7 NO MORE LICKED TEASPOONS
Another day, another rude awakening. Like a swift kick to the crown jewels, a police siren howled its cursed wee-woa song. No matter how much I stuffed the ends of my pillow case in my ear holes, the sound of a million cherubs dying refused to go away. Johannesburg had a way of making sure you would wake up when it wanted you to.
My bedroom door burst open. “Bro, you need to get up now,” Jay said.
“Go away, Jay,” I said, silently chuckling to myself how I rhymed with the same smoothness as Vanilla Ice back in 1991.
“Claudio, it’s Missus Beryl”—his pause was ominous—“she’s dead.”
Jay’s mouth flapped away, saying a whole bunch of things, but I lost myself in my own thoughts. I recalled the time Mrs Beryl tricked us into inviting her in for a cup of tea, and s
