Riding along on the Orient Express Anonymous

Don't expect me to laud a murder job too often! It is certain that my mother would have baulked at the prospect of me reading 'The Orient Express’ by Agatha Christie. However, there is a transcendent attraction between a drowsy child on a humid harmattan day and a parent's forbidden library. I devoured Christie's famed novel and other gory themes developed by authors such as Gilliam Flynn and Jeffrey Eugenides, but the nature of this essays demands that acclaim be solely given to Christie.

To understand the impact reading 'The Orient Express’ had on me is to understand my awkward development as a child. As a Nigerian child in a British school, I was sensitive to the difference s between my classmates and me. Each time a student wrinkled their nose at my packed lunch of egusi soup or asked why I didn't adopt a sensible, pronounceable name, I withdrew deeper into myself. By that age of ten, I firmly doubted my own perceptions and intelligence.Something remarkable happened when I boarded the Orient Express. I began to observe the behaviour s of the passengers and draw my own conclusions. Imagine my surprise when my seemingly outlandish theory that all the passengers were responsible for the murder proved to be accurate! This...