Naija Campus Tales

1 Naija Campus Tales Omoya Yinka Simult

Omoya Yinka Simult

NAIJA CAMPUSTALESTALESTALESTALES

Omoya Yinka Simult

ka Simult

NAIJA CAMPUS


Omoya Yinka Simult

NAIJA CAMPUS TALESTALESTALESTALES


Naija Campus Tales Published 2015

Copyright Statement Copyright © 2015 Omoya Yinka Simult {www.omoyasimult.com}

The right of Omoya Yinka Simult to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright

laws. All rights reserved.

Disclaimer These stories are works of fiction. All incidents

and people in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to any persons or situation is

simply coincidental.

Editing: Ife Watson Design & Layout: Tope Akintayo {www.imelbin.com}

Photos: Tope Akintayo, used with permission


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CONTENTS

PREFACE 6

1. PASTOR GABRIEL 8

2. EXAM FEVER 14

3. THE CLOSED GATES 20

4. SUG ELECTION PALAVER 25

5. OPERATION SEARCH 29

6. FIRE! 34

7. LIFE AND DEATH 38

8. DISASTER OR COMEDY? 43

9. LADIES AS FRUIT SALAD 49

10. NATURAL HAIRMANCE 54


PREFACE

IN MARCH 2015, I was employed as a columnist on a news

website, www.levitatenaija.com. My stint with Levitate Naija

lasted for three months, during which I churned out creative

pieces on the experiences of a Nigerian undergraduate on

campus. Under the pen name of Dele Davids, week after week, I

thrilled my readers with spellbinding stories, narrating the

commonplace, the bizarre and the humourous occurrences that

pervaded Nigerian universities.

For the reading pleasure of friends, well-wishers and lovers

of good Literature, who would like to have a peep into the

university world- perhaps to relive the experiences or to

vicariously savour its liveliness- I have made a compelling

compendium of these campus tales.

However, this compendium should not be read as a novella,

for each chapter is independent of the other, and in no means a

continuation of it.

You can only have a great read.

Omoya Yinka Simult

August 2015



ST. MICHAELS is a hostel to be. Students are allocated rooms at

random, without any consideration for their gender or the

psychological burden this may impose on them. The caretaker

believes the students should be exposed to what obtains in real

life, where one might have to share the same toilet with some fat

woman and four other tenants in a 'face-me-I

apartment.

"Abeg shift make I hear word jare, you dis yeye boys and

girls wey suppose to still dey suck ya mama breast," the

caretaker had said dismissively, hissing at the gentleman we

delegated to express our grievances on the issue years ago. Ever

since, nobody has had the effrontery to mention the problem in

his presence again. I do not know whether to regard it as good

luck or bad luck, but a lady is the occupant of the room adjacent

to mine. Her name is Kemi.

Kemi is a dark, good-looking lady with average features. She

has good communicative skills and interacts well. Very often,

when Ade and I feel too lazy to cook, or when I am fed up with

noodles, I remember to call at her room, armed with the

ostensible excuse of a chat or a scrabble game, but certain my

tummy would not leave the same way it came. Kai, that lady dey

cook!

PASTOR GABRIEL

Omoya Yinka Simult

is a hostel to be. Students are allocated rooms at

random, without any consideration for their gender or the

psychological burden this may impose on them. The caretaker

believes the students should be exposed to what obtains in real

have to share the same toilet with some fat

I-face-you'

"Abeg shift make I hear word jare, you dis yeye boys and

girls wey suppose to still dey suck ya mama breast," the

hissing at the gentleman we

delegated to express our grievances on the issue years ago. Ever

since, nobody has had the effrontery to mention the problem in

his presence again. I do not know whether to regard it as good

occupant of the room adjacent

looking lady with average features. She

has good communicative skills and interacts well. Very often,

when Ade and I feel too lazy to cook, or when I am fed up with

member to call at her room, armed with the

ostensible excuse of a chat or a scrabble game, but certain my

Kai, that lady dey


The only problem with having Kemi as a next-door

neighbour is that I am now constrained to behave like a

gentleman. There is this inexplicable propensity to impress that

has engulfed me, one almost bordering on insecurity. I cannot

dress with the care-freeness peculiar to guys when in their

closets anymore. I cannot shout or comport myself in that

roguish manner for which guys are known when excited. I now

endeavour to always keep my room neat because Kemi may

stray in anytime, challenging me to a game of chess. It is so

much pretence. I can't even be myself. And whenever Kemi

decides to put on her bum shorts and a camisole while playing

chess with me, I know I would lose the game, because there are

more fascinating things to feed the eyes on than some figurines

on a magnetic checkered board.

Of course, I do not feel the same way about the two other

neighbours of mine. Segun's room is just opposite mine. A

happy-go-lucky student, Segun would get into action on a hot

afternoon, switch on his standing fan and blare out music with

his sound system, so loud that one would feel the ground vibrate

under one's feet. We have tried to curtail this noise pollution for

which he is notorious, but he never reasons with us. He believes

he hasn't spent tens of thousands to acquire a powerful sound

system just to have it decorate his room. So, we have learnt to

tolerate this thorn in our side, because we can't afford to have

the caretaker evict him. Without such a nuisance like him, the

hostel would be staggeringly boring.

Gabriel's case is a different kettle of fish. His room is just

before mine if you enter through the gate. He is a devout

chorister of a particular campus fellowship known for its

monkish demeanour. Every morning, as early as six, he carries a

megaphone and shouts around the streets, starting from St.


Michaels in Satellite Phase 2, all the way down to Osekita,

admonishing unbelievers to turn from their evil ways and

embrace the love of Christ. I have long put off the alarm on my

phone; I now bet on Gabriel's morning cry to arouse me from my

deepest slumbers.

Last week Saturday, while I lay on my bed, savouring the

relaxation and peace the weekend afforded me, I heard a soft

knock on my door. It was Gabriel.

"To what do I owe this august visit, Pastor Gabriel," I said, as

I cleared a portion for him to sit on my bed.

"Oh, nothing much, Davids. I have only come to discuss a

matter or two with you," he replied, as his butt sank into my bed.

"Ah, a pastor is always welcome here. Would you like a

glass of water before you start then? By God, I would have loved

to offer you something better, this being your first visit, but these

are difficult times, you know."

"Oh, never mind, never mind. I am okay. God bless you."

I sat up, then reclined on my pillow that was propped against

the wall, so I could look into his eyes as he spoke.

"I'm all ears," I informed, my hands folded across my

chest.

"Davids, I have observed you rarely go to church these days.

I am not here to question your decisions, but I would like to

know what has prompted this new posture of indifference to

church services," he said.

"Nothing," I answered.

"Nothing?" His eyebrows arched upwards to signal disbelief.

"Yes."

From my monosyllabic responses, Gabriel could sense my

displeasure, so he changed the subject of discussion.


"Alright then," his voice was calm now, almost pleading.

"We have a special programme in my church this evening, from

8.00pm till midnight, and I would love to have you there.

Please."

He clasped his hands and looked into my eyes for an

affirmative response. I thought about it for some seconds, then

an idea flashed across my mind.

"I'd attend on one condition." I smiled.

"What condition?"

"You must follow me to a get-together this afternoon."

"Just a get-together? Nothing more?" He shot me a skeptic

look.

"Yeah, nothing more. Something simple," I reassured him.

He paused for a second and moved his eyeballs skywards, as if

giving the condition some consideration.

"It's okay, so far we'd still go to church together tonight," he

agreed. "What time?"

"4.00pm. We'd be back by seven. Deal?"

"Deal."

Having reached an agreement with me, Gabriel left my room

and went about inviting other occupants of St. Michaels to his

church programme. By 3.30 pm, I had dressed up and was

prepared when Gabriel came in. He wore a well-ironed blue

shirt, which he tucked neatly into black trousers. We strolled out

of St. Michaels and went down Satellite Phase 2, where we

would get a bus to town. The get-together, organised by Ekiti

Youth Progressives, was to be held at the famous Afe Babalola

Foundation Civic Centre, Adebayo, Ado. It was an initiative to

bring together students of the tertiary institutions in Ekiti State.

They had started by the time we got there. The hall was

teeming with youths dressed in colourful attires. It was an


electric occasion, as young talents came on stage to thrill the

audience. There was comedy, choreography, spoken word

performance, musical rendition, beauty parade and what-have-

you. Snacks and alcohol and foods were available in excess. It

was the best organised social function I had ever attended.

Youths could do incredible things when they are determined, I’d

thought to myself.

Bottles of wines, alcohol and water were on every table.

Gabriel poured some water in a glass cup for himself. As a born-

again Christian, he said he would not taste alcohol. I agreed with

him. Because I had longed for alcohol for a long time, I reached

out to one to refresh my taste. The bottle my hand first touched

looked expensive, and I liked it because the liquid inside was

colourless. So, I filled my glass cup with it.

It was time for comedy. The comedian who came upstage

got the audience rolling in the aisle right from the onset with his

costume. He wore agbada with tie and a face cap. Like a clown,

he churned out hysterical jokes. One of his jokes got Gabriel

laughing so hard that tears streamed down his cheeks, while his

chest heaved up and down out of excitement. After that, a

violent cough seized him. To ease the cough, he reached out to a

glass cup on the table and downed the content in quick gulps.

He stopped all of sudden, flicking his tongue in and out, as if to

determine the taste of the liquid.

He had drunk from the wrong cup. Pastor Gabriel had just

gulped down my cup of Ciroc, the inebriating vodka with 40%

alcohol! I burst into laughter. I was going to have more drama

for the evening than I had imagined.

For several minutes, the alcohol did not have any effect on

him. But when it began to take its toll, it was in a way I never

expected. The DJ changed the song to "Aye" by Davido. Gabriel


jumped up from his seat, moved his waist to the rhythm and

sang along with a tone of familiarity. I could hardly believe my

eyes. I brought out my phone and recorded as Gabriel displayed

various dance steps that one would never think a sanctimonious

Christian could know.

When the DJ attempted to put off the music, Gabriel would

not hear of it. He shouted at the top of his voice that the music be

continued. Heads turned in his direction. The DJ ignored him

and stopped it anyway. Gabriel was so vexed he charged at the

DJ, wielding a bottle, his eyes blazing terror. There was

commotion in the hall. People scampered away from Gabriel's

path. Even the DJ had vamoosed.

It happened so fast I could not figure out how it came about.

Click! Click! I heard metals snapping against one another. A

pair of handcuffs appeared on Pastor Gabriel's wrists.


NOW THAT exams are around the corner, the atmosphere of

the university has become more tensed than ever. I have taken

quite a number of semester exams since I got admitted into the

university, but a particular one made an indelible impression on

my memory. It has stuck to me like a stubborn stain that refuses

to be erased from a white garment.

It was during my first semester exam in the university. Fresh

from secondary school, I had not yet understood the intricacies

of campus life. For the first time since I had been born, far away

from home and the prying eyes of family members, I was left to

myself to make all the decisions that would carve out the course

of my life for the next six years.

Sometimes, I would wake up in the morning and smile to

myself, happy that Mummy was not around to arouse me from

sleep by 5.00 am for morning devotion. Other times, I would get

very sad, because the absence of Mummy also meant I now

needed to bother about what to eat for breakfast and how to go

about it.

It was thrilling at first, but it was also daunting. I found it

thrilling because I could decide what activities I would partake

in for the day. I could wake up and choose to get preoccupied

with my smartphone, chatting and checking different gossip and

sport websites all day, without the apprehension that some

EXAM FEVER

Omoya Yinka Simult

exams are around the corner, the atmosphere of

the university has become more tensed than ever. I have taken

quite a number of semester exams since I got admitted into the

university, but a particular one made an indelible impression on

stuck to me like a stubborn stain that refuses

It was during my first semester exam in the university. Fresh

from secondary school, I had not yet understood the intricacies

een born, far away

from home and the prying eyes of family members, I was left to

myself to make all the decisions that would carve out the course

Sometimes, I would wake up in the morning and smile to

Mummy was not around to arouse me from

sleep by 5.00 am for morning devotion. Other times, I would get

very sad, because the absence of Mummy also meant I now

needed to bother about what to eat for breakfast and how to go

st, but it was also daunting. I found it

thrilling because I could decide what activities I would partake

in for the day. I could wake up and choose to get preoccupied

with my smartphone, chatting and checking different gossip and

ithout the apprehension that some


disgruntled elder would come and yank my ears for being so

lazy.

I attended lectures if I liked, did assignments if I felt

favourably disposed to them, and copied notes only if my spirits

led me. After all, I was in the university, where it was said that

nothing really mattered, where lecturers would never trouble

themselves with such 'trifles' as a student who was absent from

class or one who had no note. This unrestrained freedom did not

come without a foreboding too. I would often reconsider the

audacity of my decisions and wonder if I had made the right

choices. There were periods I felt daunted, and would often wish

I had an elder who could bear this burden of decision-making on

my behalf.

Having set out on a wrong foot, buoyed with nonchalance

towards academics, it was not surprising that the first semester

examinations caught me unawares. At the beginning, I was

unperturbed. I thought examinations were the same everywhere.

I felt it would be like my secondary school days, where I never

started reading until examinations were few days away. So, four

days to the exam, I went about getting the course materials and

notes from the serious students in my class, hoping to skim

through the semester work in a matter of hours. I could not be

more shocked when I realised each course had a whole textbook

or an imposing volume of handouts to be studied before a pass

could be guaranteed in it. Oh my!

After the reality dawned on me, I knew I just had to shelve

whatever dreams I had of making a First Class that semester. It

was impossible that I should eat my cake and have it. I had lost

too much time to fun; too many precious hours I had wasted

basking in the euphoria that came with my liberty. The only

option I had left was to try not to fail any course. It would be too


early to start piling up carry-overs, it seemed. So, I buckled

down. Besides, to fail a course as a medical student in the first

year meant a forfeiture of my admission into that much-sought-

after department. I was not set for that.

It was in the midst of the unfortunate circumstance which I

had put myself that I began to observe the ways of more

experienced undergraduates and how they went about

preparation for exam. I found it quite amusing to see how the

release of the examination timetable brought a lot of students

back to God. Students who always stayed back in the hostel on

Sundays, while their mates hurried off to church for worship,

suddenly had a change of mind. Of their own volition, the guys

among them would now put on ironed shirts and trousers, tuck

in and even knot ties, bible in hand, humming soulful hymns on

their way to church, as though they had always been committed

to keeping the Sabbath day holy. They would return at noon,

blessing in the name of God everyone who crossed their paths,

before locking themselves up in their rooms where they prayed

in loud voices, uttering sounds that I, and maybe they

themselves, could not comprehend. Who says God cannot be

bribed?

As I strove to make credits in my courses, since distinctions

had now become a long shot, I soon learnt to leave the comfort

of my bed at night for some godforsaken location, where I could

have enough mosquitoes and cold to bother with, lest sleep

should get the better of me when I ought to study.

It was what we called 'TDB', an initialism of sorts that meant

'Till Day Breaks', often used to refer to burning the midnight oil.

Mind you, one would be much mistaken should he think

reading was all that occurred at this godforsaken location for

TDB. Suffice to say I was taken aback the first day I observed a


guy who came over for the ostensible reason of studying, only to

flirt all night with a caramel-skinned lady endowed with a

bosom that called for a second look. But even that was

pardonable if one were to consider the retards that came there to

sleep all night, hardly able to read a page to the end, when they

could have just stayed back and enjoyed the warmth of their

rooms.

There were a number of things for which I had disregard as

the exams drew near. One of such was my appearance. I would

wear a shirt for no less than three days. My hair was in perpetual

disarray. Many were the days I could not afford a decent bath.

Every minute had become precious. Another was my love

escapade with Linda. Yes, Linda. I was yet to meet my present

girlfriend, Bolade, then. Linda was my girlfriend in part one. As

the exams approached, I slashed down the attention I’d been

giving her. No more night calls, no more amorous messages, no

more eating out. But the lady was understanding; she made up

for my lapses and never allowed the distance I orchestrated

quench the love we shared. Till today, I would often look back

and regret the day she called it quits with me. Nevertheless,

Bolade remains a worthy consolation.

When the exams finally began, they marked the climax of

the whole frenzy. I saw in the exam hall people I had never met,

who claimed to be course mates with me. I could never have

envisaged we were so many. Phew! The exam hall was a drama

stage.

I was stunned by the ease and ingenuity with which

students cheated. As noiseless as drones, tiny scribbled sheets

flew from different angles. Ladies copied out answers earlier

dubbed on their laps. Guys who had the guts retrieved their

phones from wherever they had been kept before entering the


hall. Whispers mumbled in a hurry wafted past my ears like

flies. Necks stretched. Heads turned. Eyes rolled. Answer sheets

changed hands. I saw them all.

The tension subsided when the exams ended, though. Still,

there were students who went to churches to follow up their

exam scripts with prayers. Such would seek for favour in the

eyes of God and the lecturer. They would bind and cast

whatever spirit that might want to make the lecturer have a

scuffle with his wife or be drunk when it was time to mark their

scripts. But there were also others who practised the 'que sera

sera' principle. This set of students only made merry after the

exam, threw parties and had fun, willing to embrace whatever

results fate brought their way.

But none of the above intriguing tales would bear claim to

the remarkability of that semester as a joke taken too far. Having

concluded the semester exams, most students stayed back in

school to know what would become of their results. On one of

such days, Ade went to school to get news on Chemistry 101, a

four-unit course that wiped smiles away from freshers' faces. I

knew I hadn't performed well in the exam, but the worst grade I

anticipated nonetheless was a C. Imagine the trepidation that

seized me when Ade returned, looking dejected, his chin

dropping to his chest.

"O boy, wahala dey o," he said.

My breathing became forced. "Which kain wahala?" I

managed to ask, as a chilling spasm ran through my body.

"Guy, you flop Chemistry 101 o. Na F dem give you." His

voice sounded like some distant whispers, yet it kept on ringing

in my head.

"F ke? My God!" I fell on my knees, my two hands raised to

the heavens, like one about to make a sorrowful petition.


Seeing my reaction, Ade burst into a hearty laughter,

jumping up and bending over.

"O boy, na joke o. Na C you get," he declared.


WHEN I left St Michaels hostel in Satellite Phase 2 this morning,

I had the sole intention of making it to the College of Medicine

before 8.00 am. Hell, I never could have thought something was

going to stop me from entering the school gate today, let alone

cause me to miss the lecture entirely. We were meant to have

Medical Biochemistry at precisely 8.00 am, and the lecturer is

notorious for his strict intolerance for lateness. He shuts the door

by eight on the dot, and any student who comes later than that is

certain to lurk around the lecture theatre for the next couple of

hours. Medical Biochemistry is the nightmare of medical

students. If you doubt me, go and make enquiries. Those

annoying chemical structures and compounds, whose names all

seem to sound alike, have never for once endeared me to the

course. But I am not ready to fail it, either. That explains why I

had my handbag firmly held in the crook of my arm as I hurried

out of my room by thirty past seven this morning.

Everything about the morning was normal, save for one

thing I was soon going to discover. As I stepped out of my

hostel, the sight of the sea of students trooping out from

different directions reminded me I was about to set out on

another day riddled with stress and frustration in a Nigerian

university. I saw agile guys in denim trousers and T-shirts, with

their bags strapped to their backs, half-walking, half

THE CLOSED GATES

Omoya Yinka Simult

left St Michaels hostel in Satellite Phase 2 this morning,

n of making it to the College of Medicine

before 8.00 am. Hell, I never could have thought something was

going to stop me from entering the school gate today, let alone

cause me to miss the lecture entirely. We were meant to have

ecisely 8.00 am, and the lecturer is

notorious for his strict intolerance for lateness. He shuts the door

by eight on the dot, and any student who comes later than that is

certain to lurk around the lecture theatre for the next couple of

chemistry is the nightmare of medical

students. If you doubt me, go and make enquiries. Those

annoying chemical structures and compounds, whose names all

seem to sound alike, have never for once endeared me to the

her. That explains why I

had my handbag firmly held in the crook of my arm as I hurried

Everything about the morning was normal, save for one

thing I was soon going to discover. As I stepped out of my

l, the sight of the sea of students trooping out from

different directions reminded me I was about to set out on

another day riddled with stress and frustration in a Nigerian

shirts, with

walking, half-running.


Now and then, few motorcycles would ride by, hooting nonstop,

as though they were bound for some emergency services. People

were pushing and shoving, walking as fast as their legs could

allow them. And I wasn't left out in this seeming madness.

From afar, after trekking for fifteen minutes, I could see the

massive school gate. The architectural design of the gate is what

buffs would call 'state-of-the-art'. Towering above all, held in

position by two strong pillars, the engraving 'Ekiti State

University, Ado-Ekiti' hangs proudly in the air. I lowered my

gaze from the engraving and saw to my utter consternation a big

padlock firmly holding the gates together. What was happening?

Why would the university gate be locked on a Monday

morning? Had the institution suddenly begun to punish

latecomers? "Inconceivable!" I spat.

As zillion questions raced through my mind, I began to take

in the details of my surroundings more carefully. All of a

sudden, it occurred to me I wasn't the only one standing by the

gate of the university. From all angles, I could see countless

number of heads. I would not have argued had somebody told

me Obama was visiting EKSU or that Manchester would be

playing Chelsea on the school pitch. I had always heard Ekiti

people loved education; the mammoth crowd I saw was the

proof.

I felt there must be some explanation for this strange

happening. I turned to the lady behind me and asked if she

knew what the mayhem was all about. She shook her head. I

asked two other people. They both shook their heads too. I was

beginning to get nervous. A guy few metres away was shouting

at the top of his voice, throwing his hands up in disgust and

frowning his face. Somehow, I guessed he knew what the fuss

was about, so I walked up to him.


"Shey you don pay your school fee ni?" he boomed out in

pidgin English, in that customary manner Nigerians answer

questions with questions. I arched my eyebrows; I could not see

the correlation between the question I’d asked him and the

question he was responding with. He sensed my dilemma and

offered an explanation.

"See, two weeks ago, the VC talk sey any pesin wey never

pay im school fee go dey pay N5000 fine per week," he started

with an almost contagious enthusiasm, gesticulating with his

hands and accentuating his words with a vigorous movement of

his head. Oh my! I feared his head was going to come off for a

moment. His head was full of hair, unkempt but still likable.

"Na today e reach two weeks since e talk am. In short, for

pesin wey never pay, school fee don increase with N10,000 be

that." After this utterance, he contorted his face like that of a

child who was being forced to take a bitter concoction. "Money

wey persin no fit pay before sef, e com dey increase am again.

Na im make students to dey protest so. No school today so. We

go scatter everything!" he concluded, taking his hands apart

menacingly, to emphasize his threat.

His information was helpful. When I pricked up my ears

enough, I could hear the fainting chants of students singing, "We

no go gree o, we no go gree. Lailai lailai, we no go gree!" Some of

the protesting students carried placards, while others held green

leaves above their heads. They were marching away from the

school. I heard someone say they were heading for the

governor's office to make known their grievances. I prayed

silently that they find favour in the eyes of the Governor, for I

was also yet to pay my school fees. "We are still gathering the

money," my father had said the last time I asked. Yes, 'gathering'


was the word he used, as though school fees were some logs of

firewood to be gathered.

Another group of students began singing right behind me. It

seemed the morning was going to be more interesting than I

thought. Medical Biochemistry could go to hell; this was fun. I

played the song along with them in my heart: "Solidarity

forever, solidarity forever, solidarity forever, we shall always

fight for our rights." I was about asking what rights the students

were fighting for at that moment when I remembered that every

Nigerian was supposed to be entitled to affordable and

qualitative education.

A lady dropped a wooden box with transparent glass sides

at my feet. She sold out eggrolls and meat pies to some guys.

One of them asked the hawker for 'jara'. He reminded her that it

was highly probable her eggrolls and meat pies would serve as

dinner for her children and still waste away nonetheless, because

the school was closed and so no good market for the day. The

lady nodded with a sad face and stuck a meat pie right away in

his outstretched hand before he would pronounce more negative

words into her market. Things were bad as they were already,

and she didn't need a glutton to make them worse with his

runny mouth. She collected her money and hurried away.

I felt sorry for her, but she was not to be pitied as much as

those local food vendors who sell cheap food to the students in

the school. Christ, those women must have started cooking as

early as four, without a foreknowledge that the school would be

shut down for the day. What a loss!

Grahn... Grahn... Grahn... Grahn...

My phone was ringing. It was Bolade, my girlfriend. Our

relationship has been strained for a number of months now. She

keeps complaining I hardly have time for her again. I never


mince words in daring her to inform the provost to warn his

lecturers not to kill us with work. I think that does the trick; she

keeps silent as soon as I say that.

"Hello, honey," I answered the call.

"Hello, sweetie. Where are you now?" she asked.

"Around the school gate," I replied.

"Come on, let's meet at Prosperous. Today is as good as free.

I have something important to discuss with you." Her voice

sounded serious.

"What's it? Em, what time?" I was getting tensed up.

"Say, 10.00 a.m. No time for questions now. Just come."

"Okay. I'll be with you shortly."

"Better." She cut the call without saying the customary 'I love

you.'

Something was amiss. I knew it. But what could it be?


LAST FRIDAY, as I was returning from class, fagged out and

hungry, a funny-looking lad in baggy trousers walked up to me

and stuffed a handbill in my right hand. I looked down at the

loose-printed sheet, designed with lousy colours and eye

catching calligraphy, and looked up at the lad with my eyebrows

arched, demanding an explanation for this unrequested burden

he had thrust on me.

Like a child who had been made to learn by rote and w

now being asked to make a recital, he burst into a jabber: "Good

evening, bros. I am Femi Ajala, popularly known as Ajasco. I am

contesting for the post of the Student Union treasurer. I've come

to solicit for your vote, support and ..."

"Shh!" I cut him short, putting my index finger across my

lips. In his presence, I scrunched the handbill into a ball and

tossed it into the nearest bin. I walked away, leaving him

transfixed.

I had just left Biochemistry class, where the lecturer had

disclosed the result of the last test we wrote. As usual, even

though I hadn't failed, my result in the course was not

impressive. Hence, it was understandable that I was in a bad

mood when this funny-looking guy approached me, blabbering

about some goddamn post for which he wanted to contest.

Someone had to bear the brunt of my displeasure with the test

SUG ELECTION PALAVER

Omoya Yinka Simult

, as I was returning from class, fagged out and

looking lad in baggy trousers walked up to me

and stuffed a handbill in my right hand. I looked down at the

printed sheet, designed with lousy colours and eye-

catching calligraphy, and looked up at the lad with my eyebrows

arched, demanding an explanation for this unrequested burden

Like a child who had been made to learn by rote and was

now being asked to make a recital, he burst into a jabber: "Good

evening, bros. I am Femi Ajala, popularly known as Ajasco. I am

contesting for the post of the Student Union treasurer. I've come

m short, putting my index finger across my

lips. In his presence, I scrunched the handbill into a ball and

tossed it into the nearest bin. I walked away, leaving him

I had just left Biochemistry class, where the lecturer had

t of the last test we wrote. As usual, even

though I hadn't failed, my result in the course was not

impressive. Hence, it was understandable that I was in a bad

looking guy approached me, blabbering

wanted to contest.

Someone had to bear the brunt of my displeasure with the test

SUG ELECTION PALAVER


outcome, and he was unlucky to have chosen such an

inauspicious moment to canvass for my vote. Quite a pity!

On the other hand, the elections for various posts of the

Student Union Government are now approaching. The school

vicinity has taken a different look already. Now, whether you

are seated in a lecture theatre or having a leisurely walk on the

campus street, you can be almost certain that a picture of an

'overphotoshopped' smiling face of some greedy aspirant is

staring at you. The school only lifted the ban on campaigns two

weeks ago, but the way posters have refaced every nook and

cranny, one would think it has been ages since the campaign

began in top gear.

There are four aspirants contesting for the presidency of the

Students Union. However, as we had in the just concluded

general elections that saw Buhari in, it is already known that the

battle is actually between the two popular candidates. Wherever

two or more students are now gathered for a debate, shouting at

one another at the top of their voices, I can bet my left arm that

school politics is the bone of contention. Everybody seems to

have an opinion. Everybody seems convinced of their own right

candidate.

As much as the frenzy heralding the election is fun, it is also

a nuisance. Along the way to my hostel, the zebra crossing on

the tarred road has been replaced with bold imprints of aspirants

who, having noted that wall posters may not provide enough

publicity after all, have resorted to complementing their efforts

by scribbling their campaign mantras and aliases on the floor.

The ingenuity with which the aspirants canvass for votes and

make themselves more popular beats me. Sometimes, you see a

sport car running at top speed suddenly halt in its track. The car

windows are wound down and an earsplitting music starts


blaring out. Just when you begin to wonder what the fuss is

about, a jingle begins to play, praising an aspirant to the

heavens, and a rally is soon started.

On Saturday, Ade told me he was waylaid by some strange

guys who had mortal weapons on them. They had stopped him

at that notorious, dark corner around Satellite Phase 2 to ask him

who he was going to vote as SU president in the upcoming

election. Being a smart guy, Ade was cautious enough not to

mention any candidate in particular, because he did not know

what answer would be pleasing to them. Instead, he told them

he was yet to make up his mind, and that he would welcome

whatever suggestions they had. They applauded Ade's reply,

and persuaded him to support their candidate. Ade nodded in

agreement and was soon out of trouble's way.

When Ade narrated the incident to me, I didn't take him

seriously. For all I cared, he could have been making another

expensive joke. Cock and bull stories were never above him. But

I soon disposed of my skepticism when I witnessed a scene as I

was coming from fellowship the next day. It was around the

School Gate area. Two hefty young men- presumably students,

bare-chested, with sweat dripping down their backs- faced each

other and exchanged heated words, as a small crowd tried to

pull them apart. Now and then, one of them would break free

and charge at the other, and the peacemakers would catch up

with him and hold him back again.

I was not there when the fight began, but I could tell it had

been a messy one. The lips of both of them were swollen, and the

nose of the darker of the duo dripped with blood. I asked one of

the onlookers what caused the fight, and I was shocked to know

it had something to do with the upcoming election. In the course

of a debate on which aspirant was more capable, the darker guy


had called the other's candidate a "greedy, visionless thief" who

was only contesting to gratify his avarice. That didn't go down

well with the other, so he asked Mr. Dark whether it was from

his poor father, who could hardly fend for his family, that the

candidate he called a thief had stolen. An impetuous uppercut

that sent the other sprawling had been Mr. Dark's voiceless

response, and so the fight began.

Now that an onlooker who witnessed the fight from the

onset had updated me, I decided I was going to see the end of

the fight. How would the fight end? Would they keep on

fighting until either of them collapsed and a victor emerged?

Would they allow themselves to be placated by the peacemakers

and leave there as though nothing had happened? I was curious.

Thrilled by the scene before me, their altercations and

stubbornness to continue the fisticuffs, I stood with arms

akimbo, eager to see the end. And then I heard it...

It was the loud revving of an automobile, a familiar black

pick-up truck with a wailing siren: the police patrol vehicle.

Armed men jumped down from the moving truck, spraying that

eye-reddening and nose-irritating chemical: tear gas.

Pandemonium broke out, as the crowd dispersed in a mad rush.

Alas, students were being arrested and thrown into the truck.

Suddenly, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder, firm and coarse. I

looked up and my eyes locked with the bloodshot eyes of a

policeman whose breath reeked of alcohol. I struggled to be free,

but his grip was too firm. I turned and sank my teeth into the

pound of flesh on his hand. I sank my teeth so deep that the salt

in his sweat dissolved in my mouth like cheese, so deep I tasted

blood. He winced, nay, he screamed! I let go and bolted. My

heart was pounding and my legs pumping away.


"LAST NIGHT was horrible," Bolade said, her eyes filled with

tales that wanted to be told. I didn't know what happened to her

the previous day. I had been quite consumed with medical

textbooks of recent, without ample time to give her the attention

every lady craves. So, to make up for that shortcoming, I sat

down, eyes focused on her, willing to hear her out, no matter

how long it would take.

Bolade lives in an apartment in School Gate, that infamous

area purported to be the capital territory of cultists. I have long

suggested that she relocate and seek a comfortable room in

Satellite Phase 2 where I reside, so she can sleep with her two

eyes closed without fear, but she will not see my point. She feels

I have been making that suggestion more out of selfishness to

have her closer to me than any consideration for her safety. Last

night, she had a rethink, having witnessed enough to believe

that I might be right after all.

I hate to admit it, but power supply in EKSU is pathetic.

There are apartments around Obama and Peter Pan hostels that

haven't had electricity in months. Many students have resorted

to generators to meet their electricity demands. Very often, one

finds the front of a room whose occupant has put on a generator

jam-packed with phones, lamps, chargers and other electrical

appliances.

OPERATION SEARCH

Omoya Yinka Simult

was horrible," Bolade said, her eyes filled with

tales that wanted to be told. I didn't know what happened to her

the previous day. I had been quite consumed with medical

textbooks of recent, without ample time to give her the attention

So, to make up for that shortcoming, I sat

down, eyes focused on her, willing to hear her out, no matter

Bolade lives in an apartment in School Gate, that infamous

area purported to be the capital territory of cultists. I have long

suggested that she relocate and seek a comfortable room in

Satellite Phase 2 where I reside, so she can sleep with her two

eyes closed without fear, but she will not see my point. She feels

I have been making that suggestion more out of selfishness to

e her closer to me than any consideration for her safety. Last

night, she had a rethink, having witnessed enough to believe

I hate to admit it, but power supply in EKSU is pathetic.

er Pan hostels that

haven't had electricity in months. Many students have resorted

to generators to meet their electricity demands. Very often, one

finds the front of a room whose occupant has put on a generator

other electrical


It was in a condition like this that Nike, a lady in Bolade's

hostel, had plugged her Samsung S4 the previous night. A

couple of hours later, when she felt her phone must have been

fully charged, she went back to retrieve it. To her utter

discomfiture, the phone was no longer to be found. Only the

charger laid on the floor, lifeless and unplugged from the

extension box.

Now, there was nothing spectacular about the theft of Nike's

phone. It is commonplace to have one's phone stolen in the

hostels while charging. When that happens to a student, the

victim of such misfortune would first make enquiries from

people around, then shout around the hostel, begging or

threatening or cursing, as the spirit leads him. After that, the

victim would go quiet, embrace the new circumstance that fate

has foisted upon him and start deliberating on how to buy a new

phone.

But Nike was made of a queer stuff. She did not shout or beg

or curse or threaten anyone at all. In fact, on the discovery of the

theft of her phone, she picked her unplugged charger without

coughing a word, went back to her room and put across a call

with her roommate's phone. Bolade noted that half an hour later,

the hostel was beleaguered by cadets, with mean-looking faces

and bloodshot eyes. The time was 10.25 P.M.

Nike's boyfriend was one of the top officials of the school

cadet. On receiving a call reporting the theft of his darling's

phone, he had mobilised his boys to come and ransack the

audacious hostel that had perpetrated such a crime

straightaway. Bolade's hostel gate was locked as soon as they

entered. No one could enter or leave anymore. The cadets' first

place of call was at the room of the hostel chairman. The hostel


chairman was asked to give an announcement, instructing every

student in the hostel to converge at the quadrangle immediately.

"See, I initially thought it was a joke o," Bolade narrated. "But

when I heard how doors were being booted and how koboko

whizzed through the air, connecting with human skin with great

impact, eliciting sorrowful interjections from all angles, I dashed

out of my room and joined the assembly in the quadrangle

sharp-sharp."

"Oho! So you no even get mind," I teased, as an

uncontrollable laughing fit seized me.

Bolade recounted that a particular guy in her hostel had

refused to come out. When the guy's door was banged by a

cadet, out of irritation, he had shouted something about how

some people had no manners. The cadet had gotten exasperated

so much that he forced his way into the room and met the guy

lounging on his bed.

"Craze boy, you no hear say make una gather for

quadrangle?" the cadet bellowed.

"Gentleman, watch your tongue," the guy cautioned. "You

don't just barge into my room and start asking foolish questions.

Why should I assemble in the quadrangle? Do I look like a thief

that stole someone's phone? Please get out of my room and lock

the door. Thank you."

The cadet walked over to him with a relaxed gait and dealt

him a deafening slap. For a moment, the guy was shocked by

this violence, but he soon regained his composure and

reciprocated the cadet's gesture. In his own case, he was

magnanimous to double the slap. A fight ensued and the duo

began to wrestle. Blows and slaps and kicks flew, hitting various

targeted body parts. The guy seemed to be a good match for the

cadet, for they soon began to pant and drip with blood. The


cadet whistled three times, and four other hefty cadets hurried

into the room that had now become a boxing ring.

The four cadets took in the situation at hand in a glance,

descended on the room’s sole occupant with savagery and soon

subdued him. They dragged him out to the quadrangle and

pummeled him without mercy in public view. When the hostel

chairman saw that they would snuff life out of him if they

continued, he appealed to the cadets to stop. Some ladies were

already whimpering out of pity for the guy. Bolade did not

mention if she was one of such ladies, but my instincts

ascertained she was one. I kept mum anyway.

Now that a scapegoat had been made of someone, every

student in that hostel knew the cadets had come for business.

There was no messing around with them, and so all had become

willing to cooperate. The cadet commandant gave the grace for a

confession. He promised that if the person who stole the phone

would step forward of their own volition, to confess and return

it, he or she would be pardoned.

"But if the pesin no talk before the search start, and I com

find out say na you, pasha-pasha o..." his voice trailed off, as his

head moved from side to side. No one budged.

The rummage began. One by one, each student was led to

their room, where every nook and cranny was searched. Bags

were upturned and the contents scattered about. Curious places

were not left out, as shoes, sinks, beverage cans and even

foodstuffs got examined. That lasted for a whole hour of terror,

Bolade reckoned. At the end of it all, the Samsung S4 was still

nowhere to be found. It was now few minutes to midnight.

"Heez, make una look here. We neva find the phone. Wetin

happen this night na child play. We dey come again tomorrow

morning. If dem born una well, make the phone no dey ground


before we come," the commandant threatened with menacing

eyes. The gate was unlocked and all the cadets stormed out.

Trepidation hung heavy in the air like the harmattan mist.

Some students were already planning to go and stay with their

friends in other hostels until the Operation Search terror would

be over. Bolade’s mouth scrunched into an O-shape and her

gorgeous eyeballs popped in their sockets as she rounded off her

tale.

The next morning, the Samsung S4 was found by the well,

unattended and glistening in its beauty. The thief had obviously

been rattled beyond measures.


"YEH! WHO dey for room B3 o? Fire dey burn o!"

It was Kemi screaming, her eyes wide with despair. She

couldn't contain the horror, as she jumped and threw her hands

up in the air. We rushed down to her side to see what her object

of alarm was. It was a raging inferno, blazing thick yellow, its

dark smoke blurring our vision.

"Dele, no be your room be this? See as he tanda dey look.

Where key make we open door na?" Segun nudged me in t

ribs, jolting me out of my bewilderment. I searched my pockets

frantically but couldn't find the key. Keys are mysterious

companions; they vanish when you need them the most. It might

have fallen when I was rushing down.

"Ah, I no find am o," I lamented. My hands had begun to

shake, and my legs seemed like they would give way under my

weight anytime soon.

"We go break the door be that. This fire mad. E fit catch wire

and spread to all rooms," Segun noted. He stepped back to

gather speed, accelerated towards the door and kicked it with

the sole of his foot. The door merely creaked, as if mocking his

assault on it. Other male occupants of St. Michaels soon joined

Segun to force the door open. Some used their butts, others their

feet. I stood back, too dazed to make any physical efforts.

FIRE!

Omoya Yinka Simult

It was Kemi screaming, her eyes wide with despair. She

couldn't contain the horror, as she jumped and threw her hands

rushed down to her side to see what her object

of alarm was. It was a raging inferno, blazing thick yellow, its

"Dele, no be your room be this? See as he tanda dey look.

Where key make we open door na?" Segun nudged me in the

ribs, jolting me out of my bewilderment. I searched my pockets

frantically but couldn't find the key. Keys are mysterious

companions; they vanish when you need them the most. It might

d. My hands had begun to

shake, and my legs seemed like they would give way under my

"We go break the door be that. This fire mad. E fit catch wire

and spread to all rooms," Segun noted. He stepped back to

ards the door and kicked it with

the sole of his foot. The door merely creaked, as if mocking his

assault on it. Other male occupants of St. Michaels soon joined

Segun to force the door open. Some used their butts, others their

d to make any physical efforts.


I imagined what was happening behind the door. How

many of my personal belongings had caught fire? What was

happening to the newly bought black suit I was yet to wear?

Had my certificates and credentials begun to bow to the whims

of the cheerful blaze, smouldering bit by bit, never to be seen

again? These questions made me shiver, just like the probable

answers filled me with terror.

At last, the door gave way. The room was glowing like a live

coal. I rushed in to see and probably save what was left of my

properties. The hot and suffocating air that welcomed me threw

me back, hurling me into violent cough fits. I bent over to aid my

breathing.

"Water! Water!"

"Detergent! Detergent!"

"Omi! Water!"

"Omo! Omo! Soap!"

People shouted as they ran helter-skelter, seeking things

they could quench the fire with. There were clangs of metal

buckets. Soapy water whizzed through the air like missiles,

splashing, sizzling. In thirty minutes' time, the fire had been

brought under control, even though the smoke still saturated the

room.

I went in to see the remains of my belongings. My new suit

was gone; all that was left of it was a mass of sooty rag. My bed

had been halved too, as though the fire was displeased that I

should enjoy such comfort alone. My books had been reduced to

ashes, flaky reminders of erstwhile embodiments of knowledge.

Flames had licked the tip of my best shoe, transforming it into an

eyesore, leaving other parts of it intact but useless.

I wanted to weep, to wail and throw myself on the ground,

but even that required energy, one that had deserted me. So, I


buried my head in my palm and thought of the cruelty of life.

My parents had just paid through their nose the exorbitant sum

of money that was the school fees of a medical student in EKSU,

to the tune of hundreds of thousands of naira. Was I to go back

to them that I had yet another unplanned expense for them?

"How e take happen sef?" Segun asked, facing Ade, my

roommate.

"Me sef no know o. E still dey do me like dream," Ade

replied.

I felt like walking up to Ade and dealing him a resounding

slap. How would he say he did not know? Was he not the one

who bought candles, despite my protests, and insisted that they

would be his source of light for night studies?

That unfortunate day, I had left the room in the early

evening for Pastor Gabriel's apartment. He and I had some

issues to thrash out on whether or not Christianity could claim

exclusivity to God. It had been so much an absorbing debate that

it extended into the late hours of the night. If not for Kemi's

alarm, we might as well have continued into the early hours of

the morning.

Therefore, Ade was the only one who could have done

something to start the fire in the room. After thorough

interrogation, Ade admitted he had lit a candle to read that

night. Because the candle was long and well-positioned, he

hadn't seen any reason to put it off while leaving to get a loaf of

bread down the street. But the table was plastic, and a part of my

big mattress (a flammable material) was directly under it.

Combining the stated factors, one could easily deduce the cause

of the fire by common logic.

Now, apart from the damage done to our personal

belongings, the room also suffered a major disaster. The PVC


ceilings had shrunk, and the wall paintings had lost their lustre.

We would need to refurbish the whole room: ceiling, painting

and all. Our caretaker was never going to take the matter lightly,

and we would consider ourselves lucky if he didn't send us

packing even after renovations had been made.

Coursemates, church members and friends came to

sympathise with Ade and me. They consoled us that 'afflictions

would not rise up the second time,' that it was the will of God

that such should happen, and that we should be thankful it

didn't get any worse. It didn't matter that none of them thought

to help us with some cash, nor did they seem to reckon that we

now had no clothes to wear to class the next day. Yet we

appreciated them for those kind words, words that could have

borne greater potency had they been supported with kind acts.

Of course, we could not use our room that night because the

smoke still hung around like a looming shadow, daring us to

sleep over and risk asphyxiation. As I woke up with cramped

muscles the next day, having spent the night on a small bed

shared with a not-so-slim Segun, I saw the dark silhouette of a

lady walking leisurely into my burnt room. I jumped up from

bed, ran out of Segun's room and waited for the lady at my door.

She came out holding the sooty rag of my newly bought suit

away from her body, as if it was a bag of shit.

"What do you want to do with that?" I asked, eyeing

what she held, trying hard to calm my nerves.

"Oh, this rag? Em, I want to be using it to mop ni jare. I

doubt you still have any use for it," she said, almost with

contempt.

I swallowed hard and stepped aside, holding my peace,

before I would do something rash.


SECLUDED FROM other faculties in Ekiti State University, the

College of Medicine is a community on its own.

newest faculty in the institution, it boasts of modern structures

and architectural designs that make it the envy of others. Very

often, things happen in the College of Medicine that other

faculties never get to hear of. But two months ago, an incident

occured that the entire university community could not pretend

to be unaware of.

Medical Biochemistry tests are one of those hurdles a

student cannot be sure to overcome. No matter how hard you

read, there is always an emptiness that nags at you, belittling

how well you can recollect those things you have read and

magnifying those topics you find somewhat clumsy. So, we were

glad when we heard Medical Biochemistry in-course had been

postponed. At least one would have more time to go through

one or two topics that one could not study in toto earlier. But

before we knew it, the newly scheduled day for the postponed

test was upon us again.

Dr. Goke was one of the Biochemistry lecturers present to

invigilate. Before the test began, he expressed his heartfelt

appreciation to all the students who paid him a condolence visit

the previous week. I was shocked to hear that; I never knew of

any plan to pay this amiable lecturer any visit, let alone one of

LIFE AND DEATH

Omoya Yinka Simult

other faculties in Ekiti State University, the

Being the

newest faculty in the institution, it boasts of modern structures

and architectural designs that make it the envy of others. Very

often, things happen in the College of Medicine that other

two months ago, an incident

occured that the entire university community could not pretend

Medical Biochemistry tests are one of those hurdles a

student cannot be sure to overcome. No matter how hard you

s that nags at you, belittling

how well you can recollect those things you have read and

magnifying those topics you find somewhat clumsy. So, we were

course had been

o go through

one or two topics that one could not study in toto earlier. But

before we knew it, the newly scheduled day for the postponed

Dr. Goke was one of the Biochemistry lecturers present to

e expressed his heartfelt

appreciation to all the students who paid him a condolence visit

the previous week. I was shocked to hear that; I never knew of

any plan to pay this amiable lecturer any visit, let alone one of


condolence. I turned around and asked Matthew, my course

mate, if he knew anything of such. He nodded in the affirmative.

"Yes na. Don't tell me you didn't hear that his wife died,"

Matthew snapped.

"Jeez! I didn't know o," I said, quite taken aback by the

revelation.

"Uh, that means you didn't even know that was why the test

was postponed," Matthew added. I shook my head.

The answer sheets were now being distributed. Some

students who had been hanging around the classroom, textbook

in hand, trying to revise or learn a thing before the test would

begin, dropped their books and hurried to their seats.

"You may now write your names on your answer sheets if

you so desire," Dr. Goke announced, with a mischievous smile

dancing on his face.

Who on earth would not have the common sense to do that?

We shrieked in laughter. Dr. Goke was a lecturer whom students

related well with because of his sense of humour. It made me

feel a stronger rush of sympathy to imagine a young lecturer like

him had now become a widower.

Question papers were distributed and the test began pronto.

I was not disappointed; the test was difficult as expected. I

answered as many questions as my brain could deal with

without doubt. I didn't attempt questions I didn't know or was

unsure of because there would be negative marking. God forbid

that marks should be deducted from the little that one would

get. When the negative marking scheme was first introduced,

medical students fought against it. We could not see why

medical students would be the only ones in the whole school to

be subjected to such injustice.


But the lecturers were soon able to silence us when they

explained the rationale behind it. They said we must learn to

admit our ignorance and incapabilities as future medical doctors

who would be entrusted with human lives. A time would come

when the only thing that would save a patient's life is for the

doctor to admit he is incapable on a specific health condition and

have the patient referred to another who is capable. That

clarification was all we needed to keep mum and accept our

cross.

The test ended and we all left the hall with sombre looks. It

was a Friday, and those of us who were fun-loving resolved that

the only way to forget about the test was to visit a club that

night. After all, it was a weekend, and we only treated ourselves

to such pleasures once in a blue moon. I didn't follow them that

day. I could not bring myself to. My heart was heavy with grief,

more for Dr. Goke who had lost his wife than for my

performance in the test. I imagined what the state of his mind

would be. When he got to know of his wife's demise, did he

throw himself on the ground? Did he weep? Did he laugh that it

must be some expensive joke?

On getting to class the next Monday, I received the most

shocking news of my life. Dr. Goke had died. He had been

waylaid on that very Friday by armed robbers along Ife road,

while travelling back to spend the weekend with his family. He

had tried to outrun the highway men, and one of them had

gotten pissed and fired at him. The bullet had hit him in the

chest, so he lost control of the wheels and veered off the road. It

was a gory incident, but the armed robbers were not done. They

still raided his car, making away with his laptop, smartphone

and other valuables. I broke down in tears. I didn't hear the rest

of the story. The world must be a cruel place.


Lectures were cancelled in the College of Medicine that day

and the next. The atmosphere reeked of despondency. The

president of Ekiti State University Medical Students Association

(EKSUMSA) came over to address us. He said all the common

words often used in times of condolence, how it was an

unfortunate incident, how the deceased was a huge loss to the

college and how he prayed that the bereaved family would have

the fortitude to bear the irreparable loss. I wondered whether he

spoke those words out of sincerity or duty.

We later had a mourning procession in Dr. Goke's

remembrance. We were all clad in our laboratory coats to

distinguish us as medical students, while we had a pamphlet of

his picture in our hands and a touch of black on our body to

signify mourning. We walked round the whole school solemnly,

our faces bearing witness to our sorrow. Hot air washed over the

earth as though the sun were furious that such a tragedy should

befall a family in less than two weeks.

We were all tired and hungry when the procession ended.

Sweat trickled down our foreheads and dust clung to our feet.

Some students stayed back in the college to catch their breath,

but I made my way back to the hostel straightaway. I needed to

shower and eat, and maybe weep some more at my new

perception of life. I had learnt that no matter how indispensable

one seemed, life would move on in one's absence. The best

would be a procession, done by most people out of

perfunctoriness rather than a sense of loss.

When I got to my room, I soaked garri in water and added

plenty of sugar and groundnut. I gobbled it up in haste, then I

went to the bathroom for a cold shower. I came out refreshed, so

I flung myself on a chair.


As I sat ruminating on the vanity of life, I felt a looming

presence behind me. I turned on instinct and my jaw dropped in

awe at the sight before me. It was Dr. Goke, resplendent in a

billowing white garment, approaching me. Fear surged through

my veins, and I perceived violent goose bumps colonising my

skin. I wanted to scream, but my voice was gone. Dr. Goke

closed in on me, but I could now see a smile dancing on his face,

pacifying me. He opened his mouth to speak. His voice sounded

like the rumblings in a torrential downpour.

"Fear not, Dele. I have come to unravel some mysteries to

you," he boomed. Now, he was upon me. He placed his heavy

hand on my shoulder and I felt a blinding pain. I opened my

mouth to scream. This time around, I found my voice.

"Yeeh!" I shouted. He lifted up his hand and brought it down

on my shoulder again and again. I kept on flinching and

screaming.

"Yeye boy, abeg get up make we go for bible study jare." I

stopped screaming and opened my eyes. Dr. Goke was no

longer there. Ade, my roommate, was the one peering down at

me, bible in hand. I yawned and hissed at him.


I WILL relate to you the experience life imposed on me last

week, and I implore you to decide whether I would be justified

to call it a disaster or be consoled to refer to it as a comedy.

It happened that until late that night, I had had a rather

uneventful day. This was not far-fetched because that da

one of those strictly academic routines, which, you must agree

with me, are most often than not devoid of excitement.

I had left the hostel for class as early as 8.00 am. As was

often the case when examinations were around the corner, the

lecturers had all of a sudden become more serious than ever,

agile to cover up in few weeks for their shameless indolence

during the course of the semester, that they may have enough

topics on which to examine the students. Therefore, it was

understandable that I had a marathon of classes until 4.00 pm.,

without any interlude, after which I returned back to the hostel

exhausted and famished.

It was a good thing that I had the wisdom to buy a bunch of

bananas and a loaf of bread from Iyalaje, the woman along my

hostel path who sells everything that a student often needs

except for condoms. I could not wait to get to the hostel before I

attended to the bananas. I peeled one banana and stuffed it in

my mouth. Passers-by stared at my protruding cheeks. I didn't

give a damn about etiquettes at that moment; the hunger that

DISASTER OR COMEDY?

Omoya Yinka Simult

on me last

week, and I implore you to decide whether I would be justified

to call it a disaster or be consoled to refer to it as a comedy.

It happened that until late that night, I had had a rather

fetched because that day was

one of those strictly academic routines, which, you must agree

with me, are most often than not devoid of excitement.

I had left the hostel for class as early as 8.00 am. As was

often the case when examinations were around the corner, the

had all of a sudden become more serious than ever,

agile to cover up in few weeks for their shameless indolence

during the course of the semester, that they may have enough

topics on which to examine the students. Therefore, it was

ad a marathon of classes until 4.00 pm.,

without any interlude, after which I returned back to the hostel

It was a good thing that I had the wisdom to buy a bunch of

bananas and a loaf of bread from Iyalaje, the woman along my

el path who sells everything that a student often needs

except for condoms. I could not wait to get to the hostel before I

attended to the bananas. I peeled one banana and stuffed it in

by stared at my protruding cheeks. I didn't

amn about etiquettes at that moment; the hunger that

?


gnawed at my stomach must have numbed whatever sense of

decency I had left.

I got to the hostel, scooped into a plate what was left of the

stew I had cooked four days earlier, and took a fast meal of

bread and stew. The last bite had not reached my stomach when

weariness washed over me like a flood. I didn't resist the urge; I

hurled myself on my bed and slept off. It was a sound sleep, for I

did not wake until Ade, my roommate, came back from

fellowship around 7.40 p.m.

You know by now that I stay in St. Michaels, a private

hostel in Satellite Phase 2. At present, my school, Ekiti State

University, does not have in-campus hostels for students. Even if

it had one, such a hostel would be incapable of accommodating a

tenth of the thousands of EKSU students. For students like me,

who still fancy the thought of living in a campus environment,

we rent rooms in private hostels clustered around the school,

every man according to the size of his pocket.

My apartment in St. Michaels is self-contained, with tiled

floors, painted walls, pipe-borne water and a wardrobe. In

comparison to some other hostels, you might say I am living in

luxury, and I will be quick to remind you that it doesn't come

without a price. I am compelled to share my room with another

student- a sacrifice of my privacy- so as to cushion the blow of

the exorbitant rent expected of such comfort.

As soon as the unceremonious arrival of my roommate

jolted me out of sleep, I knew the only profitable way to spend

what was left of the day was to prepare a supper that could

compensate for my troubles so far. And what other delicacy

could be magnanimous enough to wash away the sins and

troubles of such a tiresome yet boring day other than a sizzling

pot of beans?


So a pot of beans it was. I set about the new business at

once. But there is a curse associated with cooking beans in the

hostel: It is the unsolicited visits with which your hostel mates

choose to honour you as soon as they perceive the aroma of an

almost cooked beans, the diffusion being just as unpreventable

as it is unmistakable.

I had made provisions for this contingency, cooking five

cups of beans, as opposed to the three cups that would have

been adequate for Ade and me. But I was not willing to part

with a spoon of beans to any goddamn person without making

them work for it.

Segun was the first unsolicited visitor. His room is opposite

mine. With a perfunctory smile plastered on his face, he came in

rubbing his hands like a shy child.

"Deleski, Delesgba, how far na?" he hailed. I shot him an

unwelcoming look with a small nod.

"Why na? Pesin dey hail you and you no even get mouth

respond," he protested, then paused, scrunching up his nostrils.

"Wait o, e be like say somtin dey smell for your room," he

added and ran into my kitchen to sniff at it. "Yes, I said it! I said

it! Na for here somtin dey smell," he shouted, with feigned

seriousness.

I kept mute.

"Dele, abeg wetin you dey cook sef?" His begging eyes

prompted me to speak.

"I no know o," I answered with a flat tone.

"Ha, liar! Na beans," he shot back and poked me in the sides,

in a playful manner.

"Oho, so you know. Why you con dey ask me?" I was

irritated.


Ade, who was on his bed, looked on without uttering a

word. I passed his silence as diplomatic. He didn’t want to take

an overt side. I was pretty sure he didn’t welcome Segun's

unsolicited visit, but he was not going to show that.

"Abeg I just gum o. Shey you sha cook my own join? I no fit

carry last for this kain holy ministration na," Segun pleaded.

"For where? Shey I resemble your papa wey go dey feed you

ni? Comot jare," I barked at him.

"Dele, chill na. You wan para for your padi on top beans ni?

Na small I want. E don tey since I chop beans. Na beg I dey beg

o. Joo." His voice had now become soft, pacifying and

persuasive.

I knew it would come to this. There is a way guys ask for

things from one another that it would be impossible for one to

deny the other a favour. It is an art on its own that every student

who wants to survive on campus must learn and, if need be, use.

Segun was using it on me with an effortlessness that comes only

with constant practice. I was playing along with him.

"Baboon dey work, monkey dey chop, abi? I never dull reach

that level na. Let's make a deal," I said.

Segun's eyes widened. "What deal?" he asked.

"I'll give you a plate of my beans when it's done, but you

must organise how my phone will get charged tonight."

"Is that all? Very simple. I go go charge am for Alex place. E

don put im gen on." He sounded enthusiastic, as if I was offering

him the beans on a platter of gold.

"Remember Alex doesn't allow people to charge in his

room," I reminded him.

"I go charge am outside and siddon dey look am then.

Finish!" he concluded.


As soon as the deal was clicked, I handed him my phone.

But Segun is not one to mind his business; he just had to unlock

my phone and infringe on my privacy. Bolade's picture had been

my screensaver for some months, so Segun sighted it as soon as

the phone came on.

"Wait o," Segun enthused, rolling his eyes like one trying to

recall an incident. "No be the babe I see for your side outside

Prosperous be this?" He brought the phone within my view, his

eyes riveted on me for a response.

"Oh yes, na im. Go charge the phone na. Haba!" I replied to

get him off my back. Segun hastened out of the door.

Segun had seen Bolade and me at Prosperous Royal Hotel

after our last meeting. That was on the day students protested

against the fine for late payment of school fees. I had gone to

answer her mysterious summon, rushing down to the venue in

no time, looking dishevelled and nervous. I had entertained a lot

of possibilities on what could be the essence of the

extemporaneous meeting, and none had seemed desirable.

Bolade was waiting by the time I got to Prosperous. She

looked pensive when I saw her, more like a child that had been

dispossessed of her toy. I walked over to her and stroked her

hair.

"What's the problem, dear?" I asked with a soothing voice,

even though my heart was thumping away.

Bolade opened her mouth, "I’m several weeks late...” My

ears reacted as if they had been stuffed with wool, for I could see

Bolade’s mouth still moving, but I couldn’t hear a thing.

Something snapped. It might have been my heart; it might have

been a button on my shirt. Whatever it was, it sure made me

lighter, because I found myself lying flat on the floor.


With a blurred vision, I watched concerned Bolade and

others trying to revive me. One guy was even fanning me with

his shirt. They turned to Bolade and asked what she had done to

me.

A confused Bolade stuttered, “I told…told…him…”

“Told him what?” they shouted.

“I told him I was several weeks late ...”

Loud laughter cut her off. “Guy, you give girl belle, you

come faint?” someone commented. There was more laughter.

Bolade, more nonplussed, hastened to speak up, “No, I’m

not pregnant! I meant I was late on submitting a term paper and

needed his help.”

There, still prostrate on the floor, I prayed for a whirlwind to

sweep me away.

***

A GUSH of wind came through the door as Segun rushed back

in. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets.

“Dele! Dele! Guy, dem don thief your phone o!” he

screamed.

Now, be the judge: disaster or comedy?


SINCE I got admitted into Ekiti State University three years ago,

I have had over five relationships. I have never had more than

one girlfriend at a time, to whom I have always ensured to be

faithful. Fidelity is a difficult thing on campus and so requires

great discipline and constraint. The ravishing ladies around are

sore temptations, ripened fruits waiting to be plucked. Girls are

like a fruit salad, and we guys are never content with just tasting

one of the variety. It is, therefore, little wonder that none of my

relationships has lasted over three months, except for Bolade’s. It

has been a year and half, and we are still counting.

I remember the lady I dated just before I met Bolade. Her

name was Evelyn, a Calabar beauty who had come to study in

EKSU. Evelyn was an engineering student who lived in Divine

Grace hostel, a stone throw away from my residence. We had

met at the famous Mama Tee restaurant in the Faculty of

Education. That day, as usual, I had gone to eat my breakfast of

jollof rice, plantain and egg. Halfway through my meal, a fair

lady, petite and admirable, a black handbag slung over her arm,

walked in with grace. She headed straight for the counter,

bought a plate of fried rice, beef and a bottle of La Casera, then

turned around to seek for a table to eat. Our eyes met, and I

motioned to her that she could join me on my table. She looked

away, searching for other options. When she confirmed my table

LADIES AS FRUIT SALAD

Omoya Yinka Simult

got admitted into Ekiti State University three years ago,

I have had over five relationships. I have never had more than

one girlfriend at a time, to whom I have always ensured to be

nd so requires

great discipline and constraint. The ravishing ladies around are

sore temptations, ripened fruits waiting to be plucked. Girls are

like a fruit salad, and we guys are never content with just tasting

tle wonder that none of my

relationships has lasted over three months, except for Bolade’s. It

I remember the lady I dated just before I met Bolade. Her

name was Evelyn, a Calabar beauty who had come to study in

EKSU. Evelyn was an engineering student who lived in Divine

Grace hostel, a stone throw away from my residence. We had

ma Tee restaurant in the Faculty of

Education. That day, as usual, I had gone to eat my breakfast of

jollof rice, plantain and egg. Halfway through my meal, a fair

lady, petite and admirable, a black handbag slung over her arm,

aded straight for the counter,

bought a plate of fried rice, beef and a bottle of La Casera, then

turned around to seek for a table to eat. Our eyes met, and I

motioned to her that she could join me on my table. She looked

. When she confirmed my table

FRUIT SALAD


was the only free one, she came over reluctantly and sat. I smiled

and reduced the speed with which my jaws were moving. I

would need some time with this pretty lady; my food could not

afford to finish so fast.

“Good morning,” I greeted.

“Morning,” she mumbled, with disinterest.

Now, that was a bad pointer. If her response had been a little

more cheerful, I could have struck a conversation with ease. An

unnerving silence was enthroned between us. She set her cutlery

on the plate, while she swept a finger over her Blackberry Z10,

squinting for a few seconds to read something on the screen. She

sat up, picked the fork with her left hand and the knife with the

right, deftly scooping rice to her mouth with elegance. I looked

at the spoon in my hand and shook my head. There was little

hope that I would make this sophisticated lady utter any other

word, let alone getting her number.

I knew I was running out of time. Only a dramatic action

would save this angel from slipping through my fingers. I told

myself to relax, that this was something my brain could handle.

A barrage of ideas flashed through my mind. What would

capture the lady’s attention? I could not afford to make a

mistake. At last, I figured it out.

On purpose, I dropped my spoon on my plate and allowed it

clatter. I then began to stare at her so much that she could not

pretend not to notice. She became uneasy, as grains of rice

started falling off her fork. Getting the desired result, I

intensified my stare, widening my eyes to accentuate it. When

she could bear it no more, she stopped eating and sighed.

“What? Why are you staring at me?” she asked, stuttering.


I was elated I had made her speak again, but I hid my

excitement nevertheless. I feigned a dazed look, like one who

was shocked to be caught stealing a piece of meat.

“Uh, sorry.” I cleared my throat, forming my best British

accent. “I was just blown away with the charm with which you

handle your cutlery. I didn’t know there were Nigerians who

could do that so effortlessly,” I said.

She smiled, quite pleased with the compliment.

“Thank you, but I don’t think it’s as difficult as you make it

seem,” she replied.

“Not as difficult, you say? Hmm, I guess you can only speak

for yourself. See the way I’m grabbing my spoon as if it were a

shovel.” I picked my spoon and made a funny movement with

it. The humour got to her. She threw back her head and laughed.

How I loved the sound of her laughter! It brought down the

walls of unfriendliness she had earlier portrayed.

“Very funny of you,” she commented after regaining her

breath.

“Yeah, I mistakenly sound funny sometimes, even when I

mean business like this. I think it’s a curse from my

grandfather,” I replied. She chuckled some more.

“Anyway, I must learn how to handle cutlery like you. I

don’t mind paying for a workshop, if there’s one that teaches

etiquettes,” I added.

“Gosh, nobody does that!” she said.

“Says who? Unless you want to teach me.”

“You would pay me the workshop fee then. Agreed?” she

asked, a mischievous smile playing on her face.

“Come on, you don’t look like an Economics or Accounting

student. Don’t mention money so readily. Dem forbid you to

teach for free?” We both laughed.


Ladies laugh easily around guys, I thought to myself. Now

that the tension was gone, I could move to my next line of action.

“I am Dele Davids. Medicine. 200 level,” I blurted out like it

was a recital, offering her my right hand. She must have been

amazed by the spontaneity of my introduction, because she

hesitated before taking the handshake.

“You’re quite a character. I am Evelyn. Civil Engineering.

200 level. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Davids,” she said, smiling

and shaking my hand, her palm soft like a baby’s shawl.

“Interesting formalities. Pleasure indeed. Abeg give me your

number so I can start disturbing you for my lessons on etiquettes

jare.” I whipped out my phone to get her number.

“Smart chap! I very much hope you are collecting my

number for the singular purpose you mentioned and nothing

more.” She eyed me before dictating her phone number. I dialled

it to be cocksure. No room for mistakes.

When we left Mama Tee restaurant that morning, I was

confident I had only little work to do before Evelyn would

become mine. I thought I had laid a strong foundation on which

I could build, but I was wrong.

My relationship with Evelyn was a delightful experience,

just as it was a very demanding one. I was in trouble if I did not

call her within 48 hours. She was the jealous type who wanted to

be always doted upon, but I loved her like that. It was a

consuming love, one that took your time, energy and money.

Evelyn was full of eccentricities, too. She could drag me into

kitchen and make me do the dishes. She could dash into my

room in the morning, walk up to my wardrobe, request for the

shirt I wanted to wear to class and insist she would be the one to

wear it. Altogether, I would say I enjoyed the fun while it lasted.


When it would all end, Evelyn and I did not break up

because of a fight. I remember how she walked into my room

that breezy Sunday evening and stood by the door. She would

not sit. She would not come any closer.

“Davids, I have come to tell you something important. Pay

close attention to my words this evening, for I might not have

the confidence to repeat it again,” she said.

I sat up on my bed and pricked up my ears.

“I’m all ears,” I mumbled, trying hard to steady my sweaty

palms.

“I am sorry, but I can no longer be your girlfriend. I received

Jesus Christ as my Lord and Saviour earlier in church today. Old

things are now passed away, and all things have become new.

I’ll see to it that we remain good friends. Thank you for being a

part of my life.” She turned and made her way out of my room

slowly, never to return again.

I was glued to my bed, head bent in a feeling for which I

would never get a definition.

I saw her in school the next day. She waved at me from a

distance. A scarf was now wound around her head, her earrings

and makeup gone, her skirt billowing in the early morning wind.

I still find it hard to accept. Evelyn was one fruit out of the

salad whose taste still lingers.


IF THERE is a heaven, I know most male undergraduates in

Nigerian universities will not make it. Now, this is not a curse,

neither is it a speculation. I am a male undergraduate in a

Nigerian university, and I know what I do, just as much as my

eyes are open to what my friends do.

A couple of weeks ago, Nike, a female course mate of mine,

with whom I have a good rapport, came to class in the morning,

looking strange. Her dressing was usual: a pair of denim

trousers and a decent shirt. One of my male friends, out of

mischief, had once commented that he had never seen her in

skirts – an assertion I would later uphold to be true after keen

observation – but that was not even the crux that morning.

Nike and I often visit Mama Tee’s restaurant together in the

evening, after Anatomy practical on Monday and Thursday.

Anatomy practical is energy-sapping. You stand all through the

duration of three hours, dissecting cadavers to examine the

locations, innervations, and functions of bones, muscles and

veins, as you look into the instructional “Cunningham’s Manual

of Practical Anatomy” and, for reference, carry about a big

textbook like Netter’s “Atlas of Human Anatomy”. Because

medical students are usually left with little or no strength after

the exhausting but enlightening practical, we first call at Mama

NATURAL HAIRMANCE

Omoya Yinka Simult

is a heaven, I know most male undergraduates in

Nigerian universities will not make it. Now, this is not a curse,

neither is it a speculation. I am a male undergraduate in a

Nigerian university, and I know what I do, just as much as my

A couple of weeks ago, Nike, a female course mate of mine,

with whom I have a good rapport, came to class in the morning,

looking strange. Her dressing was usual: a pair of denim

trousers and a decent shirt. One of my male friends, out of

mischief, had once commented that he had never seen her in

an assertion I would later uphold to be true after keen

but that was not even the crux that morning.

Nike and I often visit Mama Tee’s restaurant together in the

ter Anatomy practical on Monday and Thursday.

sapping. You stand all through the

duration of three hours, dissecting cadavers to examine the

locations, innervations, and functions of bones, muscles and

e instructional “Cunningham’s Manual

of Practical Anatomy” and, for reference, carry about a big

textbook like Netter’s “Atlas of Human Anatomy”. Because

medical students are usually left with little or no strength after

actical, we first call at Mama


Tee’s to get replenished, before embarking on the journey back

to the hostel. No one likes to collapse on their way home.

When Nike and I stop at the restaurant together, the

gentleman in me takes the honour of footing the bills. Even

though I know it is a strain on my allowance, and that I might

have to live on garri for days as a consequence of my chivalry,

those worries never matter at that instance. I just bask in the

euphoria of being conceived as a perfect gentleman. Regrets may

come later.

There is a limit to my desire to be seen as gentlemanly

however. I detest deceit; I hate to say or do something of which I

am not convinced. This might be one of my few flaws or virtues,

depending on your perspective. Therefore, while it is my utmost

delight to applaud others for something pleasantly peculiar

about them, like an enviable character or a nice-looking pair of

shoes, I am careful never to give an insincere compliment.

That morning, I noticed that Nike had a different look. The

coloured braids of black and blue she had on before was gone.

Her hair was loose, combed and patterned in such a way that the

strands in the middle of her head rose well above those by the

sides, an imitation of the popular Gallas hairstyle. It didn’t suit

her. Perhaps she would have appeared more presentable if she

had rubbed in some cream, combed it some more and applied a

little oil. It was her natural hair, and you know how wild natural

hair can look without adequate care. I was uncomfortable with

it. In fact, I did not like it, and I wanted to tell her. But this was

her natural hair! You may not understand, so let me explain.

If you want Nike to brighten up on a cloudy day, just

mention the subject of natural hair and her flame shoots to the

ceiling. And she is not the only lady I know with this sudden

rave to wear her hair natural like our grandmas decades ago. I


have seen Bimbo, a lady rooms away from mine, concocting

different greenish and brownish mixtures. “It’s for deep

frying…” I thought that was what she explained it to be, until I

echoed it and a frown spread across her brown face.

“You guys are just so fake! You don’t appreciate natural

beauty!” she yelled, and stormed into her room.

Nike had laughed until a tear trickled down the corner of

her eye. “Dele, you’re so impossible,” she said, in her sing-song

voice. She clarified that it was not deep frying but deep

conditioning. “Ah! Which one is deep conditioning again?” I

mused.

My mouth which was ajar snapped shut, overwhelmed

when Nike went further to explain that her hair ate eggs, milk,

yoghurt, avocado, pawpaw, bananas and even palm oil and

pepper! “Ata ke! Unbelievable!” I exclaimed. Though Nike

sought to explain that the pepper was a particular species, I still

could not comprehend how pepper came to be a product for hair

care.

We were busy all day. I would only have time to speak

with her after Anatomy practical. Mama Tee’s would be a

perfect venue. Because we were good friends, I hoped she was

not going to take offence in what I had to tell her. Nevertheless,

beforehand, I took time to pick the words I would use with

caution. Ladies are very sensitive, and I was not ready to lose a

valued friend yet.

“When did you loosen your hair, Nike?” I asked, as we

sauntered towards Mama Tee’s after the practical.

“My hair? I took it off three days ago jare. I had to deep

condition it. And wow, I discovered this new Indian clay that

worked…”


Our arrival at Mama Tee’s halted the flow of her words. I

pushed the door knob and waved Nike in before me.

“So you mean, you loosened your hair three days ago? You

must have been really busy over the weekend.” I forged ahead

with the discussion.

“Why did you say so?” she asked. I saw the beginnings of a

frown gather on her drawn eyebrows.

“Well, I know ladies can be fussy about their appearance.

They like to always look gorgeous. Whatever stopped you from

braiding or plaiting must have been very pressing,” I replied.

“Hmm, true. But isn’t this hairstyle good?” She pointed to

her head. I looked at her hair and stared into her eyes.

Looking into those warm pools that her eyes were almost

changed my mind. My mouth started to affirm that she looked

great but my brain refused to cooperate, so I shook my head.

“No, it isn’t. It doesn’t fit you,” I added without stopping to

take a breath.

She recoiled. “So, you’re saying I look ugly because I don’t

have an artificial weave on?”

I could hear the stressed anger tones in the falling syllables

of her last words. I began to stammer, my teeth clashing with my

tongue. But trust me, I manned up and served the dish as it was,

with no sweetening additives.

“Nike, I don’t mean it as an insult. I’m only being sincere

with you. Your hair looks rough.” I spoke very fast, as if I had

hot yam in my cheeks.

She nodded, while fiddling with her fingernails. “Thanks,

Mr. Sincerity. I know it looks rough.”

It was my turn for my eyebrows to skydive in surprise. She

knew it was rough? So, why would she want to look unkempt?


“But it’s a matter of your wrong perspective,” she

continued in that tone a wise person uses when talking with an

idiot.

“My perspective?” I repeated, at a loss for what else to say.

Nike launched into a lecture about Nigerian men like me

being conditioned to think straight hair was the definition of

feminine beauty, how we now thought our Afro was rough and

not beautiful. As she spoke, her voice peaked and students in the

restaurant began to stare at the conspicuous sight we were

making in front of the counter. I looked around for an escape,

but there was none. The girl behind the counter had gone into

the inner room which served as the kitchen.

My mind drifted, and it only returned at the point when

Nike stated, “I’m so disappointed in you! I thought you of all

people would be supportive of my natural hair journey.”

Journey? I was more nonplussed than ever. I tried to

apologise, but Nike’s ears seemed plugged to my pleas.

“Nike, why na? Don’t be offended,” I pleaded.

She said she wasn’t angry in that sarcastic manner peculiar

to girls when they are saying something but acting in the

opposite.

“I think I will just start going to the hostel. I’m not hungry

anymore,” she said.

As I was still trying to figure out a way to snap her out of

this bad mood I had brought on, the restaurant’s door was

pushed inside and a guy entered. The guy broke into pleasant

smiles as he spotted Nike.

“Nikky Baby, how are you, dear?” He ensconced her in an

endearing hug as I stood by, uncertain whether to leave them

alone to catch up or hang on to continue my apology.


“I’m fine, thanks.” Her face relaxed, as she also smiled back

at him.

“Babe, you’re more than fine o! In fact, you look

yummingly cute and sexy! And this your natural hair is

amazing!” he effused.

Chai! I wanted the ground to open and swallow me as Nike

bent her head at a crooked angle to cast a pointed glance at me.

Who be dis yeye guy na? He just came in and spoiled my blues,

pouring sand-sand in my Ijebu garri!

The guy offered me his hand. “Chairman, hello there!” he

greeted with that usual male chumminess. A limp handshake

was all I could manage.

I watched rooted on the spot as Nike, who had earlier

declared a loss of appetite, followed Mr Natural-hair-lover closer

to the counter. They ordered a plate of rice each and floated to a

table where they continued their ‘hairmance’.

“Doctor, make I serve you the usual abi?” one of Mama

Tee’s girls asked, interrupting my confused thoughts.

The soulful peals of Nike’s laughter wafted over to my

table in the corner where I sat, as I pushed my spoon through the

food like a shovel on a dunghill. My last peek at them made my

heart bleed: With a blissful expression on his face, the guy was

patting Nike’s natural hair. I swallowed hard, gritting my teeth.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OMOYA YINKA SIMULT is a thinker, creative writer and an

aspiring public speaker. A lover of nature, he could exchange

his pair of shoes for an assortment of fruits.

Like Anton Chekhov, Medicine is his lawful wife and

Literature his mistress. When he gets tired of one, he spends the

night with the other. He is currently a medical student at

University of Ibadan, Nigeria.

Omoya is the co-founder of Youth Renewal Foundation

(YOREFOUND), a non-governmental organization that concerns

itself with helping secondary school students in Nigeria harness

their talents and attain academic excellence. He is also the

Executive Director of Emmanrich Nig. Ltd. He blogs on

www.omoyasimult.com.

Twitter handle: @omoyayinka

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Naija Campus Tales