Tuesdays
Tuesday: the best day to be a student at L.F.A.
Tuesday is the one day in the whole week we get to go out to the sun.
The horizon is a peak of clear blue with sheets of white for clouds. So far up south-south you wouldn't think the sun could shine like this, in glittering gold-dust tendrils of light.
Green; rows and rows of translucent green cover the field's perimeter, resplendent beads of water dot their fringes. Queen's greenery ran a marathon round the school, like an over-sized lawn at a giant's, it touched every patio, every block, every front door. Lorita and i used to lie in the grass at school behind the tuck-shop, when it just got mowed.
It's always like breathing in sea-salt in a forest, all rolled up in a drop of sunlight. Lorita and i usually had splotches of dark green on our uniforms after. It was worth it.
There's a small crowd around the field, and an even smaller crowd inside it; boys covered in sweat, their skins bright with perspiration chasing a ball. You could easily tell the juniors apart from seniors. They are leaner, mostly, lithe-r than the bulky frame of my classmates, and are a lot less swagg. No chains or chambalas adorn their wrists, no excessively cool fades, no swagger in their steps.
If they could see themselves through my eyes right now, huge able-bodied male specimen grunting and shoving after a circle of hardened rubber.
Boy-girl is in tow, i recognized him from the jump, more because he is as light as a feather than anything else.
I'm beginning to lose count of the number of times he's gotten air-borne.
The last one really seemed to hurt, because he struggled to his feet, called for a replacement, grimaced and lumbered out the field right–toward me.
He's so close i see the leafs of green in his hair, there is sand on his elbow, and he's limping.
At the last moment he throws me a bright "hey" and makes a turn, to the thick-necked boy next to me, just within earshot.
" Oga, your kind ball sef," the boy said with a mean chuckle "e dey tire me." Pidgin obviously is a thing around here.
Chideziri sipped from the large-size aquadana bottle that appeared out of no-where. He laughed, bright, jingly and sunny.
"Your own na to dey make noise anyhow, if them give you ball now you no go play."
"Guy, you know that if i hold ball here, na Messi all the way"
Chideziri eyed him like a rotten chunk of dead rat.
" Abeg close mouth."
" You know it, you just cant deny it, guy."
The boy slung his arm over chideziri's shoulder, his PE uniform is so wet with body-water that it sticks to his skin and i can trace the outlines of his singlet through the light fabric.
He lets the boy, they trudged to the admin-block, out of the sun's heat, on to shade.
*
Fast-foward and we are back in class. It's 10:35, five minutes to the first period. Class is a circus and i'm beginning to understand where all that confetti comes from.
There's loud chatter everywhere and all-where. Chideziri is not in class, but the boy from outside is, along with an enormous cast of noise-makers. He's at the back seat doing a nightmarish rendition of Davido's Aye from back then.
Together, they sound like a pack of hyenas. An angry pack of starved mutated hyenas.
The girl beside me, the one that has a army camo bag and a pin-sized tribal-mark just above to her eye cringes, covering her ears. I want to, too, real talk.
She belong to me and i belong to her o.
Oh baby you go kill somebody.
They say love is blind but i dey see am for your eyes oh.
For your eyes o.
She no want designer, she no want Ferrari
Voices ride the cacophony of madness to its peak. He saw me looking, and smiling—was i really smiling?–and he faced me, moving his hips in a makossa-ish dance.
Trying to write 'names of noise makers' will be hellish here, probably was for whoever had to do that dirty job when they were juniors. Everybody is loud. And anyone who isn't is next to someone who is. You might as well have to hand everyone over.
Art class of 2018 really is a gig. They are boldly noisy, like wearing screaming colours at a funeral, like good news on the cover page of a news paper.
It's contagious, I straight off laugh. If anything L.F.A is fun. At least here i don't have to think of Mom, or Dad, or that cloud of uncertainty that hovers, haunting me. I can just lose myself.
At least here i'm safe.
When i get back from V.p's office, where i went for a new set of markers, the class is like a coven. Which, i must admit, is expected.I can hear them three classes away, even SS1 can't boast of the level of noise pollution we manage to stew. It's a God-given gift, unmatchable. Being an L.F.A alumnus is like living with Mili militia addicts. At some point you get used to the sound of gunfire and bazookas slicing the air.NB: I despise that game, from the depths, of the depths, of the depths of my faulty heart.She actually smiles at me when i walk to our seat. She, being Chimamanda. I cant' think of anyone else in this hall being that ' she'.Maybe's because i have spent so much of my time with everybody else they have lost their allure.Maybe i'm just being stupid, like with Celine. Maybe it's because she's hot– it's virtually impossible to unsee the looks and stares, even Juniors can't not notice her.Or maybe i really li
Recess is–sorry—break is over, before i can wink. He has corrected me like fify times since i last said 'recess'.Cool silence has overtaken the hallways again, like a cloud of warm fog. The place is a small barrack, with hefty seniors pacing the length and breadth of each class, slim pale cane-sticks are clutched like weapons of mass destruction. You could smell the burning energy radiating from their hosts; the unfortunate juniors whose classes they occupy. Fear and anxiety, so thick it drank the air. A hostage situation will look better."So i've been wondering, what's the meaning of your middle name.""Yara?""Yes.""It means little butterfly." That's what Mom called me. I remember her say it, with a smooth practiced ease that rolled off her tongue. Even i can't pronounce it like that.Chideziri tests it repeatedly until it sounds like 'gala'."It's yara," I say "not gala." I doubt my parents wanted
At school-over, after i didn't answer his first two "Guy, make we dey push." Ahmed practically yanked me out of the assembly hall by my joggers. I was so blissed-out that i didn't mind being dragged around. My mind is a prism, a glassy box full of Chimamandas. She's everywhere in my mind, every thought, every memory, every smile is saturated with her.I must have been looking stupid because Chantelle snapped her fingers repeatedly in my face."Do you care to join us, mere mortals, down here on earth." It's enough to yank me out of the green hills of the Federal republic of Amanda, Yara state.I glare at her. She makes a rude gesture with her fingers and smirks. This girl doesn't know when to piss on my parade.I grip the straps of my bag and hold on to stop me from running and whooping, or doing something even more childish.But the exhilaration doesn't last long, it dissipates like a bonfire doused with
After eating dinner–a huge cake of moi-moi i found in the fridge (Aunty seedy drove by when i wasn't in) and watching two episodes of MTV's Shuga Naija, i'm sprawled on the fur rug spread at the epicentre on the sitting room, looking through old albums on my phone.There's the picture of Lorita and i, at a Queens Christmas party, she has an over-sized santa cap on and a we are grinning like cheshire cats. And there's another, it was at a Bole festival, where got each others names painted on our faces, hers in gold lettering, mine in black.It only made sense, my skin is a light brown, so weightless it could be called yellow, and hers, so dark that at some point she jokingly started to call herself "Blackie". We were each others ying and yang, and if data and video calls prevail, we always will be.But i'm not placing my bet on video calls or any network service, because if you have lived my life you'll know that people die, and people leave a
I spend half the night waiting for Chimamanda to text. And the other half stalking her on facebook.When I type her full name into the search box a hundred names make a grid list. I scroll through till i am positive exasperation and frustration are two different levels of anger.Then i remember how she was about her middle name, so i put in her first name and middle name, and her profile pops up like an iconGod bless Mark Zuckerberg.My stalking game is on point. It's not really stalking though, more like watching.And this girl posts plenty. It feels awfully good to see her again, in my room, even if it's on a phone.There are hundred pics of her and her friends, and i think her dad, tens of her being goofy and having fun.The best is a Snapchat picture. She has dog ears and nose, and her hair is brushed out into a crazy mane that resembles a soft black cloud, both palms are pressed flat
Amanda:HeyChideziri:Hey youAmanda:It's me, Amanda, sorry i took all night.Chideziri:Of course i know it's you, I've been waiting for you like it's the second coming of ChristAmanda:SorryAmanda:It didn't think i would catch you awake. Why are you awake at this time? Like who stays awake past twelve.Chideziri: No 1. Sleep is for mortals. No 2. I am watching porn. No 3. People who watch porn.Amanda:As for numbers two and three? Come lemme tell you about Jesus.Chideziri:Woaw...... Am i talking to the rite person here? The girl i want to talk to sleeps durin sunday service. Pls give her the fone.Amanda:Low blow! Not fair! I didn't know this was a fight.Chideziri:Oh it is, btw dose who sleep off when the service
Here's the thing about collisions—they hurt. Concussion kind of hurt.No matter how long you have known they are coming, or how prepared you think you are, you are always in for a surprise, good or bad.It may be a weekday, and you are walking to school or riding to work, or the weekends and you're just at home; chilling.It could be a phone call, a gas leak, a knock on the front door with your ex telling you that you both had a child way back in secondary school.It could be fire, from the amber stained kerosene you bought at the junction for half the usual price.Something happens to something, like a catalyst.And then you are moving at increasing velocity, accelerating faster than you want to.And there are lights. Bright lights, just before the crash. Bright lights that help you see the bigger-frightening picture.Then Blam! Your life is altered, forever.
We couldn't be more alike. How many girls like rap, and what are the chances that those few that do aren't crazy for bounce music.By the lunch bell we are arguing fiercely. Subject matter:Who's doper between J.Cole and Eminem. Marshall Mathers can actually be rhymed with subject matter. Just look at that!She disagrees though, says J.cole's is better. Talk about heart break."Oh my God, are you serious right now? Have you heard for your eyes only? Let nas down? Nothing lasts forever? Stay? Tears for ODB? "She ticks her fingers off with each name—i shake my head at each.Truth is i have never heard the name J.cole, and when i finally admit it, the way she looks at me you would think i just confessed to child molestation."Wait." She says "you are being serious right now? You haven't heard cole, like ever?.She says it like i'm supposed to be ashamed.I am so not ashamed.&nb