My story centered on a nasty wedge of tomato my parents were making me eat. I had passed at least an hour at the lunch table, the red piece of fruit glaring up at me. My parents had long since gone off to take their afternoon siesta as is the custom in Africa, and I was left to my misery, trying to conjure up the courage to stuff the slimy, tart thing in my mouth and gulp it down without gagging. I failed to muster up such courage. I could hear my dad snoring in the other room, and evil finally took over. I quietly pushed my chair back on the cement floor, stealthily opened the screen porch door, and snuck outside. I headed around to the side of the house and tossed the offensive tomato under a bridge that stretched across a ditch. Then I quietly let myself back into the house and cleared my plate like the responsible, helpful daughter I was. For weeks after that day, I would sneak around to the side of the house and cast furtive glances under the bridge. I was terrified a tomato plant would grow under the bridge and give me away.
