The Seeming Nonchalance of the Boy's Separation from his Brother

On the first day we talked about Tutuola's book, we began with talking about the style with which we were recounted of the brothers' separation. We listed off a couple of reasons: one being that it was being told from an historically distant place and time and another was that the events were traumatic enough to not need embellishment.
While I concede that the historical remoteness of the story-telling could have a significant impact on its passionless deliverance, I contend that the second reason has more weight. To recollect the moment that one is separated from one's blood relative is a painful process. I can say this with confidence because, two years ago this summer, I lost my brother is a tragic accident. When I tell the story of what happened, it is fairly cut-and-dry. I make it that way for my own sake - to avoid becoming emotionally overwhelmed. My black-and-white recounting of my brother's demise hasn't always been so. At the beginning, of course, it was extremely difficult to tell the story. One might even say that it still should be, but I have coped pretty well with my loss and can now tell the story as it happened without too much of my own angst.
Considering the details of my brother's death and the fact that it was a week before his wedding was to take place, I don't feel the need to elaborate or make it any more dramatic than it really was. Every detail is powerful and meaningful in its own way and of its own accord. The bare-bones truth is enough.
When Tutuola's character tells us how he had to quickly send off his brother without him, we read of it in only a matter of a few sentences, but the impact of the sentences' messages still hits hard. This poor, little seven-year-old boy is stranded without his brother's protection and we feel this sudden vulnerability without doubt and with no need to hear more about it.