The melodious contralto of the gospel artiste, Cece Winans, backed up by other singers, floated through the atmosphere from Tonia’s room to mine, making my intention to sleep in on this Sunday morning quite impossible. It didn’t help that she sang along with the professionals, loudly, her screeching voice that tottered between soprano and some other unidentifiable pitch bouncing against the walls and causing me to groan. My sister is tone-deaf and so doesn’t know just how bad her voice is.
As I lifted my pillow to place it on my head, in a hopeful attempt to muffle the din, my phone began to ring on the bed beside me. I blearily peered at the screen to see Yinka’s name on it.
“How far,” I muttered when I answered the call.
“Dee, is today not Sunday?” he said without preamble.
“Tell me, is today not Sunday?”