The wild chatterings are faint as you sit at the back in the first row of desks, lost in thoughts. It's your first day in Grade seven and you're not exhibiting excitement as the rest of the students in the classroom. No, not even a vague expression of delight. You don't even take a glimpse, there's no curiosity. There's an intro of everyone in the class in the absence of the teacher so they are wondering why you seem withdrawn. You sit, face to paper, hand to pen. You begin scrambling words on paper, you are not a writer, they do not actually make sense because only you can understand them. Afterall, they are your thoughts unexpressed properly. No one's actually brave enough to walk up to you and ask what's wrong. Y'all are just newbies or perhaps debutants in this level of education.

Only the teacher who walks in and notices your absent mindedness amidst the positive energy filling the atmosphere. She approaches you, taking a peep at whatever you're writing. It's not clear but she knows you're trying to compose a poem. She's more surprised because you people are West Africans, and it's very rare to see a West African Kid imbibed in something as creative as poetry, so much that he seems disjointed from reality. She then assumes there must be a sad drive to this. The writing, the quietness, and she isn't far from correct. Appreciating your work,she asks you to focus on reality, she tells you to prioritize everything. Maybe that's the first lesson you're learning in grade seven. You are a boy but your problems are all grown, so you wonder if it'll be possible to do as she says....

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