By Great Opara
I wake up, sweaty and breathless. The room is dark and cold. My squatter (don’t judge please) sleeps on peacefully beside me. Around the room, in different corners and crevices, my ten other room mates carry on in dreamland. One idiot is even snoring sef, a very disgusting “chukuchuku inside exhaust pipe” like sound. Mtcheeew. I contemplate putting a few drops of “Sniper” in his mouth then I remember those little hindrances called murder, Panti Police HQ & death penalty and I slowly reconsider. Oh well! There’s always next time;)
*sigh* This is my second straight nightmare. Me that I don’t even dream, I’m having nightmares. ME!!! It’s not even a bad dream about better thing sef, I’m having nightmares about Constitutional Law result. How can one class have over 120 F’s. 120 ba wo? Maybe I should just
check it. Maybe. LOL. I laugh and my spirit laughs along with me. Checkmate ni.
The queue for water downstairs is probably as long as the 3rd Mainland Bridge. I use the word “probably” lightly. It might be longer. Different odours and smells fly by me. Some of these boys (men) look like death itself. For some unknown reason, I decide to turn around. This very muscular “man” in tight boxers is staring at the boy beside me. Staring intently. Focused. I quickly avert my gaze and continue to gently tug my bucket along the line. And I silently pray for the boy beside me
The lecturer is droning on. Half of the class are on their phones. The other half are either sleeping or dead. A small (big) part of me secretly hopes they’re dead (or dying). We’re simply too much in one class.
My earpieace is stuck in my ears. My white is sparkling. I look good, as usual:D The lecturer goes on and the class is overcome with weariness. I, for one find it hard to believe that this man is oblivious to how boring he is. I make a mental note to remind popsy about me dropping out of school. Then I delete the note as fast as I make it. The last time I (jokingly) brought up the issue, the man threatened to disown and dismember me. Ouch!
The girl sitting on the edge of the row beside me begins a slow, steady drop to the floor. As in, she actually falls off the chair. Chai! Sleep na bad thing. I contemplate whether or not to give her a hand up. She’s light-skinned, so that makes her automatically pretty (right?). As I reach for her, she stretches her hand to me and I finally get a glimpse of her face. I immediately withdraw my hand. Sharp sharp. The girl is left clutching at thin air. She glares at me, hate and shock registering in her eyes. I very slowly and calmly look away.
My mummy always told me not to talk to ugly girls. I think it has something to do with grandchildren and what not.
The lounge is full of people lounging. Like, it’s fulllll! Shaa, I blame those Tax Club people, they’re the ones that put the bloody flatscreen there in the first place. Now, even people tht don’t have Tv’s in their homes can nw watch and criticise “Britain’s got talent” auditions *sigh*
I struggle to get through the crowd. A crowd that obviously outnumbers the 5,000 people fed in the bible. I half expect some sick female to touch my vintage, patterned tie and receive her healing because….well, you know nw;) Thankfully, Ebola has supposedly left us alone.
The upper lounge is not as stuffy. Before I can grab one of the few empty chairs available, I am accustomed by one of the people selling the ever popular “handouts”. It just so happens to be Cons Law. I begin to make a mental calculation of all the money I’ve spent on these handouts since the commencement of the session. The figure is almost 200K. LOL. I’m probably mistaken. I definitely hope I’m mistaken. I’ve never been the best at maths yunno. I think I’m having a panic attack.
Struggling to breathe and maintain composure, I glance around and see my saving grace. My angel, my baby, my crush, my boo (she doesn’t know all this though). The calming process begins and all is right with my world again. I smile and mop my brow. Then, I see the boy sitting next to her. I see her hand on his knee. Seductively placed. Flo’rida’s “Say You’re Just A Friend” begins to play in my head.
Our African culture does not permit a man to cry.
DISCLAIMER: The characters and events portrayed above are fictitious. Any resemblance to any person(s) living or dead is purely coincidental. In other words, this is NOT the autobiography of the author. It is not o. Thank you:)