When two weeks ago I was served bread on a flight, I remembered a bakery in the area where I grew up in Ibadan.
The man who owned it was tall. We didn’t know his name so we called him baba oni bread. He was extremely dark and hairy. He never wore a shirt, I’m guessing because of the heat inside the bakery, and he was always slightly covered in flour.
He however wore the same brown trousers every day I saw him. He didn’t wear a belt, so he walked around in giant strides, his trouser saging to mid bottom, carrying pans upon pans of bread as he distributed to shop owners who had come to to buy. They came with big wooden boxes to collect bread. It was usually hot, so they waited for it to cool off before swiping the golden brown crusty part with a yellow…
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