I have wistful memories of my days as a student of University of Calabar International Secondary School, and I’ll let you take a sip from the urn of my experience. You see, secondary school is the only phase of our lives where we truly had fun and forged the warmest friendships; where we founded stubborn cliques, and took delight in tempting capricious teachers; where we stretched out our palms to receive twelve strokes of the cane with an air of insouciance simply because the girls who were crushing on us were watching in worshipful adulation, but hurried to the toilet afterwards, rubbed our palms and cried our hearts out.



At UCISS, cliques were commonplace; selfie lovers, boys who loved to sag their trousers, upcoming artistes who tried to prove their mettle by drumming on wooden desks with rulers and singing into empty Fanta bottles a poor man’s Davido. Even bullies had a clique. During break time, they would clutter the tuck shop and terrify the junior students. They would drag one student and say, “Oya, say the magic code.”

The terrified student would say, in a tremulous voice, “Please bully me.”

“God is our witness oh! We didn’t force you. We are just complying with your wishes.” Then they would sink their hands into his pockets and steal all his money.



Mr. Esu, the chapel master a small, bald man whose rubber-framed glasses were always stuck to his face, who walked as though hot coal was under his feet, as though he was going to burst into a run for his life any moment hated the bullies. He did everything in his power to ensure that they were punished during morning assembly, before the whole school. He would call out a bully’s name and urge the multitude of students to boo him as he trudged to the front of the hall to receive his lashes. As soon as the compound master, Mr. Offum, dealt the first blow on the boy’s trembling buttocks, Mr. Esu would wave his right hand at the school choir and they would rise in unison and begin to sing:



I didn’t know you would honour me this way

I didn’t know you would honour me this way

I didn’t know you would honour me this way

You would honour me this way

Thank you my lord.



The bullies hated him in equal measure, that small censorious man, so they developed theories to explain why he was bald. Some said he had gone to challenge a group of ex senior students who were playing basketball, so one of them bounced the ball on his head, right in the middle, and tufts of hair began to fall and have refused to grow back to this day. Others said that since he had gotten used to carrying people’s issues on his head, he didn’t know when he took a steaming pot of noodles from his stove and placed it on his head, and the blessed pot singed every strand of hair from the middle of his head, and warned incipient strands not to growon that spot again.



***



I was a member of the Going Home Squad, a group of friends who always went home together. We visited any member who was absent from school. We paid membership dues and organized picnics at the end of every month. Under no circumstances did we go home without any member. We would even wait for our members from the science classes to finish their boring practical; squinting to look inside microscopes, searching for vestiges of nothing. Whenever a new fine boy or girl enrolled, those who were interested in chyking him or her would indicate interest, then the Squad would vote. Whoever won got the chyking mandate of the Squad. I was not really interested in chyking girls until a girl named Funmilayo enrolled in SS2.



Since I was the social prefect, the compound master instructed me to acquaint her with all the clubs in the school so she could choose which one to join.

There was this presence about her. She wasn’t just beautiful, she was a magnificent work of art; her eyeballs were so white you could almost see her soul, she was light skinned and had an hourglass figure, her legs were slender and elegant like the bark of a sycamore tree. Her cornrows were always perfectly arranged, and the spaces between them always looked equal, like they were measured with a ruler, always neat; like the paths between the ridges of a well tilled yam farm. Everything about her the flare of her nose, the gap between her teeth, her face when she threw back her head and laughed, the smooth cadence of her voice.



I won the Squad’s mandate to chyke her. I started visiting her class regularly to ask her for the time, even though I always carried a wrist watch in my bag. I always offered to buy her lunch during break time, but she turned me down every single time.



Then I started loving everything she loved. She never missed the Students Christian Movement fellowship every Wednesday at the assembly hall, so on one of those Wednesdays, I breezed in. The preacher was done and the leader of service said Funmi had a special song to render. Applause rent the air as she stretched her lips into a delightful smile and walked to the podium. I shifted uneasily in my seat. She picked up the microphone and began to sing Alexandra Burke’s Hallelujah. The excitement in the hall reached fever heat. It wasn’t just about the lilt in her voice; it was her ability to lift you, crash you on the ground and bring you back to your feet; her ability to make you dust your faith and believe again. When she was done singing, I felt moisture on my face. I touched my face, it felt clammy with tears. When the fellowship was over, I met her just as she was carrying her bag to leave. I just stood in front of her, staring into her immaculate eyes.

“What is it?” She asked in benign surprise.

“See ehn, I love you,” I replied.

Just then, I felt goose bumps on my skin, something I only feel when someone is watching me. I turned sharply to discover that Mr. Esu was within earshot, staring pointedly at me. So I quickly added, “With the love of Christ.” She smiled, shook her head and walked away.

***

After a lot of effort, I got to discover that she wasn’t so good at math. So I offered to teach her after school on the condition that after every lesson, she would sing for me. She laughed and agreed. She sang about many things. She sang about God’s love, about how it lifts us from this painful world, over undulating hills and sits us in heavenly places. She sang about how burdens are lifted at Calvary, about how we should simply take our burdens to the Lord and leave it there. She sang Simi’s Jamb Question. We gave each other mathematical names. She called me cuboid head.

And I said every part of her being worked so perfectly and in unison to manifest her beauty, like simultaneous equations. During one of those lessons, I paused midway and gasped, “Funmi, I love you so much. Please… ”

She interrupted me with a delicious chuckle. “The problem with you boys is that you are all the same. In the first three months, you’re the perfect gentlemen; buying ice cream every other day, movies every weekend, night calls to offer soothing words.

But after three months, you all revert to type. You start making your usual requests, from ‘just the tip’ to ‘please let me just enter and I promise I won’t move.’ ” She laughed, carried her school bag and walked away.

Then one day, after I broached the topic again, she didn’t laugh. She smiled faintly instead and said, “See, there’s no need for a relationship. I won’t be around for much longer.”

What did she mean by I won’t be around for much longer? Was she going to study abroad? My callow mind was puzzled.

***

After graduation, she gained admission into a private university: Covenant University, Ota. I gained admission into the University of Calabar, a federal university. Distance made communication fugitive and sparse, but I tried my best to call her every weekend. She loved her school and joked that she would finish her programme two years before me, because ASUU strike, which is a rampant occurrence in federal universities, would not let me flourish.

Then on September 1, she texted and told me to visit her at her house in Calabar, that it was urgent. I was a bit surprised because the last time I called her, she didn’t tell me she was visiting home. I came back from school, had lunch and set out for her house by 4pm. I pressed the bell at the gate and her elder sister, Lola, let me in.

Lola was an all action, no-dull-moment girl. But on that day, there was this stony coldness about her. She ushered me into the living room, offered me a sit and sat on the adjacent sofa. She didn’t say anything. She just sat back and stared at the chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The chandelier, as if afraid that her piercing stare would send it crashing down, began to swing to appease her. My stomach began to churn in discomfort.

“Emmm…. Funmi invited me over,” I began.

“Funmi is dead.” There was a cold precision in her tone, there was a vacuous look in her eyes.

“You say? Lola please stop…” I was sweating profusely.

“She had battled with leukemia all her life. She lost the battle this morning. My parents are at the mortuary trying to sort out her corpse. I was the one who sent you that text message.” She collapsed in a desolate heap and began to wail and splay her legs. I sat there, staring into space. I felt numbness in my legs, and a terrible migraine suddenly overwhelmed me. I somehow managed to calm Lola down and made her take me to Funmi’s room. It was a very spacious room that smelled like fresh lilies. I slowly ran my fingers over her jewellery, her clothes, her portraits on the wall. Then I walked over to her book shelf. One book caught my attention, a book enclosed in a bookcase. I unzipped the case and the book was New General Mathematics. I was mildly surprised in spite of my pain. Funmi didn’t like math, so why would she want to preserve a math textbook? I began to flip through the pages and in the middle, where the book explained cuboids, she wrote:

Safe in the knowledge that he’ll never see this

I love that Pius boy

With every fleeting breath.

She was buried on September 27, on her birthday. At her requiem, in her house, I saw her again when the coffin was opened so that people could see her for the last time. Her cornrows were still intact, perfectly arranged, and I was almost sure she would burst into a smile and give one last rendition of Alexandra Burke’s Hallelujah.

But she lay still, a sullied stillness that weakened my knees. A man wearing a priestly garb muttered a prayer and the coffin began to descend, with Funmi, with the world’s last chance of possessing sublime art, with Funmilayo.

These days, birthdays terrify me. Birthdays are just the courier that the remaining days of the past year connive to send us; to remind us that we are running out of time. They remind us that we could yet nurture inchoate ideas and dreams to concrete reality; that we could yet be special and forge the warmest and strongest friendships, but we are running out of time. They remind us that we could yet unleash our potential, but we are running out of time.

Because we all won’t be around for much longer.


For more from Award winning fiction writer, Ekemini Pius, you can visit: www.9jabuzzer.com

It all happens in a flash.

The urgent sound of a familiar honk, dad’s SUV, thrice in quick succession.

The screech-to-a-halt of a black Toyota salon car in front of the gate.

The gunshots, double fired.

Two hefty men, faces covered with masks, rushing out the salon car on to dad’s SUV and waving a white handkerchief in his face.

The yowl that follows the clobbering with a gun on his bald head.

The shutting of his mouth with a tape.

The decelerating squirms and smothered screams as he is dragged into the salon car.

The quirk turn and acceleration of the car, zooming so quickly out of sight.

A sudden splurge of adrenalin plunges me into dad’s steering wheel. I start the car and match the throttle with all the energy I can muster. The speedometer spins from 0 to 200km.

With the salon car in sight, the chase is on.

Steadily, I close in on the assailants, narrowing the gap between us.

400 metres.

250 metres

150 metres

50 meters.

I reach out for a gun beneath the driver’s seat.

Dad is military, Airforce, he always keeps a pistol there for times like this. How he couldn’t use the weapon, I can’t fathom.

I cock my head out the window and fire a shot at the car’s back wheel.

I’d never used a gun but, luckily, I don’t miss.

I land another shot on its rear windshield, boring a hole in it.

A reprisal attack follows: a series of shots at my windshield that leave puckers all over.

I don’t balk. I keep on the chase until we we’re a yard from each other.

More shots are fired at my windshield, digging a hole in the middle and sending a shard of glass into my right arm.

I look at my bloodied arm and my countenance swiftly changes.

Poise. Urgency. Rage.

I release my full weight on the throttle and crash into the salon car with a thud.

The car is forced to a halt and the passenger doors are thrown open.

A shooting spree ensues. Constant shots are fired at my windshield by one of the men.

I slouch with my hands crossed on my head and sink below my seat.

The shooting stops and I manage to raise my head.

One of the man straggles away with my father into a bush path while his colleague follows with his back from a distance, hovering his gun from side-to-side to ward off potential threats.

My body is clad with shards of glass and my face stained with splatters of blood.

I stay a while, watching their trajectory before skulking out.

I race towards them quietly in flitted steps and in a short time, I am thirty yards away from them but they don’t realize it.

Both men now hold their guns losely as they hike their speed through the bush path.

One of them points towards a path and they veer rightward with my dad who acts weirdly cooperative.

Suddenly, they both stop. [They must have noticed my presence]

The man holding my father hits his head fiercely with the nuzzle of his gun and for all his military training, he cries through a scream.

It must have hurt him sorely. Perhaps, that criminal hit the side of his head that houses the migraine he’s been suffering for two years.

It’s the continuous clobbering with the gun that uneases my nerves and drives me crazy.

I dash out of the woods with three frenetic shots at the man hitting my dad and he drops slowly to the floor with my dad.

The other man goes on a shooting spree and I take cover behind a tree. I’m lucky not to get hit and killed by the plethora of bullets that fly past me within earshot.

The man stops shooting and stoops to check on his colleague. He finds him dead.

He taps my dad but he doesn’t move, he looks lifeless. He rolls him over and only then do I see the gash on the right side of his chest. A slew of blood has turned his grey shirt auburn.

At the sight, the assailant turns to scamper but I take him down with a one-time shot on the nape of his neck. He’s probably dead [I don’t care].

I quickly rush over to my dad, and I find him half dead; not moving, not talking, hardly breathing.

I will never have thought it possible for me — a lightweight seventeen-year-old — to carry my sixty-one year old father with the weight of a grown calf.

But I hasted through the bush path bearing the full weight of my dad in my hands, praying for a miracle.

I manage to get to the main road where I’d left his car, now thoroughly battered and without a windshield.

I reverse quickly and speed past the bushy parts into the main town, looking out for a hospital or clinic.

I spot the signpost of a private hospital two miles ahead and veer into the street.

I rush dad to the accident and emergency ward with the aid of a gurney and we’re welcomed by a matron accosted by two nurses.

She examines the bloodied body briefly then, turns to me and says,

“Bullet wound?” I nod, affirmatively.

“Do you have a police report?”

“Police what?…”

“Police report, I said. Without it, there’s nothing I can do.”

I’ve never heard of a police report and I don’t know what it means. I try to beg her to help him regardless; that he is a high-ranking military officer, an Airforce Captain, but she won’t even listen to me. She hushes me with a wave of the hand.

“Young man, this is a registered hospital and we work by government rules. I don’t want to enter any trouble, please.” she says matter-of-factly, and leaves.

I drop to my knees beside my dying father and pray for a miracle.

He had once told me that survival in the battlefield was down to expertise, luck and a miracle.

Having acted expertly clamping down on the kidnappers to rescue my father, and gotten lucky to have missed death by the scruff of the neck, all I can hope for now is a miracle.

But, it never comes.

Dad dies right before my eyes. Before the eyes of two nurses that don’t give a middle finger. “Just another death” It must be to them.

I should rush back to the car, pick up dad’s pistol and send three bullets into the matron’s sick skull but I’m too weak to weal.

I’m weakened by reality; a stone-cold reality that will haunt me forever: an indelible reminder that it was me who took the shot that killed my father.

And, after soaking myself in a pool of my own tears, stretched over dad’s corpse, I will come to terms with the fact that bravery is but a curator’s egg. So, I’ll spend the rest of my life explaining to my inner demons how I killed, but did not murder my father.


For more you can visit: www.9jabuzzer.com

I first met Dave in our faculty office. I had gone to pay my sessional dues as a fresh student and he was to attend to me. He sat across the table in a fanciful swivel armchair, staring at me while tapping his pen gently on the table. His smile was infectious and, damn! Dude was handsome. The black and white uniform seemed to fit him better than everyone else; his Blazer suit giving it an extra glow. His build was a delight, and all I couldn’t do was grab his broad chest and grope him wild like a IndecentStar-gone-crazy. I imagined a string of lush black hair flowing from his chest line to his private part. Sweet Jesus. I ascended into a seventh heaven of fantasies in so much that he had to hit the table harder with his pen to drag back my attention.

“Hello dear, good morning…”

—Damn, his voice is just perfect, like a piano running chords on key-C—

“Are you alright?”

—Boy! He’s even romantic—

“Oh, I’m sorry. Good morning. I’m fine, just a little distraction.”

“That’s okay. So, what can I do for you?”

I was answering him when two guys stormed the office chanting “All hail the president, David-the-law.”

David-the-law? So, he is the person whose name is heard and posters scattered everywhere on campus; the president of the prestigious faculty of Law and favorite contestant for the president of the Student Union Government (SUG). I took a deep breath. Now, it wasn’t just love, but respect, too.

He smiled and hushed the pietistic halleluyah boys and told them that he was attending to someone. That sounded normal, but for a girl in love, it made me feel special. He turned to me and smiling, asked, “So, where were we?”

“Reducing the air conditioner” I said.

He giggled.

“But you said you were fine”

“Not with the AC this high”

“Oh, that. I like it a little extra… the cold.”

“For a guy who’s extra, that’ll pass.”

He reduced the AC and asked if it was okay. Two bits higher… one more… and I nodded. It’s fine now.

“What do you mean I’m extra?”

—Ah. He should’ve let that one slide—

“Uhmm… Don’t you realize how extraordinarily handsome you are? And you’ve got a fine character to match.”

—OMG, what am I doing?—

I was already shooting my shot and I didn’t realize it.

“Thanks. And I was going to say how beautiful you are. You’re definitely the prettiest lady I’ve attended to this session.”

Saying I was flattered would be putting things mildly. I was literally blown away with those words. He had an eye on me, too, and that felt orgasmic. “Thank you” was all I could manage to say and we went on with business. He handed me my receipt and I thanked him.

“One more thing, Adora. Can we have launch tomorrow?”

—The hell, yes! That’s like a dream of heaven come true. A golden yes!—

“That escalated quickly” I responded, unsure.

“Please?”

And he smiled that smile again. That smile that splurged every bit of love hormone in me.

“Alright”

“1PM. Mat-Ice. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, just fine.”

“Thank you.”

“Thanks”

A date with campus-famous prince charming felt like a date with Jesus in Jupiter — unbelievable! I slapped my cheek thrice to be triple-sure I wasn’t dreaming. No. This was actually happening.

Our first date was as casual as our atires. Dressed in our usual black and white, we headed for Mat-Ice after morning lectures, in Dave’s car, a sleek Toyota Venza that made me think he was a fraudsters. But, I would learn that his parents were stinking rich: his dad a Senior Advocate and his mom a sought-after surgeon. For the first time I saw Dave stand. His six-foot-two made my five-foot-eight look mediocre. This boy was inch-perfect! I had jollof rice with fried plantain and beef while he had fried rice with salad and chicken. We discussed about ourselves, school and family. And, before we left, he had succeeded in making me his date for the fresher’s welcome dinner scheduled for a fortnight.

The next two weeks, I kept away from Dave as much as possible. Though my heart was dead in love with him, my head was alive and working. And, I knew more than to throw myself at Dave. Society had thought me that that would make him drop his value of me. So, our meetings were limited to times we stumbled into each other in the faculty. But, Dave wouldn’t stop calling and it made me feel extra special. That feeling that someone wants you and is desperate, or putting it like he would, can’t do without you.

On the evening of Saturday, dinner day, I was more terrified than I was expectant. I was scared of what Dave could know. Dinner dates were usually intoxicating… the drinks, the food, the atmosphere… I just might be revealing even more than I am asked. Dave could find out that I was anaemic and that would put him off, I was sure.

But, one thing I’d learnt in eighteen years of sick-living is that I’d got to live life to the fullest and have as much fun as I could in the process. So, I shut the door to the negatives and looked forward to the great fun that came with such outings: the frenzy, love in the air, soothing music switching from genre to genre; plus, Dave and I arm-in-arm, sharing fond memories, and hugs, and sweet talks then, under the cool midnight breeze and a million shining stars, we share a kiss; my first kiss, probably his one thousandth, and God knows what happens from there.

At 6:15PM, I was fully dressed, waiting for Dave to pick me up in fifteen minutes. I had on a tight-fitting lilac flowy gown that highlighted my fairness and shouted my hips. The four-inch high sandal I wore would cut the height gap between Dave and I to one inch and save my neck some hurt while kissing him. I’d sworn to have as much fun as I could afford and also to limit my intake of alcohol to keep my mouth. Dave arrived at 6:29PM. He was dressed in a wine Blazer suit with blemishes of gold on its breast pocket and collar. His hair was full and tendril and his jaw covered in a forest of well-trimmed beards. He led me into the front seat of his car and we headed for what could be the time of my life.

We arrived at the venue five minutes before the seven o’clock kick-off time. The hall which was in a four star hotel in a government reserved area was dimly lit in red. There were several tables veneered with white or golden veils, each surrounded by four fanciful chairs, wrapped in white or wine veils, and arranged in cardinal points. I spotted the DJ standing by his equipment at a secluded corner and interpreted his dreadlocks to mean he was masterful. We were ushered to an empty table and took our seats facing each other.

The night rolled on exactly as I had played it in my head: pep talks, awards, performances, feasting, valedictory speeches and then, the dance floor. I loved to dance but, who wouldn’t in the arms of the most sought-after guy on campus? Songs were reeled out one after another and the DJ was even better than I thought. The noise in the room tailed off as he segued from hipop to reggae then, R&B. You know, those cool, soothing songs that stir up naughty thoughts.

Soon, Dave and I were in a corner of the hall starved of light; arm-in-arm, eyes locked into each other. His head drooped slowly and his palm was beneath my chin. That moment was finally here; the one I’d long waited for, and I’d rehearsed and perfected every move. Tilt your head to the left, close your eyes, let him take charge, then ease into the action, soft and slow. So, I was having my first kiss, relishing the warmth of Dave’s lips on mine as his hands slid gently to my hip. Ooh… sweet heavens. But, reality soon struck and I shoved him away reflexively.

“I’m sorry Dave, this has to stop. I’m losing control of myself.”

My fears had come to haunt me. Fears about where this was heading; this whole escapade with Dave; how fast we were moving. I’d promised to give my body only to my husband but, Dave wasn’t even my fiancé. And, what was worse? He didn’t even know me — the sick me.

“It’s alright. You can take your time”

“Thank you.”

“Just be easy on yourself, okay?”

“I will, Dave. I’ll be fine.”

He led me to the room he’d booked for us upstairs and watched me sleep. And that was all for the night.

Early the next day we returned to school. David dropped me off at my hostel and I walked into my room with a nostalgic feeling: happy because, damn! I just had my first kiss, and with a guy I loved; sad because of how stupidly I ended it and possibly hurt Dave. Every moment I sat alone, scenes of our kiss replayed in my head, stiring up one of feelings of accomplishment, regret and nostalgia. Whichever was the feeling, one thing was sure: the fact that I was uncontrollably in love with Dave.

As much as I loved him and wanted him to be my man, I thought he didn’t deserve me. Such a lovely man didn’t deserve to be punished with a time-bomb like me. No. Dave deserved better and I swore not to stand in his way ever again. So, I began to cut-off ties with him on all possible fronts. I blocked him on all social media platforms we shared, barred his lines — every one he’d used to call me — and stopped him from visiting me. Even when we bumped into each other in the faculty, I just waved at him and ran along. Swiftly, I built the wall that kept us apart.

But, David would not give up. He kept trying several means to reach me. He disturbed my room mates and course mates with incessant calls, and even handed them handwritten letters for me. In one of them, he said that I should know better than leaving without a goodbye. I knew right? I only hoped that, someday, he’d realize that what I did was best for him.

And he did — holding, with teary eyes, a picture of her in his arms– standing over her grave at her funeral six days after her twenty-first birthday.

Chidubem Njoku


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