Notice: Undefined index: banner_ad_width in /home/ayekooto/public_html/wp-content/plugins/quick-adsense-reloaded/includes/render-ad-functions.php on line 359
Notice: Undefined index: image_width in /home/ayekooto/public_html/wp-content/plugins/quick-adsense-reloaded/includes/render-ad-functions.php on line 359
Notice: Undefined index: banner_ad_height in /home/ayekooto/public_html/wp-content/plugins/quick-adsense-reloaded/includes/render-ad-functions.php on line 360
Notice: Undefined index: image_height in /home/ayekooto/public_html/wp-content/plugins/quick-adsense-reloaded/includes/render-ad-functions.php on line 360
Forgive me, father for I have sinned. This is my first confession ever.
I’m going to tell you a story I have told no one. Or even dared to dream when the moon meets the sky. It is so vile that I have left my name out of this piece. Maybe someday, somewhere in the deepest pit of hell, you might find me burning and gnashing my teeth like the bible always read.
My first year in the University of Benin was the toughest year in my life – new school, new friends, and new teachers, who think you could answer questions right off the bat. The roommates who thought it was okay to ridicule the protruding features of every fresher.
That’s what they called us.
We were the new eggs placed in a basket of old ones sharp with iron clawed lips. My parents sent me to that hell hole the moment I scored above 200 in Jamb and one point above average in my post-utme exams, to be a better person and strengthen my grip on life.
“Obim. You will meet different people there with distinct personalities. Endure and fight your way to the finish,” my mother told me and caressed my cheeks with her mentol-smelling palm.
I barely remember the last breakfast I ate, but my first year in university is as vivid as the rare photographs displayed below lit incandescent bulbs.
The specific days are hazy. It could have been anytime in the working week. In this phase, I preferred to whisk my bottom to my room, and no one bothered to ask if I wanted to hangout on the life-size statues decorating our school. I was the type who’d come to class minutes before the time, and leave hot on the lecturer’s tail, cradling my bag on my chest. I barely said a word until necessary. I could hear the snort and the side comment from my course mates when I asked questions on subjects my brain was still too young to assimilate.
This was the person I was or who they thought I was.
Despite having the latest technology, students lived off the demise of others. They entertained themselves by spreading ridiculous rumors they heard in their hostels or by telling stories about who and who was the best stag the previous night. Usually I’d close my ears to whatever I hear, but somehow I listened in on their latest gist. That day, they were talking about a girl they called pig, because they had refused to use her name and preferred the ugliest term to categorize her physiognomies.
The girls said that she had soiled the female reputation with her brazen behavior and that the whole male population knew what she looked like without pants. It was easy to slot the right pieces in the puzzle as their words poured like rain. The boys laughed and when the girls begged to learn her name; they slapped each other’s backs and laughed some more. I imagine they were protecting the pig or embarrassed that they toiled the sheets with someone who lived up to the name. I eventually tuned out the rest of the gossip, disgusted with the fact they found the subject amusing.
That girl was someone – a protagonist in her own story, swimming in the restless mist, probably seeking leverage on her own life.
One Tuesday morning, I woke up a few minutes to my 9am lecture and walked into class with a penless bag. My lecturer, Mr. Adebayo, suggested that I go buy a pen instead of moping for the remaining hours. And he said this without breaking a smile. Mr. Adebayo was tall and had a bread-like face aged from the violent rays of the sun. He was wearing his usual I-swear-to-god shoe that he never failed to tap on our wooden desks. He was the type that started class with a quote from the bible, following up with a powerful prayer to bind the waywardness from our sinful souls. Somehow, I was glad I forgot my pen. As I walked back to the hostel, my legs moved sluggishly, counting the minutes it’d take for Mr. Adebayo to finish his petitions to God. I seized the moment to admire the beautiful casket of trees dancing to the silent voice of the wind. In the distance, the wall paintings glowed on the hostel walls. I almost cooed, but the passing seniors would raise a brow. They’ve been there for four years, so nothing was fascinating to them.
I finally entered my shared room. The central desk was the first place I searched, moving the books aside until I piled them on one side. Then did it again, only this time I piled on the opposite side. I was panicking, regretting the time wasted when I glanced at my wristwatch. Soon, Mr. Adebayo would think I took a detour and then my classmates would have something new to talk about.
When I opted to buy a pen instead, I heard familiar voices coming my way. At first I thought they were merely talking about the pig. I wondered if they’ve found out the name of the girl, if she’d be ashamed for losing herself. But my ear stood high when my name tangled in their conversation. I went closer to the door.
“It is always the freshers,” my roommate sounded disgusted. “I’m sure she goes around flaunting her breasts.”
“As in. They are even too big to be normal,” the other replied. “Such a pig.”
I listened without reacting, weighed down by the words about my protruding chest. I told no one I always felt insecure about breasts; they had always been a part of me I hated the most. They were big and out of shape. I knew that, but I hated when people said it. I did not caution them. And now that I think about it, what I could have done? How could I have stood up for myself with my frail arms and against two people? When they entered the room, I pretended to continue my search for my pen, ignoring the wandering eyes looking to see for any sign I’d overheard them. I could hear them murmuring, but my soundless anger hid the words. Then they left.
Even today I cannot explain what was going through my mind at that moment. All I wanted was to make them pay for talking trash about me. I wanted them to get trash and trash I gave them. I can recount scooping sand from the gutter; the one right in front of the toilet, transferring them little by little in their pot of stew. When I think about it, I recall the usually oily red goodness had become awfully dark. And nearly black when I watched them mix it with white rice.
When they fell sick, guilt did not eat me inside out. I watched their red eyes water, and mouth forcefully expelling their stomach contents. In that moment, I thought they resembled pigs in their own defecates. Eventually, they missed graduating year, writing their final exams the following year.
I do not confess today because of regrets. I only fear days would come when karma would hit me.
I have already seen the scene play out in my dream and I dare write, death was a gift and life was plain torture. I was leg-tied face-down, hanging from a steel pole, connecting naked wires to sockets. My body dripped water, and at each electrocution, someone slammed water harshly on my skin. And I saw their faces, the mocking looks my roommates had.
I live my life with this fear that my dream would happen to me.
So help me God.
Toby
Comment here