“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.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Thursday, December 30, 2010
SIGNING MY DEATH WARRANT
“Okada man slow down”, is a statement often said to the men who drive okadas, the deadly necessities that invaded every nook and cranny of the bustling city of Lagos. Being the fussy teenager that I was, I refused to use this terrifying means of transportation and preferred to walk miles than to risk riding on this infamous motorcycle. You see the problem was not with the motorcycle itself, but the riders. Everyone agreed that with the speed and recklessness that the daredevil drivers rode with, the okada riders had signed their death warrants. As I overcame my fears and started ‘biking’ (the art of okada riding), it dawned on me that I may have also signed my death warrant.
I remember the first day I mounted an okada, I say mounted because everyone said I did it the wrong way as if I was mounting a horse. “What is the right way?” I countered, as I placed my foot on the left pedestal, swung my right leg across the seat and settled in. A few more rides and bruises taught me the experienced way of climbing in safely, but that was all the safety I was going to get. As time went on, the combined fast pace of Lagos and my life led me to bike at every opportunity. I biked to and from school, I biked to my religious meeting, I biked to run errands, and I biked to make my hair. Yet each time I got on an okada, my heart will beat at a tornado’s speed and I always got to my destination feeling heady.
One day my father saw me alight from an okada and nearly screamed my head off. My first reaction was, “Am I expected to ride a donkey? I am not chauffeured to places. Of course, I muttered those words under my breath. ; I could give every excuse under the stars why I had to take an okada; Lagos traffic, racing against time, and impassable roads. Despite my father’s irate remarks and my anxieties, I continued to use the okadas, even on major roads. My frequented routes were Onikan to Lekki, Yaba to Lagos Island, Lagos Island to Victoria Island, Yaba to Ikeja, Ikeja to Ogba, Yaba to Ojota, Third Mainland Bridge, and Carter Bridge, but I was not deterred. Every time I said, “This would be my last okada ride,” especially when the rider attempted to kill me with his reckless weaving in and out of traffic, it turned out to be a big joke.
I witnessed a couple of okada accidents myself and said a long “hmmm that could have been me” each time. Soon enough, I too had my share, three nerve racking and road skidding accidents. The first one was on a Sunday morning. I was running late for my religious meeting and my rough calculation showed that walking would get me there ten minutes late, so I called an okada. We had barely gone 15 seconds and my mind was off the road when I saw a bus halt abruptly in front of the bike. Screeeech! In a jiffy, I was on the floor stunned as a blind man regaining his sight. A couple of good Samaritans helped me scramble to my feet and as usual, there was a tirade about who was right and wrong between the two parties. Needless to say, I got to my destination a whole 40 minutes late, bruised and shaken, while vowing that this will be my first and last okada accident, but as it goes in Pidgin English, Na lie!
There is something worse than riding on an okada, riding with a second passenger. Now this is something that I do not like, but circumstances change like the weather. It was a fateful night and I was coming back from an unproductive venture when my worried big sis came searching for me. That night, Chelsea and Manchester United were playing the English premiership finals and the roads were deserted. In her haste and worry, she took an okada for she did not want to be stranded in traffic with a car. Upon her arrival, we combed the streets for a commercial bus to return home, but all to no avail. After walking some miles, we found one of the necessary evils and set off. As we approached a road under construction, my inner voice told me to get down and walk, but before I could say, “okada please go slower”, we were smashed into the rocks of the undulated road. My sister’s leg was trapped in one of the tire’s spokes and she had several bruises. I cried more than her as we were helped home by more good Samaritans, then to the hospital by her husband, and back home at well past midnight.
That incident really shook me and I did do a great deal of walking and busing for several weeks, but eventually I went back to riding with the daredevils. My third okada accident was with my immediate older sister and boy was this driver speeding. We screamed all the printable pleas one can think of, “Okada we are young oh, Okada do you want to kill us, Okada drop us now”, but he seemed to have lost his sense of hearing and his willingness to live another day for he rammed into an approaching vehicle in a matter of seconds. My knee was badly bruised and I thought I had broken my leg. My unscathed sister calmly reassured me that I was well for I thought I was dying. After much sobbing and babbling, I regained my composure and hobbled for the rest of our journey.
Once beaten, twice shy, the saying goes, but for me, it is thrice beaten and not near shy. It can’t be an addiction for I actually hate using an okada and I brace myself with the thought that this may be my last minutes alive until I reach my destination. Nonetheless, I still find myself hollering for an okada across the road. Therefore, I have resigned myself to the facts that not only have these reckless and terrifying riders signed their death warrants, so have I.
I remember the first day I mounted an okada, I say mounted because everyone said I did it the wrong way as if I was mounting a horse. “What is the right way?” I countered, as I placed my foot on the left pedestal, swung my right leg across the seat and settled in. A few more rides and bruises taught me the experienced way of climbing in safely, but that was all the safety I was going to get. As time went on, the combined fast pace of Lagos and my life led me to bike at every opportunity. I biked to and from school, I biked to my religious meeting, I biked to run errands, and I biked to make my hair. Yet each time I got on an okada, my heart will beat at a tornado’s speed and I always got to my destination feeling heady.
One day my father saw me alight from an okada and nearly screamed my head off. My first reaction was, “Am I expected to ride a donkey? I am not chauffeured to places. Of course, I muttered those words under my breath. ; I could give every excuse under the stars why I had to take an okada; Lagos traffic, racing against time, and impassable roads. Despite my father’s irate remarks and my anxieties, I continued to use the okadas, even on major roads. My frequented routes were Onikan to Lekki, Yaba to Lagos Island, Lagos Island to Victoria Island, Yaba to Ikeja, Ikeja to Ogba, Yaba to Ojota, Third Mainland Bridge, and Carter Bridge, but I was not deterred. Every time I said, “This would be my last okada ride,” especially when the rider attempted to kill me with his reckless weaving in and out of traffic, it turned out to be a big joke.
I witnessed a couple of okada accidents myself and said a long “hmmm that could have been me” each time. Soon enough, I too had my share, three nerve racking and road skidding accidents. The first one was on a Sunday morning. I was running late for my religious meeting and my rough calculation showed that walking would get me there ten minutes late, so I called an okada. We had barely gone 15 seconds and my mind was off the road when I saw a bus halt abruptly in front of the bike. Screeeech! In a jiffy, I was on the floor stunned as a blind man regaining his sight. A couple of good Samaritans helped me scramble to my feet and as usual, there was a tirade about who was right and wrong between the two parties. Needless to say, I got to my destination a whole 40 minutes late, bruised and shaken, while vowing that this will be my first and last okada accident, but as it goes in Pidgin English, Na lie!
There is something worse than riding on an okada, riding with a second passenger. Now this is something that I do not like, but circumstances change like the weather. It was a fateful night and I was coming back from an unproductive venture when my worried big sis came searching for me. That night, Chelsea and Manchester United were playing the English premiership finals and the roads were deserted. In her haste and worry, she took an okada for she did not want to be stranded in traffic with a car. Upon her arrival, we combed the streets for a commercial bus to return home, but all to no avail. After walking some miles, we found one of the necessary evils and set off. As we approached a road under construction, my inner voice told me to get down and walk, but before I could say, “okada please go slower”, we were smashed into the rocks of the undulated road. My sister’s leg was trapped in one of the tire’s spokes and she had several bruises. I cried more than her as we were helped home by more good Samaritans, then to the hospital by her husband, and back home at well past midnight.
That incident really shook me and I did do a great deal of walking and busing for several weeks, but eventually I went back to riding with the daredevils. My third okada accident was with my immediate older sister and boy was this driver speeding. We screamed all the printable pleas one can think of, “Okada we are young oh, Okada do you want to kill us, Okada drop us now”, but he seemed to have lost his sense of hearing and his willingness to live another day for he rammed into an approaching vehicle in a matter of seconds. My knee was badly bruised and I thought I had broken my leg. My unscathed sister calmly reassured me that I was well for I thought I was dying. After much sobbing and babbling, I regained my composure and hobbled for the rest of our journey.
Once beaten, twice shy, the saying goes, but for me, it is thrice beaten and not near shy. It can’t be an addiction for I actually hate using an okada and I brace myself with the thought that this may be my last minutes alive until I reach my destination. Nonetheless, I still find myself hollering for an okada across the road. Therefore, I have resigned myself to the facts that not only have these reckless and terrifying riders signed their death warrants, so have I.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
DAYDRIFTING
Have you ever seen a ship moored at dock? It looks sturdy, serene, and safe. This view can be enjoyed at night or day. However, there is something this ship needs to buoy itself, an anchor. Without the anchor, the ship will drift away from the dock and be exposed to the dangers of the sea.
We tread, swim, and float in the murky waters of life every day and are very similar to vessels at sea. Trained from infancy, we were gradually taught how to set our sails and meander our way. However, many of us have seen people who are very dear to us drift away. Just like that ship without an anchor. Drift away from what exactly? From the dock of values and ideals they learned and were persuaded to believe. Most ships are known to drift away at night time, when the crew and dock watchers are fast asleep, but the type of drifting being discussed is different. It is daydrifting.
In broad daylight, you watch someone dear drift, sometimes unintentionally and at other times, a deliberate effort. Such a person may choose to remove the anchor that helps him or her to stay afloat with the hope of gaining independence and ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca’. Strangely, daytime provides excellent vision for both the person drifting and the individual watching the drift take place, but that is where confusion stems from. Everyone expects that anyone can see this someone drifting in daylight, so anybody can help this somebody who everybody is watching drift. Surely, that sounded twisted and so is the situation of daydrifting.
Thinking of such dear ones paints the picture of a person who finds himself in deep waters without any clue on how to swim. Initially, the person started out with a float, which slackened off with the passage of time. It was a really long time. Frantically, with flailing arms he tries to maintain balance at sea, but the float is gone and there is no one in sight. So, the person gives up and succumbs to the demands of the sea.
That is not the same with you dear ones that have drifted, although it may look similar. We are standing at opposite sides of a circle’s diameter and that protruding mound of despondence makes it seem that way. If you could just call out or listen to my voice as I call out to you, then it will be possible to guide you back to safety. All hope is not lost and neither are you.
This is not a condemning piece, pointing fingers at the reader for that is not my intention. It is just a heart that bleeds for dear ones drifting. We saw you drift in daylight. Sorry that we did not reach out immediately, but we want to help you swim back to the dock for you are exposed to the dangers of the sea. To us, you are as good as dead. For the hope that we will see you again is very dim. Therefore, we are armed with anchors to help in any way we can, to bring you safely to the shore. We yearn to say, “Our dear friend was dead and came to life again; he was lost and was found!”
We tread, swim, and float in the murky waters of life every day and are very similar to vessels at sea. Trained from infancy, we were gradually taught how to set our sails and meander our way. However, many of us have seen people who are very dear to us drift away. Just like that ship without an anchor. Drift away from what exactly? From the dock of values and ideals they learned and were persuaded to believe. Most ships are known to drift away at night time, when the crew and dock watchers are fast asleep, but the type of drifting being discussed is different. It is daydrifting.
In broad daylight, you watch someone dear drift, sometimes unintentionally and at other times, a deliberate effort. Such a person may choose to remove the anchor that helps him or her to stay afloat with the hope of gaining independence and ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca’. Strangely, daytime provides excellent vision for both the person drifting and the individual watching the drift take place, but that is where confusion stems from. Everyone expects that anyone can see this someone drifting in daylight, so anybody can help this somebody who everybody is watching drift. Surely, that sounded twisted and so is the situation of daydrifting.
Thinking of such dear ones paints the picture of a person who finds himself in deep waters without any clue on how to swim. Initially, the person started out with a float, which slackened off with the passage of time. It was a really long time. Frantically, with flailing arms he tries to maintain balance at sea, but the float is gone and there is no one in sight. So, the person gives up and succumbs to the demands of the sea.
That is not the same with you dear ones that have drifted, although it may look similar. We are standing at opposite sides of a circle’s diameter and that protruding mound of despondence makes it seem that way. If you could just call out or listen to my voice as I call out to you, then it will be possible to guide you back to safety. All hope is not lost and neither are you.
This is not a condemning piece, pointing fingers at the reader for that is not my intention. It is just a heart that bleeds for dear ones drifting. We saw you drift in daylight. Sorry that we did not reach out immediately, but we want to help you swim back to the dock for you are exposed to the dangers of the sea. To us, you are as good as dead. For the hope that we will see you again is very dim. Therefore, we are armed with anchors to help in any way we can, to bring you safely to the shore. We yearn to say, “Our dear friend was dead and came to life again; he was lost and was found!”
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
DOES THE FINISHING LINE ENERGIZE OR PARALYZE YOU?
Picture a situation where it suddenly seems that you cannot go on anymore, although you can almost see the end in sight. Let us call those situations races, for in actual fact, every individual is involved in a race. Today, I encountered one of those races during my swimming class.
The class instructor wanted everyone to swim the length of the pool with the front crawl stroke. I took off with a nice push and transitioned to the full stroke. As the wall of the pool came into sight, it felt like I had exhausted all my energy. Worse still, I felt like stopping, since I could not go on anymore. Then, it dawned on me that despite the fact that I could see the finishing line, I was paralyzed. Paralyzed by what exactly? Perhaps, apprehension of drowning, doubts in my abilities, and worry that I may not reach my goal. Petty things you may be saying. However, this is what confronts every runner in a race, albeit not the drowning part, nonetheless, the principle remains.
Scrutinizing my swimming experience isn’t it interesting to note that I was motivated in the deep end! Could it be that there were less obstacles swimming in the deep than in the shallow? I do not think so. The deep actually poses a greater struggle than the shallow for there I can drown. In the shallow end, the depth did not bother me; it was imminent defeat that elicited concern. I was paralyzed instead of energized by the finishing line.
Dissecting the crux of the matter, one may want to start with what the finishing line represents. It is the evidence that hard work has paid off, the prize received for a personal victory, and evidence that you triumphed against all odds. Sounds like quite a lot to give up for a moment of temporary, undue anxiety. Sometimes, we tend to forget that before we saw the finishing line in sight, we had contended with weightier things. With arms literally locked in combat, we huffed and puffed and prevailed. Yet, the finishing line approached and our determination transitioned to apprehension.
While swimming, the finishing line was the other end of the pool, but it can be anything that you are racing for. Some are in a sprint race, while others are in an ongoing marathon. Whatever the case may be, see the finishing line for all that is. Do not give up some few meters away from the finishing line for not every race can be re-run. Run the race that is set before you with endurance (Hebrews 12:1), while keeping your eyes set on the prize.
The class instructor wanted everyone to swim the length of the pool with the front crawl stroke. I took off with a nice push and transitioned to the full stroke. As the wall of the pool came into sight, it felt like I had exhausted all my energy. Worse still, I felt like stopping, since I could not go on anymore. Then, it dawned on me that despite the fact that I could see the finishing line, I was paralyzed. Paralyzed by what exactly? Perhaps, apprehension of drowning, doubts in my abilities, and worry that I may not reach my goal. Petty things you may be saying. However, this is what confronts every runner in a race, albeit not the drowning part, nonetheless, the principle remains.
Scrutinizing my swimming experience isn’t it interesting to note that I was motivated in the deep end! Could it be that there were less obstacles swimming in the deep than in the shallow? I do not think so. The deep actually poses a greater struggle than the shallow for there I can drown. In the shallow end, the depth did not bother me; it was imminent defeat that elicited concern. I was paralyzed instead of energized by the finishing line.
Dissecting the crux of the matter, one may want to start with what the finishing line represents. It is the evidence that hard work has paid off, the prize received for a personal victory, and evidence that you triumphed against all odds. Sounds like quite a lot to give up for a moment of temporary, undue anxiety. Sometimes, we tend to forget that before we saw the finishing line in sight, we had contended with weightier things. With arms literally locked in combat, we huffed and puffed and prevailed. Yet, the finishing line approached and our determination transitioned to apprehension.
While swimming, the finishing line was the other end of the pool, but it can be anything that you are racing for. Some are in a sprint race, while others are in an ongoing marathon. Whatever the case may be, see the finishing line for all that is. Do not give up some few meters away from the finishing line for not every race can be re-run. Run the race that is set before you with endurance (Hebrews 12:1), while keeping your eyes set on the prize.
A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS
As I contemplate traveling to my home country Nigeria this December, I cannot help but contemplate on the bittersweet experiences I have had in the hustle and bustle of the Lagos metropolis. The food, the noisy crowds, the transportation system, the erratic power supply, which no Nigerian ever forgets, and the struggle to make a substantial living are facets of a Lagosian’s life. Sometimes, it seems like it may be difficult to adjust to life in Eko after a fifteen month sojourn in the United States, which brings me to the reasons why I want to go home.
With the passing of each day in the American city I reside in, I can’t help but notice that I am a very exotic fish in this sea of people. The questions just do not stop pouring in. What kind of meat do you eat in your country? What kind of pets do your country men keep in their homes? You see, I move with friends that are very deliberate about their choice of words, so they try to keep away from the “popular” questions that range from do you have naked people that still climb in Africa and do you live in the wild with lions and tigers at your beck and call?
I remember the first time I attempted to answer “the meat question.” It went like this: “We consume different types of meat from the cow, goat, dog, snails…” My list halted when I saw the expressions on my friends’ faces, so I decided to focus on the cow, which was a huge mistake. I went on to describe the tastes of Pomo, “Shaki”, “Fuku”, “Roundabout”. My response was covered with a blanket of silence as everyone seemingly turned to what they were doing prior to my bizarre revelation. I sought to redeem my carnivorous image by searching through the internet for the “common scientific” names of these meats and I shared this new piece of information with them, but the damage had already been done. I briefly chuckled to myself as I considered the thought of telling them about the “Isi-Ewu” and “Nkwobi”, joints in Nigeria, but I decided to spare them the part two of my “horror” tales.
I have greatly digressed, which is a usual occurrence for me. Nostalgia tugs at my heart as I recall hopping in and out of the red and blue BRT buses to commute from the mainland to the island and vice-versa. Scenes of the irrational CMS bus conductor harassing women, men, and children for 20 naira keep replaying in my head as I reflect on those lazy days that I refused to take the 10-minute walk from City Mall, Onikan to the US Educational Advising Center. Sometimes, it feels like I am losing my hustling spirit, but do not get me wrong for things do not go smoothly here. However, nothing compares to Lagos atmosphere.
Definitely, there will be many changes in Lagos when I return and I hope on a positive note. Also, I will return a changed person who is eager to learn more about my surroundings and the people who occupy them. Don’t be surprised if you see me armed with my notepad and pen at every passing second (except when I’m asleep), taking notes about the types of meat Nigerians eat and adequate answers backed with evidence for whatever question I may be asked when I return from my December homecoming.
With the passing of each day in the American city I reside in, I can’t help but notice that I am a very exotic fish in this sea of people. The questions just do not stop pouring in. What kind of meat do you eat in your country? What kind of pets do your country men keep in their homes? You see, I move with friends that are very deliberate about their choice of words, so they try to keep away from the “popular” questions that range from do you have naked people that still climb in Africa and do you live in the wild with lions and tigers at your beck and call?
I remember the first time I attempted to answer “the meat question.” It went like this: “We consume different types of meat from the cow, goat, dog, snails…” My list halted when I saw the expressions on my friends’ faces, so I decided to focus on the cow, which was a huge mistake. I went on to describe the tastes of Pomo, “Shaki”, “Fuku”, “Roundabout”. My response was covered with a blanket of silence as everyone seemingly turned to what they were doing prior to my bizarre revelation. I sought to redeem my carnivorous image by searching through the internet for the “common scientific” names of these meats and I shared this new piece of information with them, but the damage had already been done. I briefly chuckled to myself as I considered the thought of telling them about the “Isi-Ewu” and “Nkwobi”, joints in Nigeria, but I decided to spare them the part two of my “horror” tales.
I have greatly digressed, which is a usual occurrence for me. Nostalgia tugs at my heart as I recall hopping in and out of the red and blue BRT buses to commute from the mainland to the island and vice-versa. Scenes of the irrational CMS bus conductor harassing women, men, and children for 20 naira keep replaying in my head as I reflect on those lazy days that I refused to take the 10-minute walk from City Mall, Onikan to the US Educational Advising Center. Sometimes, it feels like I am losing my hustling spirit, but do not get me wrong for things do not go smoothly here. However, nothing compares to Lagos atmosphere.
Definitely, there will be many changes in Lagos when I return and I hope on a positive note. Also, I will return a changed person who is eager to learn more about my surroundings and the people who occupy them. Don’t be surprised if you see me armed with my notepad and pen at every passing second (except when I’m asleep), taking notes about the types of meat Nigerians eat and adequate answers backed with evidence for whatever question I may be asked when I return from my December homecoming.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Jun1110 Excuse Me
Jun1110 Excuse Me
I cannot help but publish the link to Victor Ehikhamenor's piece on my blog. It is time people "call a spade a spade." Convincing oneself that poison is juice and drinking it does not prevent one from dying. "Waka Waka eh eh, Tsamina mina Zangalewa." May all the matches end in a draw. Yes,I said so.
I cannot help but publish the link to Victor Ehikhamenor's piece on my blog. It is time people "call a spade a spade." Convincing oneself that poison is juice and drinking it does not prevent one from dying. "Waka Waka eh eh, Tsamina mina Zangalewa." May all the matches end in a draw. Yes,I said so.
Friday, June 4, 2010
THERE’S AN EMPTY SPACE HERE(Part Two)
At break time, I calmly remained in my seat as I contemplated running down to the mini kiosks to buy my favorite coconut candy and toast bread from the women positioned near the back gate or playing “Ten Ten”, a hand clapping and feet stamping game) with the girls at the playground. Finally, I opted for playground which was already teeming. Screams of delight and voices rang so loud that my brain found it difficult to locate any familiar faces.
“Ifeyinwa, Fify baby”, boomed a voice from across the field. My feet froze abruptly at the sound of my name. As I searched for who the voice belonged to, I saw Oluchi sprinting towards me, I squealed excitedly at the sight of my former classmate. She dragged me along towards the group of girls she had left behind to fetch me. At the moment Oluchi attempted to introduce me to the group, an ebony skinned girl with her hands folded across her chest, disengaged one of her hands and interrupted Oluchi. She stepped forward from the perfectly formed circle of girls and addressed Oluchi in such a way that I felt like I was the size of the ‘Tambolo’, a minuscule stinging ant my mother had repeatedly instructed me to be on the watch for. “What is this Oluchi? Remember that we are a clique and we comport ourselves, not running around the school like you are being chased by monkeys and laughing like you have been infected by a pack of hyenas on the loose.”
I was momentarily dazed and I grappled for an appropriate reply to cut this “Miss Perfect for I might be ruffled if you pass by me” to size, but taking a second look at the group surrounding me, I realized who they were. They were known as the “Flow” girls; the letters, F, L, and O coined from Fehintola, Lamide, and Olohi, the official founding members of the group which had been in existence since my third grade, while the letter W literally represented ‘Whomever’ was admitted into the group. Needless to say, the W person changed every school session as the Flow girls always sought after “efikos”, the brainy ones, to compensate for their apparent weakness.
“Tisk, tisk, tisk,” I remarked onomatopoeically. "Oluchi, how could you degrade yourself to collude with these users?” Taking some time to run them through with my black, long eyelashes, I continued. “These nincompoops who want to exploit your academic genius?” Those were huge words for a fifth grader’s vocabulary.
My siblings had always commended my command of the English Language and I decided to seize this opportunity to flaunt my talent and oppress my tormentors. Unintentionally, our high pitched voices complemented by swift neck twisting and finger snapping had attracted a sizeable group of people towards our direction.
“Oh Lord, I hate drama” I muttered under my breath. At the same moment, Fehintola the loud mouthed leader had issued commando instructions to Olohi to slap me. My brain told me to locate the nearest escape route, but I really wanted to fight back. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a weakling, however my family had instructed me sternly that on no uncertain terms should I be involved in a fight at school and I had no plans of ruining my impeccable record of excellent behavior in my fifth year, so I suppressed the urge to react. As Olohi, made her way towards me, I began to brace myself for the pain, when all of a sudden someone called out from the balcony overlooking the playground and diverted everyone’s attention.
“Ifeyinwa, Fify baby”, boomed a voice from across the field. My feet froze abruptly at the sound of my name. As I searched for who the voice belonged to, I saw Oluchi sprinting towards me, I squealed excitedly at the sight of my former classmate. She dragged me along towards the group of girls she had left behind to fetch me. At the moment Oluchi attempted to introduce me to the group, an ebony skinned girl with her hands folded across her chest, disengaged one of her hands and interrupted Oluchi. She stepped forward from the perfectly formed circle of girls and addressed Oluchi in such a way that I felt like I was the size of the ‘Tambolo’, a minuscule stinging ant my mother had repeatedly instructed me to be on the watch for. “What is this Oluchi? Remember that we are a clique and we comport ourselves, not running around the school like you are being chased by monkeys and laughing like you have been infected by a pack of hyenas on the loose.”
I was momentarily dazed and I grappled for an appropriate reply to cut this “Miss Perfect for I might be ruffled if you pass by me” to size, but taking a second look at the group surrounding me, I realized who they were. They were known as the “Flow” girls; the letters, F, L, and O coined from Fehintola, Lamide, and Olohi, the official founding members of the group which had been in existence since my third grade, while the letter W literally represented ‘Whomever’ was admitted into the group. Needless to say, the W person changed every school session as the Flow girls always sought after “efikos”, the brainy ones, to compensate for their apparent weakness.
“Tisk, tisk, tisk,” I remarked onomatopoeically. "Oluchi, how could you degrade yourself to collude with these users?” Taking some time to run them through with my black, long eyelashes, I continued. “These nincompoops who want to exploit your academic genius?” Those were huge words for a fifth grader’s vocabulary.
My siblings had always commended my command of the English Language and I decided to seize this opportunity to flaunt my talent and oppress my tormentors. Unintentionally, our high pitched voices complemented by swift neck twisting and finger snapping had attracted a sizeable group of people towards our direction.
“Oh Lord, I hate drama” I muttered under my breath. At the same moment, Fehintola the loud mouthed leader had issued commando instructions to Olohi to slap me. My brain told me to locate the nearest escape route, but I really wanted to fight back. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a weakling, however my family had instructed me sternly that on no uncertain terms should I be involved in a fight at school and I had no plans of ruining my impeccable record of excellent behavior in my fifth year, so I suppressed the urge to react. As Olohi, made her way towards me, I began to brace myself for the pain, when all of a sudden someone called out from the balcony overlooking the playground and diverted everyone’s attention.
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