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Kolade, the whole gang and I
had been caught. And I hated that it was Mrs. Orosi, the long necked
mathematics teacher cum house mistress, who crept up on us. How had she known? She
probably heard the dorm door open. The thing always squeaked no matter how
gentle you were.
We knelt in the staff room the
next day, our hands stretched up to the sky. What I hated most about the punishment
was the way my armpits were exposed when I raised my arms. Those annoying male teachers
will ogle me like I am some slab of meat at Balogun market.
Their punishment meant nothing
to me. They could say whatever they wanted. Last night had been fun. It was my
third time of going out of the school compound with the gang and I felt so
proud to have had a partner this time. It was like being married, but not
entirely. Kolade acted like a gentleman. I wonder who taught him to be so
suave; his older brothers probably. He told me he had three of them! Shade and
Kenneth were the star couple, but I didn’t envy them.
My mouth curved in a smile as I
thought of the events of the night before, oblivious to the teachers’ remarks
about silly children who were too eager to eat the forbidden fruit. One said ‘Their
parents are to blame!’ Another said, ‘Ha! It is peer pressure o!’ I chuckled at
their confusion. Whatever.
Then I heard that familiar sound
of a shoe sole scraping the floor and I looked toward the door. My eyes widened
when I saw her. My heart did a triple jump and slammed against my ribcage. Who
had called her? How had she come so soon, all the way from Badagry? I looked
away hurriedly and buried my face in my chest, willing her to disappear. I
didn’t want to see the look on her face. The one that said she was disappointed
in me. The one that accused me, yet pleaded with me at the same time. I hated
to hurt her. And when she spoke I knew I couldn't wish her away. She was really here.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Akpan,” she greeted the head teacher.
Her voice had that slight
tremor in it. The one that turned to a full blown quiver anytime she was sad or
upset. The same one that sent daggers tearing through my adolescent heart. Oh,
God I hated to hurt her.
She stood in front of me and
bent down to peer into my face. My lips quivered at the look in her eyes.
“Queen, Ki lo tun se?” she asked in halting Yoruba. I lowered my arms,
clutched the cape of my uniform to my chest and sighed deeply, my face contorting
in what was a prelude to tears. Her voice rang loud and clear in my head, like
the ominous school bell announcing the beginning of Maths class. It sent dread
into my soul.
“Why do you keep doing this
kind of thing? After all I told you last time?” She bent closer to me and I
could feel her breath on my face; her warm breath that both comforted and
frightened me. I covered my face with both hands and wept, the tears flowed
fast and free, running down my arms.
After what seemed like hours I heard the
sound of her feet walking away as she said, “Mr. Akpan, if I beat her now, she
will probably faint.” She knew the power she wielded over me. Yet I knew she
loved me. I looked up at her just as she turned back at the door. “Please
handle that for me, just be gentle,” she shook her head at me as if wondering
how she came to be burdened with a daughter like me, “she’s all I've got.” She
scraped the soles of her shoes on the floor again as she made her way out,
probably to the car where Sule, the very docile driver would be waiting.
Two days later, on the first
day of our mid-term break, I stepped into the house, unsure. I had agonized
about seeing her again. I wondered what she would do. Would she punish me
again? Would she beat me herself now? She would most certainly not have
remembered my birthday the day before. She didn’t call the house mistress to
ask to speak to me as usual. I had waited all day. Would she talk to me now?
Ignore me? The questions chased themselves around in my mind till I was weary
with the anxiety.
Naturally, I expected
everything but the table set with delicacies and drinks and a huge birthday
cake. Anything but the colourful card with my name emblazoned on it; everything
but her wide smile as she gathered me into her arms, tenderly, like I was the
best thing in the world. Tears pooled at the corner of my eyes and I didn’t
even fight to keep them back from rolling down my cheeks and to my lips. I
tasted the harsh saltiness of my misdeeds in those tears.
Later that night I turned to
her as we sat watching TV, and asked the question that had been burning in my
heart since she came to the school.
“You’re not sending me back?” I
waited. She smiled; a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. I lowered my head
and fiddled with the hem of my skirt. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. Maybe I
was way past redemption now. I half expected her to say, ‘after your birthday.’
But she only shook her head and
said, “No dear, you belong with me now. Surely you know that.”
A feeling of warmth flooded my
heart. And I couldn’t help myself as my shoulders shook mildly, tears
threatening to flow unbidden. Her words comforted me, frightened me, assured me
and exposed my foolishness. The warmth in her voice reached beyond my mind, way
past my soul. It touched the very core of my being. And I couldn’t help but
remember what I had felt on that Sunday evening a few years ago when she stood
at the orphanage smiling at me.
She had looked at me, a scrawny eighteen year
old, left to scavenge her way through life; condemned to have no education or
loving guidance because I was already set in my ways. I had felt her warmth
reach out across the room, wrapping me in such love ad protection as I have
never known. Her next words had sealed the deal and I was ready to follow her
to the ends of the earth.
“Yes, she is the one. I will adopt her.”
Still I kept on fiddling with the hem of my skirt, vowing in my heart never to hurt her again. But even as I mulled the words over in my mind, I knew I needed more than my own will to follow through. I leaned into her and sighed, drinking in the freshness of her presence; the assurance of her thoughtfulness. I would keep her aura with me, I would think about her every time and hopefully, when my demons rise, I will fight them, and I will win.
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| flickr.com |
..but you received the Spirit of Adoption (sonship) and by him we cry “Abba, Father!” Romans 8:15
Roy.
