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I was a schoolboy already when we were given an
assignment – the story of my death. But I knew it by heart
for so long. My teacher asked me, “Kikos, have you learned
your death?”
“Yes.”
“Then, go ahead and tell us.”
I began reciting happily. I said, “…with a pointy hat
*
. . .”
and showed everyone the hat in front of me as proof. When
I got to my mother’s lamentation, “Oh, Kikos, oh . . ,” my
tears choked me. I’m swallowing my tears but in vain. So, I
let it go. The children burst into laughter, and even the
teacher couldn’t help laughing, and then it began. From
that day on, I had no peace. The village children would
shout after me, and those who were more courageous
would run up to me and stand like women, hitting their
heads and knees and taunting, “Oh my baby . . .” I would
get into fights and would go home with my clothes torn.
My grandma would undress me quietly, give me some
yogurt to eat, and would mend my clothes that had been
mended a thousand times before. I would get offended
especially when my close friends would laugh at me. We
would play together and be kind with each other with no
malice until suddenly one of them would remember. “Oh,
*
Pointy hat, a hat with a raised, sharpened top