On the Wings of Dreams

Visitors by Diyach Thebo. Image courtesy the artist.

1

The village of Geffeichak is not connected to the National Power Grid, so forget electricity unless you have a generator. You have one, and that is why your phone has been useful. But now there are two problems: 1. Fuel scarcity 2. Your monthly allawee has not been paid.

This means you are broke. This means no phone. No phone means no alarm. No alarm means nature’s alarm. Nature’s alarm is the cock’s crow. The first crow is usually by 4:15am.

It is 4:15am.

You rub your eyelids and open your eyes. The throbbing headache from lack of good sleep tells you you are awake. The grandeur of your room reveals itself under the dying flicker of your lantern: green walls peeling off to reveal the previous yellow paint; hanger for your clothes—a stick horizontally held up to the ceiling at both ends by wires; a plastic table and chair taken over by books; and the rest of your room swallowed by shadows. You pick up yourself and blow out the fire. The light of the moon barely filters in. The next thing is to have your bath.

When you first arrived here, you had lots of change, so it gave you the guts to complain: I cannot use their stream water, it is unhygienic and a whole lot of other nonsense. So what you did was stuff the corner of your room with bags of pure water—one bag of water was enough for you to have your bath. But now your finances have reached ground level, and your senses have awakened: Few drops of Dettol will cleanse the stream of all its dirt, one sachet from the bag of pure water to brush my teeth, and I am good to go.

 

The early morning wind whizzes past causing you to tremble like the dewy leaves of the palm trees flanking the path to the stream. The path is marked with young women who have adopted careful gaits from long periods of towing this muddy path. Their men are still rolling in their beds, waiting for their water so they can begin their day to farm, hunt, fish or do whatever pleases them. You are not as privileged as these men are. You are a National Youth Service Corp Member posted to this village that cannot be located even on Google Maps.

Travelling here had felt like moving to the end of the world. You peeped through your bus windows as the landscape changed from clustered buildings to sparse buildings, to dry lands, to bushes, to trees, to forests, then to forests growing on swamps. All the way, you rescinded your faith in technology, trusting only the driver to get you there in one piece while you battled with imaginations of your death springing from ritual killings, accidents, and armed-robberies-gone-bad.

The young women are in dark coloured wrappers while your white singlet and white boxer shorts might as well be neon lights screaming your name in the half-light.

“Morning Corper,” one of the young women says. They know your name, but their native-moulded tongues cannot reshape themselves to pronounce ‘Bamgboye Oluwagboyega’ effectively so they take the easy road and call you the generic ‘Corper.’

You respond with a brisk wave and keep walking.

“Corper make I help you fetch water, go sleep, I go bring am come your room.” She giggles to her friend and they smack their palms together.

You are not a stranger to these young women of Geffeichak speaking words that carry double meanings, so you guard yourself against their advances by deflecting any form of unnecessary friendliness, because later in the day they will squeeze themselves into their white blouses and green skirts to become your students.

On your first day at the stream, the ladies had been fully naked, bathing without worries. You kept staring at your feet, the wet sand, the shadowed outline of the trees, the navy blue sky, anywhere else but their naked bodies, waiting for any sort of retribution for being there, but what you heard was their language and laughter. Overtime, the view became less strange. And even though you tried not to look, sometimes your gaze mistakenly fell on the curve of their breasts, the outlines of their hips, their nude body, partly clothed in soap suds.

“Mr. Boyega,” she says, obliterating the strong ‘Gb.’ She is among the very few circle of people here who bravely takes up the challenge in pronouncing your name.

You smile. It would also kill your tongue to pronounce her surname properly.

“Hello Blessing. How are you?” Your smile grows wider. The first day you were to teach you had been nervous, but the old trick of focusing on a friendly face in the audience helped you outstrip that nervousness. And that friendly face was Blessing.

“I am fine o.” She looks at her feet and rubs her palm against the other. A friend of hers follows her almost everywhere she goes, but you have forgotten her name. At least you know it begins with an ‘E’. She is staring at you now, fingers wrapped around the handle of two large buckets. As soon as she holds your gaze, she partly closes her eyes, and winks one of them.

“Hope you’re both ready for my test?” You say, ignoring her advances as always.

“Yes sir,” they reply. “I was reading in the night. I only slept small,” Blessing adds.

“I trust both of you. Fetch your water and let me escort you.”

“Ah. Thank you sir.”

The glow of the moon reduces to rippled reflections on the flowing water as they squat to fill their buckets.

2

The students of C.A. Secondary school arrange themselves in six different lines according to their classes. The staff members stand on the corridor of the building overlooking the field—the corridor being a sort of pedestal.

The principal, a thin, wiry man with hair that needs the careful grooming of a comb, stands with his usual companion, Mr. Brown, wielded tightly in his palms.

The day you introduced yourself to the Principal as the Corper posted to the school, he asked, without looking up from what he was writing, if you were the only one. You said yes. Then he said you would teach the final year students Government and Maths. Then he signaled you out of his office.

You did not leave; you told him you were very bad at Maths. He looked up, the vein on his forehead pulsating, and then he gave you a long and deprecating lecture on why a graduate must be knowledgeable in Maths. Then he said Government was okay, and asked for your name. You told him. He looked bewildered.

“But you can call me Corper,” you quickly added.

“No. I will call you ‘Bo. Ye. Ga’. Didn’t I get it right?”

The intonation was off, the strong ‘Gb’ was missing, but you didn’t want to find out whether a man who could flip at you for not knowing Maths would do the same for telling him he pronounced your name wrongly.

“Yes sir, you’re right.”

And that was when he warned you against coming late to school and chasing the women of Geffeichak.

Now, the armpits of his shirt are ringed with sweat. He paces back and forth. You could not see the veins throbbing on his forehead. But you are sure of one thing as you stand at the school gate: you are late again.

You should have been here before the start of the morning assembly. The plan had been to soothe your early morning headache with a quick nap until 7a.m, then by 7:30a.m be out of the house, and before 8a.m, you would be here. But life happens, and you found yourself waking up by 8a.m. At this point, you miss your phone’s alarm.

You check your watch. By now, the morning assembly should have been over, the students dispersing to their classes, singing their mischievous version of ‘Oh my home.’

As you draw closer to the corridor, and mount it, you see why the morning assembly is still on.

Four students are kneeling on the corridor: three males and one female. The female student has a short skirt on, ending at her upper thighs. Her face buried in makeup. As for the males, they have their collars lifted up, their faces plastered with hardened expressions, and their trousers pulled beneath their waists.

“I will use these students as examples. My school will not condone such nonsense!” His chest rises and falls as he utters each word, his neck straining with veins. You finally see the throbbing vein on his forehead. You hope he does not notice your late coming. More precisely, you hope he does not vent his anger at you for coming late.

He raises Mr. Brown in the air, and sends it down with a powerful force. It cracks against the back of one of the male students. The student’s expression remains the same, hard like concrete.

Behind that door, she is squealing again. There is that familiar lashing sound against the skin in quick succession. Every lash makes you tremble with fear. The lashing stops. The man says something. A tiny whimper responds. You peep through the key hole, but it is all shadows. The lashing starts again. You still tremble, but this time, you tremble with rage. You know this has to stop today. You take three deep breaths, and wrap your hands in a fist, poised to rap against the door.

“Ahhhh! I’m sorry sir! I’m sorry sir!” The female student is running in circles. The principal is intent on flogging her; he chases her round with Mr. Brown raised high. He slips. The students laugh and disrupt their lines. You cannot watch. Your hands tremble again, as you struggle to push back that memory. You search for Blessing, certain she will not be among those laughing. She is usually at the front of the line with her smooth oblong face, and her large eyes, like they are ready to absorb the world. The girl whose name starts with an ‘E’ is there—she is also laughing, her hands over her mouth; seeing you, she smiles and unbuttons the first buttons of her blouse, and winks—but Blessing is nowhere around her. Maybe the scattered lines have hidden her from view. Maybe she is late. But despite your uncertainties regarding her presence, you are certain she will not miss your test.

“And as for you Corper, if you ever come late to this school again, I will make sure you are not cleared for your next month’s allawee!” The Principal says after flogging the students, whipping Mr. Brown at the air around you. You flinch, your hands shielding your face.

Your students laugh, it stings your skin. You straighten yourself, and decide to make your test also sting.

 

Approaching your class, the noise of your students gets rowdier and more indistinctive. As you enter, someone chuckles, then they greet you with the customary, “Good morning sir, we are happy to see you sir. God…” You cause them to swallow the rest of their greetings by dictating the test questions. The students scurry for papers. Your tests are famous for not having the answers in the notes. Therefore, you do not bother telling them to keep their books off the table.

While dictating, someone calls your attention from the back. You locate the person. “Please sir, spell burucratic?” You know the face. He is one of the students who laughed after the principal’s warning. You respond with an, “As old as you are, you cannot spell bureaucratic? Blessing show this old fool how to spell bureaucratic.” There are few guffaws. Then silence. No response. You repeat your instructions again. Still no response.

Then you see her seat, empty, like a cavity among rows of rotten teeth. You look at the whole class: necks craning, trying to peep from another; teeth biting the tops of pens; heads staring at the ceiling, willing the answers to appear; hands scribbling, what you believe is, nonsense. You can bet on the last sachets of pure water left in your room that everyone here will fail this test. Then you tell them the test has been postponed. Some fling their papers in the air, their faces flushed with relief.

The rest of the day will be a jumble of activities. Most of the time, you will worry about Blessing’s unusual absence. At least she will come on Monday, will be your conclusion.

3

But she doesn’t. Same as Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. And although it is not what you will have done under normal circumstances, you tell the girl, whose name starts with an ‘E,’ to wait after school hours.

The class is deserted, empty rows of wooden desks and chairs. You ensure the windows and door are open. On the school field, students have grouped themselves in threes and fours, chattering loudly and strolling towards the school gate.

“Why is Blessing not coming to school?” You waste no time in going straight to the point.

“Ahn, ahn, Corper sir. Everytime, it is just Blessing you will be asking about. I know it is because of her we have not done that your test.”

“Is she still in this village or has she travelled?”

She puts her hand on your lap, her eyes digging into yours. “Don’t tell me you called me to talk about Blessing?” Her voice is soft and relaxed, as her hand travels along your lap.

The field is getting scanty. A herd of cows, led by three young boys holding sticks, match in through the school gate. The cows waste no time gnawing at the grasses. You take a deep breath and swat her hand off.

“Ahh.” She withdraws it in pain. “I am going.” She makes to stand.

“Please.” You pin your hands on her shoulder, preventing her from standing. “Where is she?”

She looks at you for a while, weighing your sincerity, and then she tells you Blessing is getting ready for marriage to Chief Alex.

“Clement Alex?”

She nods.

“But he already has three wives!” Then you reduce your voice, almost to a whisper, “But she is too young. What about school?”

She laughs and smacks her palm against the other, “Corper eh. You are funny o. Don’t you know that every woman that is not married will not even waste time to throw away her books to marry Chief?”

“No. Blessing is not like that. She will choose her books over Chief. Why will her parents even agree to do such?”

“Money na. They will not suffer again.”

“No. No. No. I will not allow this. Give me her address.”

“Sir?” She looks confused.

“Where is her house? Where does she live?”

Three egrets, lithe and graceful, swoop down and land on the back of the cows.

4

Your hands are wrapped in a fist, ready to knock. You take another deep breath. Then you knock once, twice, until you start raining your fists against the door. The lashing stops. He barks from inside. You know the bark is directed at you, but you keep knocking, punching, hammering on the door. You should be scared but you are not. When the door fails to budge, you slam your shoulders against it. One. Two—

The door bursts open. You stumble to the floor. Or maybe he opens it from the inside.

“Good afternoon Corper.” She opens the door. The faint aroma of fried fish hits your nose. Your belly growls. You hope she does not hear it. There is a big smile on her face. She has that same oblong face like a much older Blessing.

You greet her in their language.

“Corper, Corper, you are already learning this our language, small, small o. Come inside, come inside.” The top of her head ends beneath your chin, causing her to look up as she speaks.

The yellow of their wall is without any smear, as if it has just been freshly painted. A black-and-white photograph of a younger Blessing smiling between her parents hangs on the wall. Beside it is a frame bearing the quotation, ‘Jesus is the only Lord of this house.’ You have not been to any other native’s house, but a flat screen television pinned to the wall is something you did not expect to see. You settle softly into the comfort of one of the leather couches.

Blessing’s mother offers you fish, fried plantain, and palm wine. You refuse the latter. While eating, you ask after Blessing, and request to see her. She says she is fine, but Blessing cannot see any man apart from family because she is about to get married.

“And do you want that?” You ask.

She keeps quiet and avoid your gaze.

Then you say you are here to see her husband. She asks if there is no problem. You know only her father can give a binding decision, so you say no, it is a man-to-man conversation. She says he went for a meeting and would soon return.

Her father returns. He sits facing you. He has the usual physique of men around here: muscular with a soft round belly that sags over the waist. The mother introduces you to her husband as the Corper. He says he knows. She adds you are Blessing’s teacher. Then he says ‘Oh’ in recognition. All these are being said in their language. You just put on a goofy smile, trying to decipher what they say through the expression on their faces. She leaves, and you are alone with him. You greet him. He does not respond. Or maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe you did not speak loud. Then you go straight to your point.

“Sir, I came to ask about Blessing.”

His brows converge, “What happen to her?”

“She has not been coming to class, so I want to know if all is well.”

He smiles, and readjusts himself on the couch. His belly jiggles. “Haven’t you heard Corper? Blessing is getting ready for marriage.”

“That is the problem sir.”

“What do you mean by problem?”

“The thing is Blessing is very, very smart. She has a good brain.” You point to your temple. “And if she continues schooling, she can get—” You pause, thinking of a synonym for scholarship. “She can be taken to school in abroad for free.”

Her father looks at the ceiling and rubs his jaw, like he is considering your words. “But she will be far away. If she marries Chief, she will be here. And again Chief will give us plenty money.” He looks back at you. “Can’t you see how the house his changing already?” The grin on his face is hard to miss.

“But she won’t be going to school again.”

“Yes now. Chief cannot let other people to be near his wife like that.”

“But sir is she not too young to marry?”

“Look at this Corper. You are talking like this because you are not from here. Do you know how old her mother was when I married her? Or how old my own mother got married?”

“That was a long time ago. Now things are changing. Let her finish school, and then she can think of marriage.”

“Are you now telling me I do not know how to train my child? The child I planted in her mother by my own self.” He rises from the chair, so also his voice.

“No sir. That is not what I am—”

“Corper, leave my house. I did not know you have come here to insult me.” A shadow appears behind the curtain leading to the inner passage.

“I am only trying to help sir.”

“Get out now. And don’t come back!” He points his finger to the front door.

In another scenario, his trembling belly would have made for a good laugh.

The wind ruffles the trees as yellow leaves spiral to the soft earth; it breezes past you and raises goose bumps on your skin. The sky is thick with grey clouds. Behind you is the patter of running feet. You turn. Blessing is running after you wearing a blue gown with a scarf wrapped around her head.

She catches her breath, and looks around furtively. Surprising yourself, you hug her. After the hug, she asks about the test. You tell her you have postponed it. She smiles, a brief one. She looks at her feet, curling her toes into the ground. You hold her chin up. Her eyes are like basins of water, and at its bottom are two black pearls. The basin outpours. You wipe the tears from her eyes, telling her she can confide in you. She looks around, monitoring her surroundings, and finally blurts it out. Then she pleads with you, to do all you can to help her. You say you will. She tells you to promise. You say you do, that you will do all you can to stop the marriage. She thanks you.

You look at her. She searches your eyes. You heart is pregnant like the clouds above. But it is the clouds that first put to bed, drenching you both with rain. She runs back to her house, her feet splattering mud to her calves.

5

The morning is yet to shrug off the effects of yesterday’s rain. The blades of grass glisten with wetness. Millipedes, slugs, and snails take their places on the walls and ground. Treading carefully on the ground, you avoid the puddles etched along the way. You are undeterred, a man on a mission.

The Staff room has a desk and a chair for each of the fourteen teachers and seems to have space for almost nothing else. Five ceiling fans spin tirelessly above but they do very little to make the room less stuffy. At the end of the room is a green door with the label ‘Principal’ on it. You gingerly pick your steps on the red rug notorious for its dustiness. The teachers suddenly fall silent, staring at you like their eyes are beholding a strange apparition. They know you hardly come in here before the morning assembly.

You greet them all, measuring the appropriate amount of smile for each handshake. You plead with them to gather, stressing its urgency.

They do.

You start with how the school has been and will continue to be a blessing to the community. How it has prevented idleness among the youths and brought them in line with current trends, not to mention job opportunities for teachers.

They nod their head.

“But it is so sad that irrespective of the teachers’ efforts, the school is yet to boast of any University graduate.” You wait for the look of disappointment on their faces to settle before you add, “But that is all about to change.”

Their faces brighten.

You say there is an exceptional student, who would advance to university level, even on scholarship.

“Would you like to be a part of this landmark achievement?” you ask. They pause for a moment. You quickly add, “At no monetary cost.”

They smile. Whispers of affirmation arise.

“But this achievement for our school cannot occur.” You wait for it to sink in again, pausing longer than usual. Someone finally asks why.

“Because that student’s name is Blessing.” Diverse waves of reaction spread over them.

Time for the kill, you tell yourself.

“My fellow teachers, do not be dismayed, there is a way we can still make that dream come true.” You take your long pause, waiting for an impatient ‘how?’ A ‘how’ implies interest, which can be nurtured into commitment. Instead what comes next is:

“Boyega, to my office. Now.”

“Mr. Bamgboye Gboyega,” the principal says, fingers interlaced on his desk. It comes out as, Bomboyee Boyega. “First of all, forgive me for scolding you that day in front of the students. Sometimes my emotions get the better part of me.”

“No problem sir.”

“Good. So, where was I? Yes. I enjoyed the speech, you gave out there. It was—inspiring.”

“Thank you sir, thank your sir. I’m really interested—”

“As I was saying I like your idea—the teachers uniting to make a stand for education, and all. But you are forgetting one thing.”

You wait for what you are forgetting.

“Apart from the fact that her parents are in support—”

“Shouldn’t she have a say in her life?”

“If you’re looking at it from the legal angle, she is less than eighteen.”

“You truly think Blessing is not up to eighteen?”

“Do you have a birth certificate to prove otherwise?”

“What of. What of that bone test stuff?”

“Look Boyega, to what end? Even if they say she is eighteen or above. What good would that do here? It is only in foreign countries that all those eighteen and above thing works.”

“She can speak her mind, and I will be more than ready to take her in.”

“I love your spirit Boyega, it reminds me of my young self, floating on the wings of dreams, until reality brought me crashing. My plan was to be a professor of sociology by now. But look at me, at this age still heading a village secondary school.”

“It is still not too late sir.”

“That is by the way. Let us focus on the important issue here. First, let me ask you. What is the name of the Chief that wants to marry Blessing?”

“Clement Alex.”

“What is the name of this school?”

“C.A Secondary—”

“I mean the full name.”

“Clement Alex Secon—” and then you stop, immediately getting his point.

“Have you seen what I am trying to say? Do you think it was the government that built this school? Or it is from the meagre school fees that teachers get paid?”

“But sir it is just the right—”

“What is right? What is wrong? Save Blessing at the expense of the whole school? Is that your idea of what is right?”

“Sir, we cannot close our eyes and fold our arms, and let one of the best brains of this school get shackled by marriage.”

“In fact that is what we will do. And we will see it as an investment into ensuring the longevity of the school, not as closing our eyes, and letting someone get shackled. If you had been attending our meetings, you will know we, as a school, will be giving our support to the marriage. By sending a gift.”

“But sir, what if it is your daughter?”

“If I had one, it would have been a no. But hers said yes, and that’s the end of this matter. Either you join the teachers in getting a gift. Or stay at the sidelines and watch.”

Before you could say any more, the clanging of the school bell—an old tyre rim tied to an iron pole—shatters the air. “It is time for morning assembly,” a student shouts.

*

You walk into your class. They start with the customary greeting, saying it half-heartedly, certain you will not respond. You do not disappoint. For days now, this has been part of your new attitude in class. Others are: mechanically speaking like a poorly trained actor; anger at the slightest provocation; not answering any question asked, whether relevant or not.

You begin the day’s lecture with Military regimes in Nigeria. You do not give an introduction. You jump straight into the facts. How they take over, claiming to be the surgeons of an ailing country, only to almost kill the patient in the process; the first coup and the counter coup, forming the basis for the bloodiest war in the history of Africa. You say even though it is called the ‘Civil War’ that there was nothing civil about it. You scheme across subsequent coups the country had experienced. You get to the armed-to-the-teeth military having phobia for books. How they killed the literary culture in the country. Many literary icons fleeing the country to escape death. How even a famed author had to dress like a woman to escape from the most ruthless dictator the country had ever seen. Till now the country is still trying to awaken its literary fervour.

At this point, you pause. Your mind replaces the dictator with the Chief, and you become the famed author. But this time you are not escaping the country alone. By your side is a young girl, slim with an oblong face, running towards a rising sun. Free from Chief, free from early marriage, and all other shackles preventing her from soaring.

As for the students, who are blind to the workings of your mind, all they see is you talking then suddenly falling quiet for some seconds only to awake from your quietness and resuming your teaching with more vigour and life than they have ever seen.

6

The rain that fell this morning did nothing to stop the sun from bringing down the heat. You are only in boxer shorts and your windows are open, but it hardly reduces the sweat streaming out of your skin. You pick up your towel and dry yourself for the umpteenth time.

Crumpled pieces of paper litter the area close to your wastebasket. You are currently writing on another, careful not to let the sweat dripping from your forehead soil the paper, careful not to make any of your previous mistakes. You read it the fifth time. Satisfied with your plan and the clarity in passing the information, you fold it neatly and wait.

She knocks. You open. She is wearing a pleated gown, far above her knees. The skin on her face is lighter, from makeup, than the rest of her body. The strong scent of citrus overwhelms your room. You are still in your boxer shorts.

Yesterday, after your eureka moment, you had told the girl, whose name starts with an ‘E’, to wait for you after class. You told her of your encounter with Blessing’s parents, and Blessing’s resolve. The E girl kept quiet the whole time, then asked what you intend doing. You said to leave this place with Blessing. Enroll her in a school faraway, and you do not mind if it costs you your Youth Service. She asked if that was not stealing. You said, did she mean kidnapping, then assured her it would not be, because Blessing is older than eighteen, and she can make her own decisions. She then asked what would her role be in all of this, or have you changed your mind about her, winking at you. You said, since you are no longer welcome to their house, you needed her to deliver something to Blessing as soon as possible. That she should see you in your house tomorrow. You kept convincing yourself that the exigency of the situation led to your decision.

Seeing her now, you hope she had not mistaken your request as an offer for something else. She steps into your room and inspects it. She sees the crumpled pieces, and bends to pick them. After throwing them in the waste bin, she sits down on your mattress. You take up the plastic chair.

You thank her for coming. Offer her a sachet of water. She declines kindly. You mumble an apology for not having anything else to offer. Then you give her the folded note, telling her to make sure she hands it to Blessing today. You thank her for coming, and make for the door.

She stops you, asking if that is all. You say yes. She looks into your eyes, and draws closer. You step back. Closer. You step back. Closer. You reach the wall. Her body pins you further. There is hardly any space between you two. The softness of her breasts rests against your chest. Your heart starts pounding faster. Like your hands were moving of their own accord, it positions her face. You close your eyes and plant a deep kiss on her lips; while she dips her hands inside your boxer shorts, pulls it out, and begins stroking. Your breath gains momentum, it has been a while you have felt this good. You suck on her lips, trail your tongue down to the side of her neck. She starts breathing louder.

At this point, you remember the Principal’s warning, and it takes all the courage in you to call it off. She gives you a confused look. You tell her you will pay the full price after she has given the letter to Blessing.

*

As you arrive at the public phone centre—a plastic table and chair, underneath a green umbrella-shaped-canopy with ‘GLO’ in bold prints—about one hour from your place, you know your compromise will not end with the kiss.

You dial her. Naturally, she does not pick unknown numbers, but she picks this on the second ring.

“Hello,” she says; her voice calm and dismissive.

You say it is you.

She begins to rush her words. She has tried your number many times but you never pick up, later it began telling her switched off. She has been worried, really concerned about you, her husband (her pet name for you), her only child.

You almost say, if not for her you would not be her only child. But you’re not here to address old wounds. You are here to break your promise of independence.

“Mummy I need money. That is why I’m calling.”

“My husband, why are you treating me like this? You are not even asking about my welfare.”

You mention the amount you need, and she should send it tomorrow.

“Isn’t that too much?”

“Are you sending it or not?”

“I will. I will. So how are you? How is Youth Service?”

You stay silent.

“Omogboyega, I have apologized many times to you, yet you blame me for everything. Especially her. And I did my best. I covered everything. For you.”

Your palms are trembling again.

“Don’t do this to your mother. Talk to me my son. Talk to—”

You cut the call.

7

You are back to your old self, even better than your old self. You have cancelled the test and given everyone bonus marks. During lectures you do not only say the words, you act them out when necessary. You answer all the questions. As for the irrelevant ones, you help them direct it to the point of relevancy, and answer it all the same.

Any teacher you see walking by, you greet them. You even ask about their families. The teachers are glad you have finally come out of your shell. They tell you what they plan to give the soon-to-be couple, “Baby items, like clothes, feeding bottles, spoons—” They say someone has even gone to the city to get everything. They mention the name of the teacher. You do not know her.

“It is a good thing. It means we are wishing them fruitfulness. Chief will be happy.”

You congratulate them, although a bit saddened that their grand effort will prove futile.

Even the Principal has noticed your new attitude. He asks if you are okay. You say yes, that you have taken his advice to watch from the sidelines, and it is so satisfying.

The day you handed the letter to Blessing’s friend, she delivered it. Naturally, Blessing was scared, running away with someone she barely knew. But it was better than living her whole life as a fourth wife to a Chief she has mostly heard of and not known. There was nowhere she could run to in the village without being fished out. If she was to live out her dreams, the Corper was the best alternative she had. At least, she had no reason to doubt him; he was the only one showing concern about her predicament. So she agreed to your plan.

*

During break time, while working on a cryptic farewell speech to give your students, the E girl accosts you, reminding you of your debt. Because the rowdy staff room is not a place for such sensitive discussion, you invite her to take a walk with you. You both stroll to the deserted part of school, the area at the back, where the grasses grow untamed, towards the school fence.

She makes to give you a full hug, but you turn sideways and stretch your hand around her shoulders.

“We are in the school environment.”

“Okay. Okay. But why is it that every time I see you, you always take your face away, like you do not want to see me? Even in class.”

“It is not like that. I have just been very busy. And don’t think I am ungrateful. I really appreciate what you’ve done.”

“Okay. I forgive you. So should I come tonight?” She smiles.

“Tonight? You know by then, Blessing and I will be getting ready to leave. And you know it will not make sense if Blessing comes, and you are—”

“I know, I know. I can come around seven. Since you are leaving by ten.”

“That won’t be possible. I will not be in a right state of mind.”

She frowns.

“Do you know what? Let me give you something.” You dip your hand in your pocket.

“Oh, you think it is because of money I am doing all these things? Corper, it is not because of money. It is because. It is because I like you. I am even tired of everything. Everything is just Blessing! Blessing! Blessing!”

You tell her not raise her voice, but she does not listen.

“It was me Chief first chose, then he saw Blessing! Now you too, Blessing! Just take your Blessing and go! At least after today, she will be gone from me! And Chief will have no choice but to take me!” Then she says something in her language and storms off.

You are too stunned to speak. Towards the fence, some students pass cigarette sticks to each other, paying no attention to the drama that just occurred. You cannot remember seeing them before now. You also pay them in kind, and walk slowly to the Staff room.

8

You pack light: a small travelling bag containing clothes, shoes and toothbrush. The other things you leave for whomever to inherit.

You pace around your room, waiting for the knock that will make tonight the most important one of your life. Your palms are jittery. This is the second time in your life you will stand up for something. The first you waited until it was too late, but this time your helping hands will come in at the right time.

Someone knocks your door lightly, like the person did not want to hurt the door. You open it a little. Her oblong face, wrapped in a veil, peeks between the frame and the door. You quickly usher her in. She is shaking; her clothes are damp. You ask her why. She says it is drizzling. You say it is good, it means people will not really be outside. She says she is afraid, that she has never been out of here before. You tell her not to be, that she will always look back on this day and be glad she made this decision. She nods her head, still shivering. You hold her close to keep her warm.

There is another knock on the door. More like rapid bangs, like the person wants to break down your door. She jumps out from your embrace. Did you invite anybody, she asks, her voice quivering. Your heart is beating, louder than the banging on the door. The bang breaks down your door.

He towers above you. Heaving and sweating, he holds a worn-out brown leather belt. You are on the floor, picking yourself up. In between his legs is an empty bottle of whiskey sitting on a stool. Behind him, she is on the floor, her back against the wall. There is a lopsided smile on her teary face.

He tells you to leave except you want to join her. As he talks, the acrid smell of alcohol fills your nose. You tell him no. He says how dare you regard your father in such manner. You say he is not your father. He staggers towards you and strikes your face. Your eyes sting, dripping tears. You wipe your tears, and call him a gold digger. He is shocked at your audacity. You push him with all the force you can muster. He staggers backwards, hits the stool, and falls to the floor. With tears blurring your vision, you seize the bottle of whiskey, jump on him, and strike his face repeatedly, until what is left in your palm is a bloody piece of jagged glass.

Your mother rushes in, pulling you off the man but it was too late for him; while she remained propped against the wall with that lopsided smile on her face. It would be the last you would ever see of your sister.

The bang breaks down your door, wind rushes in. Her father barges in. He charges at you, his belly tackling you to the floor, his hard palms squeezing your neck, slapping your face, calling you a daughter stealer, an enemy of progress. Blessing stands beside him pleading on your behalf. Her mother storms in, struggling to pull her husband off you, begging him not to kill you.

As your eyes gradually close from the flurry of punches and slaps, your ears dimming from the pleas on your behalf, you see a lone figure leaning against the doorframe, watching. Lightning strikes and it illuminates her smiling face. Then everything goes dark and silent.

*

The village elders handled the matter quietly. According to the customary laws of the village the punishment was death, but tomorrow’s news could read, “Primitive Villagers Slaughter Government Corp Member,” painting them in a bad light. After deep consideration, the punishment was decided as this: to attend the wedding, after which you would make a request to be posted elsewhere.

*

As the wedding ceremony unfolds before you, you do not see the double headgears the women wear; the beads, whose prices can rival that of gold, adorning the necks and wrists of some of the attendants; the musicians sprayed with enough naira notes to build at least three boreholes for the village; Blessing’s parents beaming with joy; Blessing’s face devoid of any emotion; the satisfied face of the Chief, when Blessing kneels before him with the gourd of palm wine, unfazed by her stone-cold countenance; you are transported to one of the many evenings, when you played Police-and-Thief with your sister:

Your mother was never around, so you were her everything: brother, sister, father, mother, playmate. It was the running during the game that made her happy: the sudden pump of adrenaline, the racing of her heart, the rush of wind across her face.

You were the police and she was the thief. You had a way of running slowly, so the game would last longer. You chased her round the settee, over the table, down the stairs, to the concrete compound, screaming her name and laughing, saying she was a faster runner now, but she could not outrun you for long. And she too would laugh. It was in this wordless language she expressed herself: Bursts of laughter, flashes of smile, angry grunts, crinkling of the eyebrows, and the tears that hurt you to see.

You knew the laugh would slow her down. And when it did you would grab her from behind, and wrap her in your embrace, and she too would laugh, shaking her oblong face, wriggling and wriggling, struggling to run free.

Gbolahan Badmus lives in Nigeria. His work has been published in Omenana, Naked Convos, Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review and is forthcoming in Saraba and Litro UK. He is an alumnus of the Writivism Creative Writing Workshop.