Entry 6:
Abby
Monday morning, Uncle and Mr 16 proceeded to his new school against Aunty’s advice. Uncle had decided to enrol him in a local school rather than the plush boarding school his parents had left tuition for. Uncle’s reasoning? The local school would “knock him into shape,” whereas the plush school would “empower him.”
Anyway, that afternoon, Uncle got a call from the school’s headteacher. Mr 16 was not in class and hadn’t been seen since the first lesson. Uncle was visibly upset, his voice shaking with rage as he dropped the phone.
“Abby, come here!” he yelled.
“Did he tell you where he was going or what he was planning to do?”
“Who?” I asked, feigning ignorance.
“Your big-headed cousin!” Uncle shouted.
“Oh… sorry, sir. No, he didn’t.”
He pushed me aside and stormed out.
Two hours later, he returned with Mr 16. I overheard him telling Aunty that Mr 16 had been found in an ice cream parlour, complaining bitterly that it was too hot in the classrooms and that the heat was frying his brain.
Uncle ordered him to kneel in the corner and raise his hands. Mr 16 was about to protest, but one look at Uncle’s eyes—probably remembering the hot slap he had received earlier—made him obey.
A few minutes in, he was swearing under his breath. He wasn’t very audible, but I could only imagine what he was muttering.
Aunty tried to intervene. “Let him off,” she pleaded.
But Uncle yelled, “Mind your own business! Mr 16 is my nephew and my responsibility.”
Two hours later, Mr 16 collapsed. At first, Uncle thought he was pretending and barked at him to get up. But Aunty ran over, shouting and shaking him.
“Abby, bring water!” she ordered.
I did as I was told. She splashed it on his face, but he didn’t wake up. By now, Uncle was visibly shaken. He grabbed Mr 16, put him in the back seat, and yelled for Aunty and me to get in the car. I was designated to hold his head still as Uncle raced to the hospital.
On arrival, Mr 16 was checked into the emergency unit. Slowly, he regained consciousness. The doctor asked Uncle to step aside for a private discussion, but Aunty refused.
“No, I want to know what’s wrong with him. I’m the one who will be taking care of him,” she said.
The doctor sighed. “He’ll be fine. He fainted from heat exhaustion. From what I gather, he’s not used to the climate here. Keeping him in a cool environment will prevent this from happening again.”
They thanked the doctor. Aunty turned to Uncle and said, “Look, dear, I’m not going to let you get us into trouble. This boy is not from here, and all these heavy-handed punishments aren’t helping. Enrol him in the school his parents paid for, because if anything happens to him, your sister won’t say you were helping her raise him right.”
Uncle didn’t know what to say. He just muttered, “Just bring him home in a taxi when he’s discharged. I’m going home.”
Hmmm…
Chris
Oh, before I forget—the Friday finally came. It was time for my Houdini move.
I got ready for school, picked up my school bag, hugged my naughty sisters and brother, and said my goodbyes as if I’d see them later.
When I reached the gate, Mr Sam was already waiting. He led me to his quarters, where I changed out of my uniform and picked up the bag he had shown me earlier. Then, we hopped onto his motorbike, and he took me to the bus station.
As we rode, I kept looking back, half-expecting my father to appear out of nowhere and yank me off the bike. My mind was a mess of emotions. On one hand, I was about to start a new phase of my life. On the other, I was leaving my family in limbo. How would they react?
My thoughts were interrupted when we arrived at the bus park. Mr Sam reassured me once again, handing me the name and picture of his cousin, who was also at the University of Ibadan and would be meeting me there.
Thirty minutes later, as the bus prepared to depart, he pulled me into a hug.
“Go change your destiny,” he said. “Make yourself proud.”
I thanked him nervously, boarded the bus, and watched him watching me as we pulled out of the dusty, untarred bus garage onto the secondary road that would take us to the expressway—and onwards to Lagos.
The journey took seven hours. The longest seven hours of my young life.
I arrived in the evening as the sun was setting. Mr Sam had told me to find the tyre repair man’s area. As I approached, a young man—who looked a lot like Mr Sam—came up to me.
“Hello, are you Chris from my cousin Sam?”
With relief, I replied, “Yes.”
He hugged me and told me to follow him.
We got into a rickety taxi, winding through traffic until we finally arrived at the gate of the University of Ibadan.
Towering above the entrance arch, I saw the words.
It still hadn’t sunk in.
He nudged me. “Come with me.”
We walked in, watching young people laughing and chatting. I had never seen anything so beautiful.
I glanced down at my worn trousers and faded shirt. I looked so shabby, so out of place. But just as I started feeling self-conscious, a campus bus arrived.
“We take this one,” he said. “Local taxis aren’t allowed beyond the gate.”
We got down near the Faculty of Science and walked behind the buildings until we reached some bungalows.
“These are the staff quarters,” he explained. “I stay with my uncle. You’ll stay in the boys’ quarters until school resumes, and you can register officially.”
“School officially starts in three months,” he added.
Hmmm…
