One could begin with the small potholes that made his ass and scrotum hurt like hell, or the big potholes that whispered ‘death’ on several occasions. One could even begin with the thick bushes and forests that screamed ‘witchcraft’ all the way, or the endless police checkpoints from the end of Benin, suggesting the bus’s destination might be a place of war. But, surrounded by exhaust fumes, musty odors, the monsoon chill and so much debris from the close by market, no part of the just concluded journey paraded Jason’s mind as he got off the bus. Instead, with puckered lips and a sour face, like a teenager tasting action bitters for the first time, he thought of that long and tight hug he had had with his mother at the park in Lagos, earlier that morning.
“It will be very different and challenging, but I know you can handle it,” she had whispered into his ear so discreetly, like it was a matter of national security. “And don’t forget,” she added, after a really long time, finally letting go, “you can always call as much as you want.” His father was off to the side after their own very brief goodbye, watching with narrowed eyes and a scrunched up nose, like a jealous and disgruntled partner. And who could blame him; it was like watching young lovers unwillingly saying goodbye forever.
Watching them walk back to the car and drive off, he told himself again and again, as his eyes welled up like a once dry dam now in the peak of the monsoon: “Please don’t cry.” Luckily, they obeyed. Afterward he found a spot free of strange faces or conversations to wait for the bus’s departure to Choba, a place he realized, then and there, he had so much contempt for.
Scared, anxious, trembling to the point of a vibrating particle and wanting to run back home, he sat still crossing his legs firmly, squeezing his hands and chanting his father’s words during their embrace; “You’re no longer a child.”
Staring into the night, his luggage -signifying his now opaque life- by his side; the road littered with puddles, fish guts, pure water nylons, scraps of Ugu leaves, half eaten dried up oranges and so much more; across, the blue faded walls fencing the A-campus where he had written his POST-UTME in a drastically faded yellow building where the power had gone out just a few seconds after he had seen his score of 250/400— he once again felt such an intense urge to cry. The elusive, mysterious and frightening university life he had for so long fooled himself into thinking of as mainly a future event, was all of a sudden, a very very real and present thing from which no escape was to be found.
For minutes, thoughts bounced around his unhinged mind like a great game of pinball.
How on earth was he even going to survive? The foremost thought. Wasn’t he still actually a child? He couldn’t even talk to people he knew properly let alone make new friends, and yet here he was, a sixteen-year-old, not even old enough for a driver’s license, allowed to move from Lagos to Port Harcourt all on his own, about to attend a school and live in a foreign land so far away. His parents must be crazy, he concluded.
And what sort of beasts were even in charge of the school, he wondered. Admitting someone who knew next to nothing of what he wanted with his life.
He had only been given a choice between Law or sociology, “the only respectable choices in the arts and social sciences,” his father had said. And he had simply chosen what he felt was the least evil. But in truth what did he really know about Sociology? And why on earth was he supposed to spend four years studying something he didn’t even care for? Wasn’t there supposed to be some method of checking if this was actually meant for you, or at least if there was some passion or even mere curiosity, instead of exams in which anyone could just pick random answers, pass and then be admitted.
After so much simmering, his body, now a boiling noodle—his heart, a drill cracking into a wall, he began to wonder, with a sense of shame, if his secondary school classmates were having the same tantrum at the schools they had chosen. Probably not, he concluded. His secondary school classmates were all older than him and mostly spoke about finally moving away from their houses which they hated and felt trapped in.
“It’s all just fucked up,” he murmured a couple of times.
After a while, his phone began to buzz—a call from his mother.
Staring at the screen, he contemplated answering and telling her that he wanted to come back home; that he missed her so much already; that he’d attend the University of Lagos, going from home, as she had first suggested; that he hated his father for making him choose this place; that he hated his uncle for being a lecturer in this school and the reason his father had insisted; that he hated it here, hated himself for not putting up more of a fight, and that somehow, he just knew, this school, this city, would break him into a million shards never to be reconstituted.
But instead, with an ever-growing shame and a wry smile, he shoved it back into his pocket. “Don’t be a wimp,” he murmured. “You’re no longer a child.”
With dread, hunger, tiredness and a yearning for solitude, he watched for what seemed like eternal minutes, until a tap on his shoulder pulled him out of his petrified mind.
He turned to find Patrick, towering over him with his babyish face and staggering height, wearing his pair of their matching blue T-Shirts with ‘You know I Love you’ inscribed in bold italics on the front and an arrow pointing to the other. A gift from Jason’s mother, who couldn’t stop laughing after they opened it.
Almost instantly Jason felt some atom of relief; not strong enough to quell his mind, but visible enough to produce half a smile.
“I’ve told you to stop wearing that thing,” Jason said.
“It’s extremely comfortable. And it makes me think of you,” Patrick said with a sheepish smile.
“Fuck you. Better go get yourself a girlfriend, ‘cause I won’t even acknowledge your presence outside.”
“See this mumu. As if we both don’t know that you need me.”
“As what?” Jason said.
“When we go to a shop to buy something, who does the talking?”
Jason peered at him for some time, then said, “fuck you” with more than half a smile.
“Anyways, sorry I’m late,” Patrick said after some time, his smile now quite apologetic. “I just saw your message and started running. You could have called, though. Have you been waiting long?”
Jason brought out his phone, unlocked it and stared at the screen. It was 11:40pm. He had messaged him since 10:50, just before he got off the bus.
“You were watching Big Bang Theory, weren’t you?” he said.
“No vex,” Patrick replied, avoiding eye contact. Bending, he picked up the duffel bag by Jason’s feet and held on to the telescopic handle on one of the two large trolley suitcases.
“You’re just a fish,” Jason said, then wore his backpack and held on to the other trolley suitcase…
A lot of his anguish, dissipating as they began their walk into the night.
*
They had met at an interschool sports competition, way back in primary school, years ago.
Jason, the sour looking nine-year-old, and Patrick, the friendly eleven-year-old -too friendly as far as Jason was concerned- had run against each other in the 100m sprint and finished as joint winners. Afterwards, sitting beside each other for hours while the competition ran on, they began to talk; well, Patrick began to talk, while Jason listened with a bit of annoyance.
After about an hour, eventually, something sparked and Jason gave in and changed the tiring monologue into an actual conversation.
Their schools being close, they decided to stay in touch…
And though almost mutual exclusivities, they became friends, then best of friends and then, best friends. Jason’s second favorite person; behind his mother, of course.
*
The overflowing gutters, puddles all around and an almost freezing atmosphere told of the day’s plight, as they walked along the lonely roads to what was now supposed to be called home.
At first, it was all restaurants, big supermarkets and cool looking shops, but the farther they got from the Campuses and the closer they, apparently, got to the house, the more the scene transformed into a horrible rural painting. Sandy roads, small and battered kiosks, ground floored houses with barely any demarcations and bad sewage pipes mixing with the remnants of the day’s rainy plight; all of it looking like members of antiquity, and not the good kind.
The more they walked, the more Jason’s anguish rescinded in double force.
“Don’t worry, it’s really not that bad,” Patrick said, probably sensing the repulsion.
“I didn’t say anything,” Jason said, trying to steady his face, in case Patrick looked at him.
“Okay. Anyways, I didn’t know if you’d be hungry or what you’d want, so I just bought fried yam and fish. E make sense, but if you no want am, I’ll eat it.”
“Okay,” Jason said, then added after a little while, “Thank you.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Patrick said. “Your mother called. I told her I was on my way to you. So, you should probably call her when we get home.”
“Okay,” said Jason. He wanted to say as well, that it was too soon to call the place ‘home,’ but on second thought, he didn’t. At least they have light, he thought, trying to console himself.
So, they continued in silence, as the houses got uglier and uglier and uglier and uglier… *
With Patrick deciding to move from hostel to off campus, it made too much sense for them not to move in together, or at least that was the tactics his mother had used to convince his father, who was a staunch believer in the hostels building character.
Jason had always known Patrick to be lazy, less hygiene concerned and ultimately different in many respects, but as far as he could tell, it was a fair enough trade if it meant he didn’t have to sleep in those dreadful hostels and use the horrible toilets he had seen in Patrick’s hostel after his POST-UTME.
*
Just as they turned the final corner and Jason focused his eyes on the house Patrick was pointing at, they heard two loud bangs. It seemed pretty innocuous, so Jason kept his focus on the house, squinting so he could actually make out its picture…
But, like a movie suddenly in slow motion, Patrick swung the trolley suitcase he was holding on top of his head and took off, yelling back to Jason, “This way guy. Dem dey come.”
The bangs went off again; twice, like before. And a few seconds later, they became waterfalls pouring from God knows where. He could see Patrick miles ahead, still shouting “This way!”
Real gunshots! Not in a movie, he finally realized.
He tried to move to him, but his legs wouldn’t budge. They seemed angry and unnecessarily stubborn for some reason.
All of a sudden, the gunshots tapered off. Then voices began shouting incantations, or something similar to what he had heard those funny looking Dibias spout in old Nigerian movies.
Again, he tried to move, and once again, he got the same result.
Frozen to the spot he looked left and right, anticipating what could be his last pictures; the incantations getting louder, closer.
On the street to the left, through a pathway between two kiosks, he suddenly sighted men, naked, with the exception of pants and bandanas tied to their heads; though a fair bit away, their voices carried the incantations with such gusto that Jason felt they were right next to him.
He looked ahead; this time, Patrick was nowhere to be seen. Running for his dear life, of course.
The incantations stopped and then the gunshots started again, and through the pathway, he could see lights from the bullets pushed out into the world with such ease; the men now advancing to the street he was frozen to.
“Jesus Christ!” He muttered multiple times. “I’m going to die. I haven’t even had sex yet. Fucking Christ, I’m going to die.”
He tried to move again, but his legs just wouldn’t budge, though his body was now, once again, vibrating like a particle in a solid.
With nothing else to try, he closed his eyes and waited for what seemed inevitable.
A few seconds later, he felt a hand grab his wrist. “Fuck,” he whispered without opening his eyes.
“Guy! Open your eyes.”
He opened them to find Patrick with the second suitcase on his head. And with so much force, Patrick dragged Jason along, until finally they were both running side by side like zebras away from lions.
Finally, at home, safe and sound, the gunshots still echoing, but at least, at home, Jason sat on the floor, very close to the door. He had sunk as soon as they got in.
Patrick laid on his bed breathing like a lion just after a chase.
It took a while before the shooting finally stopped, and then Jason realized he was barely breathing. Just enough to stay alive. As soon as he tried to adjust himself, the electricity went off and his whole system immediately came undone. “What the fuck was that?” He half shouted.
“Abi dem no dey take light for Lagos, at all?” Patrick said. “Anyway, una gen dey always dey on.”
“Goat, I meant the shooting.”
“Oh… ehh,” Patrick sat on the bed and switched on his phone torch. “The thing is, this part of Port-Harcourt, well most of Port-Harcourt is filled with cult groups and…”
“And you didn’t think it was necessary to tell me,” Jason said.
“Look, don’t worry too much, the ones around here usually just fight themselves. So as long as you just learn to spot the signs and get out of the way once they start, you’ll be fine.”
“Wait, how come I didn’t see any of this last time.”
“Mumu, you only stayed in my hostel for one night.”
“No be just one night for here wan kill me? Why you no kan stay for the hostel, if na so?” Jason said.
“Seriously guy, I’ve told you to stop speaking pidgin, it sounds so awful coming from your mouth.”
“Fuck you,” Jason said, with a half a smile.
“Fuck you too,” Patrick said, smiling too. “Also, there are still cult groups on campus. There’s no escaping that one. I don’t think there’s any public or even private school in Nigeria where there aren’t any.”
Jason said nothing, and for a while they both remained silent, looking at everything other than each other.
Finally, Patrick turned off his phone torch, and laid down. “Omo guy, I wan sleep,” he said. “The yam is on the table, if you’re hungry. If you’re tired this bed can contain both of us. Just tap me and I’ll adjust. Good night.”
For a while Jason thought about forcing himself to eat. He had eaten nothing in the morning and had taken nothing all through the bus ride, afraid he would need to ask the bus driver to stop in the middle of nowhere.
In the end, he chose not to. His heart was still in his ass, and no amount of coercion would make anything go down his stomach.
Within minutes Patrick was asleep, snoring like he had a lung infection; probably the running, Jason thought. He hadn’t noticed that before, at least.
After a while, reminded of where he was, he finally got up to explore the house to be his home. The self-con was behind but still attached to a large family house. “The landlord lives with his wife, two daughters and two sons,” Patrick had told him over the phone. Both boys were still secondary schoolers, but the first daughter had graduated the year before, and the second daughter was going to her third year, or so Patrick had said.
“I’ll introduce you,” he also said. “I think you might like her.”
“I doubt it,” Jason’s only reply.
He switched on his torch and started from the living area. There was the bed Patrick was asleep on. It looked quite antique, and again, not of the good kind. There was a somewhat ancient looking dusty blue plastic table and matching stool almost adjacent to the door; the plate of fried yam was on it. The ceiling fan, white but dirty, was ugly as hell, and the windows only spoke and smiled in such dusty languages. The curtains looked so ugly and ancient and spoke the same language as the windows.
“At least the floors are tiled,” he tried to console himself. But they still looked like they had never really been swept or mopped.
The kitchen had a couple of dirty pots and plates scattered all over the floor. Just two weeks in and Patrick had already begun with his true colors, he thought. The walls were covered in stains far too old to decipher, but, “At least it’s not too small,” he said with a sigh.
The bathroom, which looked like it hadn’t been washed in forever, and had a couple of spiders and cockroaches high up on the walls, was shut as quickly as it was opened, as if a grenade was about to go off.
“At least it’s tiled all the way,” Jason said, moving back to the living area.
After all was seen and cringed at -not knowing what else to do- he took several deep breaths, then used the hoodie tied to his waist, since early in the morning, to clean a small portion of the floor beside the bed. Then like a cat, he crawled onto the space and laid with his back down.
“Four years,” he whispered to himself, staring at the somewhat visible ceiling, wondering if it could actually get any worse.
After a while, he checked his phone. It was already past one and there were ten missed calls from his mother and one from his father. And suddenly, he felt that petrifying blackness bubble up once again, this time much much worse. The chief thought behind it all, ‘What am I even doing here?’ echoing all through his mind like a resonant sounding gong.
The thought of calling his mother to quell his heart came to mind. Even at this time she’d still pick up, he was sure…
But afraid he would cry or give away what had just happened, all the while looking like a pathetic little child, which of course, he knew he was….
He switched off the phone and went back to staring at the ceiling…
Waiting, hoping, praying, for the sleep that never came.
——–
Image: MS Copilot/Unsplash remix