THERE’S AN EMPTY SPACE HERE (Part 3)

“Flow, what’s popping?” It was Ayo. I could not be more grateful at the sight of someone other than him. Did I mention that I had heard about Ayo before he turned out to be my seat partner? You see, Ayo is one of those few people you meet who seem to be born to be popular. Almost everyone in school had heard about him for his dashing looks which came along with a rare gem, brains. Nonetheless, in elementary school, claiming to be acquainted with someone who does not know you exist, but you admire from a distance can deal a severing blow to one’s reputation. Therefore, can’t I rightly say that I was not acquainted with Ayo previously? I guess so. Flow struggled to carry on an engaging conversation with him and I mouthed a well deserved thank you. He smiled back and winked knowingly. At that moment, I knew Ayo occupied a space in my childlike heart.

Ayo was left-handed and he copied notes with a handwriting that could win anyone’s admiration. Aware of my scrawl, I struggled to shield my notebook as we took notes side by side in class, but all to no avail. Upon discovering my not so well kept secret, he playfully remarked about my jumping words bearing a semblance to chickens racing in the sand, a joke that we both shared. Then he offered to teach me how to write. From that day onwards, I spent lunch breaks and time after school learning the art of writing. Before long, my writing acquired flair and our friendship waxed ever stronger. We were faithful patrons of the Hausa men who grilled suya, a tasty meat kebab dipped in hot spices. We hungrily ate and talked about our young pasts, the present, and took a peek into the future during our walks after school. He wanted to become an architect while I told him I was a future cardiologist, or dancer, or engineer, or actress. My spontaneous and fickle plans amused him and I often said he was my focused twin. Speaking of twins, Ayo had a nephew in our class who was a twin, Eroms. He got in and out of all webs of mischief that a nine year old could spin and I often steered clear away from his path.

The piercing sound of the school sirens was just what I needed to hear on that fateful Friday afternoon. My sister had promised to take me shopping after school and I was anxious to get home. “Mademoiselle, you must be very eager to set off for an eventful weekend”, called out Ayo. I was about to retort with a sarcastic remark when it dawned on me that I had promised to watch him display his undeniable talent as our grade’s goalie in an after school soccer game. My face was masked with horror as I realized I was going to miss this much talked about playoff with the senior class. “Honey pie with a huge big cherry on top, I will buy some suya for you next Monday after school”, I offered while batting my eyelashes in an attempt to bribe him, but he refused to budge. Calculating my spending money, I added a huge strawberry cone, a treat we rarely enjoyed, and that seemed to do the trick. Hurriedly, I raced outside and called out, “See you on Monday!” or so I thought.

Everyone seemed to have a different story about who threw the stone. Some said it was the midfielder on the opposing side, while others proffered that it was Eroms. Nonetheless, all present agreed that the impact of the swiftly hurled stone during the scuffle was enough to knock Ayo into the coma he never recovered from.
Immediately, my mother pulled into the hospital parking lot, I ran with all the energy my legs could carry to the surgical emergency ward. The grief stricken faces of Eroms, Ayo’s parents, and some of my classmates did not faze me as I braced myself for the encounter. A long drawn out moan escaped from my throat as my legs turned to rubber and I crumbled to a sobbing heap on the floor. Ayo was gone. The doctor droned on about how the team of surgeons did their best to save him, but everything seemed like a blur as I felt my heart wrenched out of my chest.

We huddle close together for we are a bunch of inconsolable nine year olds at the graveside. I venture forward to view the hole his small coffin will soon be laid into. There was an empty space there. Mother pulls me backward with such a great force, fearing that I may do something stupid. Letting go of her firm grip, I sit by the coffin with my knees drawn toward my chest as I hear more wailing. With my left hand placed on my chest, I write beautifully with my right hand on the sand, “There will be an empty space here.”

Dancing in the Rain- Part 1

“Rain rain go away, come again another day, little children want to play. Rain rain go away, come again another day little children want to play.” I stare downwards at the playing arena where my classmates are singing and playing in the rain. Their words beg the clouds to wipe her teardrops dry, but their frenzied dance sends a clear signal that they are enjoying themselves despite the rain. Oh, how I yearn to be with them out there, where everyone is carefree, the rain soaking into my clothes and skin, as I sing happily along with them. No! Mother will not hear of it. Not in my well ironed school uniform and definitely not on a Monday when my scalp still smarts from my new hairdo. I struggle to catch my breath as a rippling wave travels down my chest and I weep uncontrollably in my empty classroom, drowning in my self-made rain.

Atanka! Atanka! Ata…, I raise my frame startled at the sound of my name. I didn’t expect Eku, our 24 year old live-in maid to pick me up from school this early. “You don dey cry for the tin wey your papa never even see”, she chided me in her patchy Pidgin English as she urged me to hurry. “Pack your bag quick quick so the soup wey I put for fire before I leave house no go burn.” My sorrows are quickly forgotten and a fresh anger surfaces. I was once again been ridiculed for my grades by Eku who knew my parents are never satisfied with an A-. We race down the stairs together and head toward the black suave Mercedes parked in my school’s driveway; in the same spot as always. Now out of the sheltered walkways, Eku struggles with the black umbrella until it finally opens and shields me from the pouring rain. I do not want to be protected; I want to be a child, a child free to dance in the rain.

As I sat alone in the backseat of my father’s latest addition to his fleet of cars, I hoped that one day, just one day, it will rain when I was home alone. No one will scold me for being wet from my head to my toes when I will sing and dance in the rain like never before. My wish did come true.