ‘Mummy!!!’ I fall into something hard and soft; my father’s chest. ‘Why didn’t you call me’ he asks. I wake up panting.   Two. Mother is heavily pregnant. I meet her in labour pains after school. ‘Get the baby bag at…

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