After a phone call,I just remembered this poem I read in secondary school for some reasons I can't readily relate to.Read and enjoy. TELEPHONE CONVERSATION Wole Soyinka The price seemed reasonable, location Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived Off premises. Nothing remained But self-confession. 'Madam,' I warned, 'I hate a wasted journey - I am African.' Silence. Silenced transmission of Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came, Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully. 'HOW DARK?' . . . I had not misheard. . . . 'ARE YOU LIGHT OR VERY DARK?' Button B. Button A. Stench Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak. Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed By ill-mannered silence, surrender Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification. Considerate she was, varying the emphasis - 'ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?' Rev...