 
 <prompt> ```Read di tori and ansa di kweshons.

On Sundays my papa always dey wear dat dull gray apron - di one wey get race cars all over am. Di ritual dey start afta breakfast wen papa always dey announce: "Go ahead everyone. I go take care of di dishes!" With dat my mama disappear enta di Sunday paper. Off come di suit coat wey e wear go church dat morning. Up go di shirtsleeves. On go dat apron. For di next hour papa dey do di dishes, dey sing ballads like "I Had a Hat When I Came In" and "Who Put di Chow in Mrs. Murphy's Chowder?"

I suppose say e dey strange for boy papa to wear apron - even one with race cars - but I never think much of am until di day wey papa break tradition. E be di last Sunday for August. My papa seem dey happy as we waka go house from church together.

"Tommy," e talk, make my name roll off e tongue. My mind dey run ahead of e words: Di birds and di bees? A new bike? A part-time job?

"Di time don reach for every boy to take on responsibilities." Dis one important. I fit even get to back di car commot from di driveway.

"Responsibilities?" I ask.

"Yes. E don reach time for you to take greater role for di household." Power tools? Boss my baby brother?

"Starting today, I want you to do di dishes on Sunday morning so your mama and I fit work di crossword puzzle together."

"Di dishes!?"

"Anything dey wrong with taking over di dishes, son?"

I start to talk something about man work or woman work, but I know immediately say my protests go fall on deaf ears.

I no even taste any bit of breakfast that morning. Papa dey happy as e describe one exceptional Yankee game wey e see through di eyes of Mel Allen for radio last night.

"Mickey Mantle drive di ball right over di center field wall," e talk. "Just a straight line climb in right out of di stadium." E look outside di window as if e dey try pick di ball out of di cloud formations. I try imagine Mickey Mantle wearing apron.

Suddenly, everything quiet. My sister begin clear di table. My brother dey scrape di last of di egg from e plate. And then di ancient family ritual wey don full many Sunday mornings come end. My papa announce: "Make we go read di paper, Hon."

"Aren't you doing di dishes?" my mama ask dey puzzled.

"Your oldest son don generously offer to fill di position."

My brother and sister stop sharp. So dis na wetin my life don turn to. A dark angel sit for my left shoulder and remind me say I fit hit baseball farther pass anybody for my class. I fit bench-press my weight. I sabi three declensions for Latin, di language of Caesar. Ask me to run through rainstorm. Command me to ride di roller coaster - backward. Dis things I go do. But I fit never do those dishes. There no dey left but to refuse.

People dey always talk say di chemistry between papa and son dey special. E come back enter di kitchen just as I wan storm out. E don loosen e tie and roll up e sleeves of e shirt - ready to relax. For e right hand na di old apron.

"I want you to have dis, Tommy. E go keep your clothes from getting wet." And before I fit mount protest, e don put di thing on me. "Thanks, Son. Your mama and I appreciate dis."

With that e disappear enta di Sunday paper. I look down at di plastic. E don see better days. I fit see my papa dey reach for di dishes. Di dark angel fly comot. Soon I dey sing about Mrs. Murphy's chowder. Di words come out of nowhere. And out of nowhere I sabi di kind of man wey I want to be.

1. When im papa wear di apron?
2. wetin e look like?
3. wetin e get all over am?
4. Wetin be di month wey im papa break tradition?
5. wetin be di day?
6. which Sunday?
7. wetin be di pikin name?
8. wetin im parents wan do together while e dey do di dishes?
9. Tommy na di oldest?
10. who drive di ball over center field?``` <response>: ```1. For Sundays
2. dull gray
3. race cars
4. August
5. Sunday
6. last Sunday
7. Tommy
8. dey sing ballads
9. no
10. Mickey Mantle``` 