"Mangohead!" Ma Ramsawak called from outside the
house. "Come downstairs, people here to see you!"
Mangohead groaned and rolled over onto his side. What time
was it? Casting an eye on the large, green digits of the digital clock that sat
atop his wardrobe, he noted that the time was around a quarter past seven; far
too early to be stirring on a Saturday morning. Still, if he decided not to
respond to his mother, there would be hell to pay later. If there was one thing
every single village child knew, it was not to cross Ma Ramsawak, and Mangohead
being her son, knew that far better than any other.
He heaved himself out of bed with a concerted effort and
rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as his feet unconsciously shuffled for his
flip-flops. Having more or less got the elusive rubber-and-plastic
accoutrements on, he half walked, half stumbled out the front door and down the
stairs.
