LOGINIt's the boy from church, i can swear my life on it. I don't know how i didn't notice on the first day.
It's his red skin and girly eyes– i'll recognise them anywhere. He fidgets, taking it out on his pen, caressing its glassy surface and scrutinizing it with more intensity than an Avanti pen should be made to endure.
I had to leave my safe seat at the door when it became too unsafe for my liking a.k.a boys are hoes. This huge-boy (i think his name is Dike) with thick lips too red for his dark skin made it his sacred duty to pester my life.
I don't know why boys don't seem to get the memo, but there's a fine line between flirting and harassment.
Boy-girl's put every ounce of effort in his body into not looking at me, his eyes are everywhere, the windowsill, the marker board, the desk's plane, the glossy daylight swimming about in rays–anything but me.
I didn't see that one coming.
But i guess it's not everyday a 'shy' person winks at you in church though, so that counts for something.
His name is embossed on his note in a gorgeously precise slanting cursive (typical; pretty boy=pretty everything) : Obiatu Chideziri Precious.
He starts making a sketch at the back of a note and pretends to ignore me till the recess bell goes off.
It rains mad heavy all night. It is still raining by the time dawn ascends the horizon. I saw it all, from black to gray, then dark blue and later translucent turquoise; because after undoing my braids which were damp with rain and river water, and drying them as best as I could, I stayed up through out the night, texting Chideziri.It has been said once, that the best conversations happen around two-thirty a.m, when eyelids are drooping, when words are sincerest, and the awkward silences are not awkward at all.Amanda: ......Chideziri: Ikuku afaAmanda: What?! (Laughing emoji)Chideziri: Have you gotten home yet?Amanda: Don't try to change to the subject (finger pointing up emoji). What is that?Chideziri: Ikuku? (Grinning emoji) it means wind.Amanda: ??Chideziri: You run
CHIDEZIRIIt's past six when I get home. The house is as quiet as it always is. Only the rustling of the crawling plants at the fence can be heard. Daddy is at his usual spot, cuddled between the two ends of the long couch. He eyes me vehemently but doesn't say a word. For that I am grateful. He grunts in answer after I have greeted him, then goes back to listening to the news at six on his trusty radio, eyes closed, blissed out. He nearly looks peaceful, I swear. I had already braced myself for the tirade, so when it didn't come, fear is replaced by a suprised soothing relief. I ambled into my room as fast as fast goes and shut the door before he can change his mind. That night, I do not soak my clothes in a bucket of detergent water and wash it off in the bathroom how I normally do. I set it on the nail on which I hang my backpack and I breathe the underlying perfume of clean grass shimmering above the spicy smell of use. Amanda on me. Perfection in itself.
CHIDEZIRIIt's past six when I get home. The house is as quiet as it always is. Only the rustling of the crawling plants at the fence can be heard. Daddy is at his usual spot, cuddled between the two ends of the long couch. He eyes me vehemently but doesn't say a word. For that I am grateful. He grunts in answer after I have greeted him, then goes back to listening to the news at six on his trusty radio, eyes closed, blissed out. He nearly looks peaceful, I swear. I had already braced myself for the tirade, so when it didn't come, fear is replaced by a suprised soothing relief. I ambled into my room as fast as fast goes and shut the door before he can change his mind. That night, I do not soak my clothes in a bucket of detergent water and wash it off in the bathroom how I normally do. I set it on the nail on which I hang my backpack and I breathe the underlying perfume of clean grass shimmering above the spicy smell of use. Amanda on me. Perfection in itself.
CHIDEZIRIIt's past six when I get home. The house is as quiet as it always is. Only the rustling of the crawling plants at the fence can be heard. Daddy is at his usual spot, cuddled between the two ends of the long couch. He eyes me vehemently but doesn't say a word. For that I am grateful. He grunts in answer after I have greeted him, then goes back to listening to the news at six on his trusty radio, eyes closed, blissed out. He nearly looks peaceful, I swear. I had already braced myself for the tirade, so when it didn't come, fear is replaced by a suprised soothing relief. I ambled into my room as fast as fast goes and shut the door before he can change his mind. That night, I do not soak my clothes in a bucket of detergent water and wash it off in the bathroom how I normally do. I set it on the nail on which I hang my backpack and I breathe the underlying perfume of clean grass shimmering above the spicy smell of use. Amanda on me. Perfection in itself.
Daddy took me to school in the morning, himself. We drove in silence, he staring at the wheel, me staring out the window. When we drove past Elimgbu junction, I thought about the crossroads the four-way junction had created. One time, Dad told me that back then in the village, some people who believe in one deity or the other would go to a junction that doubles as a crossroads and they would make sacrifices there. He told me how he saw cowries and red brown blood on the coal tar when he went out for water—some times even a dead chicken or two in the middle of the road. He told me how he glimpsed that bizzare sight so many times that he became used to it. Still, His face contorted into a grimace when he said it and i knew he was thinking about all those wasted birds that someone could have eaten and been satisfied with. I thought of them, too. Although I had never seen such—i still have not—i was angry at them, whoever they were, for all that wastage.While zooming past t
Daddy took me to school in the morning, himself. We drove in silence, he staring at the wheel, me staring out the window. When we drove past Elimgbu junction, I thought about the crossroads the four-way junction had created. One time, Dad told me that back then in the village, some people who believe in one deity or the other would go to a junction that doubles as a crossroads and they would make sacrifices there. He told me how he saw cowries and red brown blood on the coal tar when he went out for water—some times even a dead chicken or two in the middle of the road. He told me how he glimpsed that bizzare sight so many times that he became used to it. Still, His face contorted into a grimace when he said it and i knew he was thinking about all those wasted birds that someone could have eaten and been satisfied with. I thought of them, too. Although I had never seen such—i still have not—i was angry at them, whoever they were, for all that wastage.While zooming past t