Many would say I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, the younger of two sons in a family of four. Perhaps they are right, perhaps I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. But I sure didin't like the taste of it.
Born into a church going family. (My extended family both on my paternal and maternal sides were members of the Anglican and Roman Catholic churches respectively.) I have never know a Sunday where we didn't attend service except for illness or death. Actually that's not truth. I do remember there were times when my mom didn't feel like going to church and slept in. For my brother and me that meant no transport to church.. We worked around that later on after finding out that one of the Lay Readers lived a nearby, we would catch a ride to church and back.
I was baptised at a ripe old age of 4 1/2 years, which was considered late by some people from certain backgrounds. I remember that day. I knew something big was happening. Made to dress well even had a clip-on tie or something. All the people around. Then this big angmor man in a white robe (the priest) called me up to the baptistry. As I tilted my head over the marble thingie, he splashed water over my hair thrice!!! He wet my best shirt!! Why did he wet my sunday's best?