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Old Score
by Nnorom Azuonye
Ugo slides the letter back into the envelope it came
in. Like the evil sword it is, there in its
scabbard, it will not harm anyone. He gnashes his
teeth in anger, glances at his wristwatch, and
shakes his head from side to side. In just under one
hour he shall be in another session at his
osteopath’s. It is like confession. Every other week
he goes to Mayer’s, surrenders himself to painful,
trespassing but awkwardly pleasant stretches of his
body and bones. With each session he borrows a few
days’ relief from agony. “Serves me right for trying
to be Schwarzenegger,” he pretends to tease, but
really reprimands himself. He remembers the precise
moment at a Seven Sisters gym he heard a click in
his back that has condemned him to nearly a decade
of hell. A moment of stupidity that has also taken
away the courage he needs to return to Nigeria to
settle an old score.
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