Monday, November, the 19th is the first day I wear my glasses to school. Chantelle spots me first, trudging down the hallway; she barks a laugh that makes me want to peel the spectacles off of my face and slip them into my pocket. I mean, I even try to. She doesn't let me. She says, "Now you resemble a proper professor.". She wraps an arm around my waist and herds me into the classroom, to my humiliation. Chideziri is playing X and Os with Ojeh on a piece of paper, nodding slowly to music from teal-coloured Ahmed's headset which is wound around his neck, giving off green and blue lights. At first, he doesn't seem to recognize me. Then he does, and a big-ass grin cracks open his face. He meets me halfway, takes my cheeks in his hands and pulls fondly.
"Ikuku."
With my glasses, I can see for the first time that he has a small pockmark under his lip, small and marking. His face isn't as smooth as it used to be; and again it makes me want to slid off the thick lenses
Amanda returns from outside school utterly short of breath.Her honey skin has gone bright ruddy. An explosion of raw redness that makes her face like a ready to plop tomato. I laugh, initially. Then she catches her breath enough to tell us what Abe and Pascal got cut up in. And it isn't even anywhere near good tidings. Dike is up and running before I can even blink. Half of SS3 is behind him, chicks and Gs. He storms into SS2 class where they are still waiting for their own after-school lessons."As e be so kasala don burst—" he's saying, when I breeze past the hallway, Ojeh and Cyril hot on my heels.Soon it's like the entire Senior secondary has emptied out into the field. Sprinting to the gates. Rushing past the gates. Storming the streets. Curving the corner, like a river breaking a dam—rushing.—Have you ever seen PH-city boys run into a fight?People say a lot of stuff about how and why PH-city
Chideziri makes me go the Poetry club on Friday, after normal school classes. Little feats runs these minut clubs every two days of the month, social gathering time. These clubs allow for the sustainable development of the child's intelligence quotient and encourage creativity and self-reliance—at least that's what the club manifestoes say. Chideziri is in the art club, because apparently, membership is compulsory. I told him that it would be nice if I joined the art club, too. I did not tell him that it would be nicer if we sat together at the back of the class and he ran his fingers over the M traced into my palm, like he often does. Either way, he said, "No. Absolutely not. You are only searching for an excuse yo sit next to me.""Of course not." I said, grimacing. "I don't need a babysitter."He laughed, pulled at my cheeks and said, "Says who?"Then he walked me to Poetry club. My hands shook the entire way—like
I stay in the hallway, leaning against the wall, wondering if I did wrong being so pushy with the poetry club thing. Wondering if Amanda will absolutely hate it. When the door swings inwards, Amanda is the first person out of the room. She adjusts and readjusts her small pink bag on one shoulder, and doesn't see me."Hey." I say.I wave; which is completely unnecessary as she's right in front of me. She glances up and notices me standing there for the first time. The prelude to a frown is stamped on her lips, the lower pressed stiffly into the upper lip that is a darker, more lustrous shade of pink. It is the same look that ghosts her features when she's having a hard time figuring stuff out, like the next line in a poem or which word fits where, or in an Economics class—before she asks such a complex question that the rest of us zone out. The furrows between her thin brows smooths out swiftly and her face transforms.
I wake up in the middle of the night. My room is so black that I can only make out the door frame, because of the light bleeding in from the sitting room. The door is open a fraction; it has no bolt and can't be locked.I hear the noise of voices disrupting the late night's delicate noiselessness. I creep closer to the brightness and I hear Mumsi on the phone, laughing. Laughing at what whoever is on the line is saying. At two effing thirty O'clock in the morning. I go back to bed, close my eyes, and try to catch some shut eye. I don't catch a single wink. Turns out it is not possible to sleep with my mother giggling in the room next door, like a teen girl in secondary school. I remain painfully aware of her glee, till I can't anymore. I fish around the head of my bed, take my phone and switch it on. There's like two hundred texts, a hundred audios, and stickers lining the walls of my DM from Men Dem alone. Since Amanda was added to the group chat it
"Amanda get dressed. We are going out." Dad says. He's standing in my door way fully dressed. That string of English words that scatters my plans for the entire evening—which include lying in bed, a dogeared novel in my lap, smiling at pictures on my phone and letting YouTube suck up my data with a straw. Having a parent like mine is always difficult, because except when he's extremely happy—which occurs every five blue-moons—he always sounds the same: at the very brink of grumpy. It's hard to gauge his mode. I dress up quickly, struggle into my pocketless jeans that has become firmer around my thighs in the last month, slip my feet into slippers and leave hurriedly. Dad is waiting for me in the dining room, on one the onyx-black dining chairs that is too small for his body. Yellow and cider glint on his neck. It seems he couldn't keep Mom tucked away for that long, eh."You are ready?" He asks. I am sure he's really a
Friday comes too soon.Why does friday come too soon? Apparently, because Friday is a rare chance for me to embarrass myself aka stutter on stage in front of the entire damned school.Chantelle breezes past me chasing someone in the hallway, barking threats. Abe, Ahmed and a few others are at the back drumming up some noise, rapping both terrible unworthy-to-be-heard lines and okay-lines. Chideziri is at the staff room; he always is on social-gathering Fridays. I asked why once. He only shrugged. Ishaq is braiding Chinonso's hair. It is more brown than black, the ends straight while those wooly strands at the roots are curled stiffly.Mr Harrison—the Literature teacher's name if you were wondering—insisted that I'll be the person to represent the group after he'd heard only two of my poems.Yes. You got that correct.Me.Me, myself and I.Me, who doesn't know wh
It's finally Saturday.Which means I have to get to Amanda's house. Which means I have to get kitted up.She invited me over this weekend to hang out—and whoa, whoa, whoa. I know what you must be thinking. Don't even dream about it.I bring Chantelle along for security purposes; somebody who'll keep me in check. Someone who won't let things get out of hand. Amanda doesn't blink when she answers the door, acts like Chantelle was always in our day's agenda—which I immensely appreciate. She enfolds her in one of those full on girl-to-girl hugs which ordinarily should be awkward, but isn't. But she doesn't kiss me, although I know her Dad is supposed to out."Come in, come in." She says.You'd think us showing up in her crib is an everyday thing. We kick off our footwear on the porch and enter the house; Chantelle's Nikes, me, palm-slippers. It has been getting warmer these past few days, making November taste like m
Esther is the scrawny girl from poetry. She's in SS2 Art's class, and daily, she heys me when we cross paths.Her teeth are crooked like mine, her smile is crooked like mine. But with gaping spaces between one tooth and the other; unlike mine."Senior, have you written anything new?" She always says.I think she already knows that I have, and that I am writing another.Cyril too, winks at me during combined Maths and English classes. And when he catches me aloof, penning a poem or some other thing that pops up in my head at the hardcover of my note, he grins; as if we share a small secret.Nightly, Tonye sends voice notes to me. She's huge on spoken-word poetry and although her poems are spiel and boring in a Shakespearean-ish manner, I adore her voice. It is a violin—reedy and young and nectarous. I fall asleep to her most nights.Side Note: If Chideziri hears that...Mr Harrison—the li
Calling Ma to tell her the exam is over will only make her rush me, I think.Today is the one day I don't want to rush things. So when others pull out their phones and gather round for selfies and corny posts such as GRADUATE IN A BIT or BEEN HERE, DONE THAT, I push my phone deeper into the slash pocket of my overall."And we good to go!" my best friend appears just as she disappeared: when I wasn't looking, and all of a sudden.She stretches her arms out for a hug."Ewwww." I dodge her. My best friend, Amanda, only seems to want hugs after one of her many visits to the toilets. There's enough bacteria on the doors alone to kickstart an epidemic."You know you want this hug," Amanda grins, inching closer.The periodic toilet frolicking is normal, the usual. The grinning is new. Whatever Port-Harcourt did to her was good. She even let me read her journal for like six seconds—which is a record. She n
I slump onto the grass next to Chideziri. He keeps staring up ahead into the tree, as if he's looking for something in particular, not paying me any mind. "G." Nothing. I shove his shoulder. Still nothing. "Are you going to sit here sulking all day?" Finally, he looks at me. "I can try, can't I?" "It's passing out day, you fool. We had plans, remember?" "Frankly, I don't." He says. I raise a brow at him; he only shrugs. I adjust myself till I am lying on my back in the untrimmed grass. "Well, since you don't remember, I'll wait here until your mermory starts to come back." "You'll be waiting for a long time" "I have enough time." I fire back. "Jesus Christ." Chideziri mutters. "Don't use the name of the Lord in vain, bro." "Guy, g
After four months of complete drought, March releases the first rains.Rooftops turn red with dust filled water, dust that accumulated over the dry season. Children play around under the rain, splashing in puddles.I spend half of most days in second term numb and staring. Staring at the teacher, at the writing on the board that makes no sense to me whatsoever, at the wall clock hung above the marker board. Then I spend the other half of the day noticing I'm numb and staring.In church, I no longer swing my shoulders to the music. I don't listen to J.Cole anymore.She is too everywhere. Too present to be so absent. My clothes smell of rain-beaten leaves, of abandonment, of freshly written poems. How hard I scrub makes no noticeable difference. Weeks after January the sixth, my knuckles are red and raw from trying to scrub her away, and failing to.She is too everywhere.I learn to stay in my room, curtains drawn
Queen's is as quiet and sprawling as I remember. Almost too quiet. The pinafores are also as I remember, shining from excessive ironing. But now the shirts are cardboard paper and the weather is always so dry that I have to keep lipbalm in my bag, just in case my lips crack. Again.Lorita's here, and she definitely missed me. I get cupcakes literally every day of the week, and a lot of guilt trip for that one time I abandoned her, went to Port-Harcourt, and while there, lived my best life.The absolute best thing about being back is that Queen's installed a new track. I'm feeling it.Now, I can run.As far as I want, as far as my legs will carry me. So fast that I fly. I close my eyes and there I'm in PH city, with Chideziri, sprinting, the rain right behind us.When I open my eyes, he isn't there.~
CHIDEZIRI I kiss her now, because when she's gone, I want to remember how her smile tastes mixed with tears. I want to remember the flayed pink that the sky took on, how rays peered down through clouds. I want to remember the mangroves, their dying leaves forming a glade of rusted confetti. I want to remember the sun, before it was eclipsed. ~ AMANDALeft to Aunty Seedy, suffocation by embracing is how I'd die."Nne, I'll miss you sorely." She says, smothering me. I lose count after the seventh hug. All our stuff will be moved to her house. Sofas,
The trees outside my window are almost naked now, burnt to figs by the ever angry sun. In the darkness of dawn, their branches resemble bones. I can't sleep, and being awake staring at the skeleton branches isn't helping, so I take Tobi's hoodie and leave the house. Outside is silent, much like everything else. So silent that when I pass the playround, I can hear the grass whistle. I walk. I walk by the tailors shop, to Close 4 and past. Past the hulking buildings and lonely trees. I walk till I get to the river. Elimgbu river has sunken so low that the stones underneath break its glassy surface. The first time we were here, it was full to its brim. Leaves floated on its surface. Pebbles lived under. It was beautiful. That is the thing about faded glory. It always starts out beautiful.
January, the sixth arrives quickly, quietly. January, the sixth steals our time. I wake up not remembering what the day means, at first. It comes to me slowly. The night before we leave, the night before January the sixth, I learn two things: there are two kinds of hunger, and one can keep you up all night, staring at the ceiling and missing a place and people you are yet to leave. It is two O'Clock in the morning and disconcertingly quiet when I decide that I can't endure the trashing and turning. I take a book from the shelf that will no longer be mine by evening, purple hibiscus, with the cracks on its cover and Adichie's delighted face above its blurb, and I go to the sitting room that will not be ours by evening. There, I turn on the light and cozy up on the couch. Halfway through the first chapter, feet shuffle in the hallway and Dad emerges from
Ahmed is stuck at his mother's shop. But as always, he finds a way to vanish. Abe's on his way already. Pacal posted pictures of the places his family had been to today: cinema, swimming at a pool and Ferris wheeling. The mere sight of the Ferris wheel gave me vertigo.By the tone of his last text, he's down for a reunion. Although he's never been as good as Ahmed at vanishing, I know he'll be there. Chantelle gets there first, to our spot at the river. Her sister's nurse friends visited, and in her words, turned the house into a marketplace. Amanda arrives last. The sun has sunk below the horizon by then and mosquitoes are biting. "I come bearing gifts!" she bellows, stomping down the planks, her footsteps heavy with the weight of five paperbags she's clutching. "Since when did Amanda become Santa?" Abe says. Yet he grabs his gift bag when it's offered.&nbs
Christmas is explosive. Literally so. The number of fireworks produced in a single annum is alarming. But what is even more alarming is the fact that the effing hoodlums that deadbeat parents in my neighbourhood call their children seem to think that detonating all those fireworks in the street just beyond our gate is cool. On Christmas eve, after one "knock-out" landed on our roof, I reached the end of my thoroughly stretched patience. I stormed out to yelled at a couple of them loitering in the street. All of which I did barefooted.Don't blame me, I was spectacularly pissed.The twenty fifth—Christmas day itself—is spent out of our house and in Aunty Seedy's, with her and Ozo. Dad wanted us to go to Chicken Republic, or one of the many fancy restuarants he made it his business to locate in the area once we arrived, since neither of us can boil an egg.