It had been decided between them. We would visit the court of appeal, but there wasn’t enough
money to do that.
My class teacher promised to run around
to see how
much she could raise; my aunt would do
the same.
“Hannah cannot go to jail, God forbid!”
my classteacher
said.
To bring up the case in the court of
appeal we had to
pay a certain amount. To also hasten up
the case we
paid another huge sum. Then the case
was heard in the
court of appeal first week of August. It
was adjourned
till the month of September after they
had rendered my
aunt and my teacher penniless.
My class teacher bought the clothing
material I would
need on my graduation day. I loved it so
much. She said
she couldn’t wait for that day to come.
The elites had been invited to the
graduation
ceremony. Even the incumbent governor
of the state
would be there. It would just be great.
To say that I was sad would be an
understatement.
What should I be happy about? My
mother would be
absent, yet she was the one always
reminding me of
the great event before me.
For the first time in my life, I did some
attachments. My
hair(or perhaps someone else’s hair)
settled on my
shoulders. One would think I was a
goddess. I had also
dabbed my lips in a pink ink. My
eyelashes were made
purplish. My class teacher had smeared
the inner part of
my dimples with red rouge. The earrings
on my ears,
they were like the size of the bangles
worn on my
wrists. She said I looked like a river
goddess.
I appeared like a bride. I paraded myself
before my
aunt.
“Aunty, am I not beatiful?” I asked her.
She gave a cold
response. I knew why- she doesn’t
support excessive
make-up. She’d have preferred I appear
natural.
I smacked my smooth lips as the event
unfolded. I was
going to present my poem. My face was
no longer a
smiling type.
Someone was at the high table–
Honourable Daniel as I
later got to know. His eyes weren’t
looking in the
direction of the graduands. His mind had
wandered far.
He stood up eventually and made for
that spot where
my aunt was sitting. He pulled at a seat
before her and I
could see them speak.
My class teacher was the MC of the day.
She announced
over the microphone that I had a poem
to recite. I was
welcomed upstage with claps. I wouldn’t
know if the
sound was thunderous or not, since all I
knew was
lightning and never thunder, except for
the fact that I’ve
seen it in books that thunder comes after
lightning.
I began my poem in sign language. First,
I pulled off my
graduation gown, scattered my hair and
scrubbed off
the paint on my lips. Then tears came in
drops. All
heads shook. They must have thought
that I was going
to present an elegy.
The DJ offered me a microphone.
Everybody laughed. It
took a little while before the ridiculous
DJ could realise
his folly.
With my hands in the air, I began:
Beside me sat a gaze
Her hands tied with rope
Then tears down my face
There seemed not a hope.
What could she rather say?
How would I hear her speak?
Darkness around us,
Light takes long to come
No offence, no defense,
Darkness prevailed for long.
The only sound to hear
Was gnashing of teeth.
For nothing we did
We suffered indeed
And in the end,
In prison she ended.
Better I had been dead
Than be at dead end.
Who have we offended?
None, yet we’re not defended
My mother remanded
Myself left upended
My father’s bad deed
Was what his wife demanded.
Nobody cared, nobody cared
Not even my God.
Judges in the court
Saw not beyond their noses
Convicting the just
Vindicating the guilty.
Is God for real?
Where was he when
The innocent suffer
And the guilty laugh?
There is never God
Or maybe God is an idol
He created me deaf
And dumbness with me
In the smoke of the earth
I stood to face terror
If there is God,
He is a partial one
I had broken into tears as I threw the
sheet of paper
away, dashing out of the stage. I was
running out of the
place. The whole place was in
pandemonium.
My class teachers’ lips had gone inches
apart. She
never knew my poem would end in a note
of
blasphemy. She must be feeling guilty
now that she had
used her voice to support blasphemy
since she was the
one interpreting my poem in voice
language.
My aunt’s face had folded up in
disappointment where
she was seated. She didn’t come after
me, knowing
quite well that the security men wouldn’t
let me leave.
I was at the gate asking for allowance.
“You can’t leave this premises, Rose,” the
boys scout at
the gate told me. He was one of our
school boys scout.
I knew his medicine–give Jackson a
hundred naira note
and he would pave way.
“Jackson, what do you want from me?” I
asked.
“The usual,” he replied. He tilted his head
to one side of
his lopsided neck. He was fond of that
posture. Jackson
is just about six feet tall, with a nose I
would call
oblong. He is slender and handsome.
I didn’t hesitate. I handed Jackson a
hundred naira note.
He gave me way.
It was the first time to be on the road all
by myself. I
couldn’t hear any sound. How would I
know if a car was
coming behind me when I wouldn’t hear
them horning.
Someone pushed me out of the road. I
had just escaped
being grinded to slurry by a gallivanting
‘Molue’. The
conductor was enraged, shouting. Who
knew what he
was saying?
Everyone just minded his or her business
on the busy
road of Ejigbo market. The only thing I
had to cope with
was their jostlings. Someone would just
push you aside
from behind.
Egbeda was my destination, but how
would I get there?
I couldn’t even hear the conductors
speak. How would I
hear them? How on earth would I get to
my destination
right now?
Everyone I approached to ask them to
show me the
way didn’t afford themselves a little time
of patience. I
scribbled what I wanted in a sheet of
paper. I would
give it to whoever cared.
The sun was hot on my head. It also
drizzled alongside
it. A tiger must be hiding somewhere in a
labour room,
I thought superstitiously.
A young boy of around eighteen came
close to me. He
was putting his mouth to use. I did what
my mouth
could do–sounding out my gibberish!
The boy was astounded, going by the
look on his face.
He was having a blue bag strapped to
his back. He
unzipped it and gave me a paper. He
pointed to the
paper and handed me the pen.
I wouldn’t need it, I gesticulated and
gave him the one
I had scribbled earlier. He read and
nodded.
He took me by the wrist and began to
walk me to the
Egbeda park. I didn’t like the way he held
me like a
baby. I am twelve for Christ sake!
I turned my face down and saw that the
boy was in a
big white pair of canvases. To me then,
everyone in
canvas was rich. It was Kitto people like
me wore to
school. Not that my father couldn’t
afford something
better, but only that I had no father, or
did I have any?
Rain began to come down in torrent. The
young
teenager held tighter to my wrist and fled
with me. He
wouldn’t even care if I fell and got
injured. We couldn’t
get to our destination–we just had to
pull up under a
shade to allow the rain stop.
Somebody’s image flashed through my
eyes. It looked
like Toyosi’s. She had just passed off like
a shadow. It
must be my imagination because I didn’t
see any
Toyosi around. All I saw was a bike
fleeing past me
with a passenger sitting at the back.
To Be Continue
