BLINDED SUN GREEN, WHITE

CHAPTER ONE Shouts from a distance woke me up. It seemed as though my name was being screamed from afar of. Rubbing my eyes and stretching out on the bed, I take cognizance; my immediate environment was extremely tranquil. My mum did not stop screaming my name in my dream. I could not hear anything apart from the vague screams of a few boys watching a football match in a small enclosure. This enclosure was usually called "viewing center". It had about thirty-five benches, some times less, with televisions, one bigger than the other, and cable wires cluttering the place. It was a batcher type of building with tarpaulins rolled and tied up with a rope to encorage ventilation in the center. Here, one could find boys and men of different sizes and caliber clamouring at top of their voices. Some had very brown teeth with little vegetables stuck within, some wore smelly, tattered shorts soaked in sweat and a few others looking so good in jeans and polo_ but not without rolls of sweat down their face . Sometimes they went shirtless, fiercely debating on top of their voices, as though their being shirtless added to the potency of their vigor. You could see fierce passion for sports written all over their faces when they chattered endlessly about goals and saves, mainly Cristiano Ronaldo’s and Lionel Messi’s football records. The volume of their clangor heightened whenever the most supported club scored a goal, one that could deafen an already-deaf man let alone one with working ears. This time, the frequency was much lower than expected. It sounded as though only five boys were watching. If you looked out my kitchen window, you could see them in the center, their bodies appearing tiny like ants. I didn’t look; there was nothing new to see. Once, my course mate had asked me to bring him our school’s course outline in the center. On reaching there, I espied there was an ongoing match, and as usual, the viewing center was filled to the brim. I asked him about the clubs that were playing. It was perfunctory; football did not interest me like it did them. The screams that colored the center made it difficult for him to hear me so I tried to talk above the noise. He replied me in like manner. We had to shift a little, away from the noise, to discuss. I had to tell him when to return my materials; I was not happy giving out my academic materials to him. He was one of those careless boys that did not attend lectures but looked constantly for hardworking students from whom they’d borrow materials when exams were at the corner. As we talked, a stampede occurred. Lots of people began running, shouting and jumping . “Goooaaallll!” My course mate left me and went to inquire about who scored. I was slightly pissed but I understood. It was the same every day, and it was something I was used to. I saw a particularly sweaty boy take off his shirt and stand on the bench. He shouted, "Man United!" and the rest echoed, “For Life.” He repeated this twice and got even louder responses. As the noise gradually diminished, I heard someone in the crowd sing in my dialect."Ha choro ibe akwa," the person sang. The crowd responded, "Yiiiiiiiii, yiiiiiii." This meant "They want to cry." and the crowd responded as mimicry of a crying newborn. This was an attempt to mock the losing team and her supporters. The song was repeated three times and then the noise fizzled out, but not without a few mumblings and hums. They were now engrossed again in the fine play and hoping for more goals. I later heard that Manchester United scored two more goals in that match, having a total of five goals when their previous three goals were added. I was losing patience. "Return my outline on Friday," I shouted at my course mate. He might have been taken in by the match and collective vigor of the crowd, but he heard me. I didn't wait for a response before heading back to my residence. * On my bed, I could still feel the calm of my environment and thought that if cooked rice spilled, I’d be able to count the grain. That was how quiet things were.The sun was fiery red this evening and the rays of light that meandered through my window colored the tiled floor. My bedroom had a spirited, albeit nostalgic vibe to it at present. My bed was strategically placed beside my small bedroom window. A small cupboard stayed beside the bed, directly under the window. To look out this window, you had to stand on your toes as it was high up. Behind the window was my balcony which was barricaded with vertical rails that ran from up to bottom. My room had just one entrance; the same was used as exit. Opposite the small bedroom window, there was another bigger window. The electricity in my vicinity was sporadic. I, sometimes, have difficulty breathing so I always made sure to stay where ventilation was adequate. My friends suggested I get an inhaler as they thought I suffered from asthma but I refused to. Not that I could not afford an inhaler, I just refused to entertain the prospect that I had that disease. I was a Christian, and faith was a core principle of my faith. My bed aligned with the wall at 90o , and if I sat up with my legs stretched out on the bed, I faced my small bookshelf. It stood beside the larger window, with my shoe-rack placed beside it. There was center rug in my room. When mother went shopping for rugs, she picked this particular one for my room because of the beautiful, intricate embroidery on it; a lion and tiger staring audaciously at each other, spoiling for a fight. I always stared at it and imagined an actual fight going on between them, with me as a dutiful spectator seated many feet away. I know the tiger had better chances of winning. Several instances in zoos proved that, butin my imagination, the lion always won. He was the king of the jungle after all. Between the bookshelf and my bed was a gold mirror with an extravagantly-carved frame. This mirror was given to me by my ex-boy friend who broke up with me because I refused to have s*x with him; we disagreed on his notion that c****s was proof of affection. ** I stand in front of the mirror to brush my hair and observe my body shape each morning before I leave for school. I am 5 feet 7 inches tall, which is an extremely tall height to some, and average height to others. I was never considered short. I had a pointed nose which I got from my father, full, long hair which I got from my mum, and thick, dark eyebrows. I had thick lips. My friends usually call me "Onu Canda". Canda was the thick epidermis of a cow that was usually eaten in my country. In most countries this was used to make leather but in Nigeria, we no send. I was dark-skinned and most people considered me beautiful. My friends said I had a beautiful body shape, but deep down, I wanted a bigger butt. I usually feel inferior to girls with prominent back-sides. My refrigerator was placed adjacent the mirror. On the left side of the mirror was a beautiful painting of a community market. It always reminded me of all the times my family and I travelled to the village for holidays. I had paintings and pencil-work of my portrait and the remaining spaces on the walls were decorated with beautiful framed poems. Most of these things were lagniappes I received from friends and family on my birthdays or on special occasions such as Valentine's day. Because my father is a practicing engineer, I am able to identify certain architectural defects in the house. Those mistakes were prevalent in the toilet. I used to want to be an engineer like my father, but I suddenly found myself drawn to medicine; the urge to save lives was strong. I am now exploring medicine and am soon to take my second MBBS exams. Although I loved my bedroom, the kitchen was my best place, probably because it was where I prepared my food and ate. It was accessed from my balcony. At one side of my balcony was my kitchen door. In my kitchen, there was a kitchen cabinet and space where I kept my table-top gas cooker. My sink was foreign.I used part of my school fees to change the old sink that used to be in the room. Till this day, I am yet to make that payment and my parents don't even know about it. Most of the things in my room were bought with my trite savings and some over charges I gave my parents. I can even remember how I got my bed. It was the beginning of the first semester and I was on my way back to school. My dad gave orders that his driver drop me in the school hostel in which he thought I lived. As he drove me back to school, taking off from Owerri, I remember seeing a bed on display by the road in Atta village. It immediately caught my fancy. I quickly took my pen and scribbled the information available on the signpost, the number of the marketer inclusive in my journal. To do this, I had to tell the driver to help me buy some bread from the stores that sold them. My dad's driver had reached my prestigious university and had driven me straight to the hostel. I had already machinated with Janet, a friend of mine. She was to come help me carry my things, pretending that we all lived in the same room in the hostel. It was the ultimate cover. She did exactly as I pleaded, and when the driver wanted to come in to help me arrange my things and tidy up, he was stopped and told that the hostel was occupied by females and so he, a male, was prohibited from entering. I watched the disgruntled look on his face as he walked back into the car. He then lowered the passenger window glass and called out my name "ada take your handkerchief and good luck in your accademics" I smiled and waved at him as he drove off. My friend kept watched from the window in her room. When we were sure he had gone, we chattered a trycycle, it was called "keke napep" and headed for my lodge. As Janet helped me unpack, I quickly took up my phone and called the number I got from the signpost at the furniture display in atta. A deep male voice spout off "Who be this" that was the first question. I simply adjusted, siting down on my dusty chair; "Oga good evening, abeg how much be that your bed furniture" I was straight to the point. I told him to do a delivery. We negotiated price and then agreed on a total sum of twenty five thousand naira transportation inclusive. This bed was delivered the next day and I paid on the nail for it with money meant for my text books. "I will replace it" I always tell my self. Well as a matter of fact I always did. *** I stood up from my bed to head for the shower, I had fellowship to attend with just few people that were left in school. The fellowship lasted from six O'Clock to seven pm every Thursday. It was a Bible study. I picked up my towel, wore my slippers and enterd into the bathroom. water seepage from the shower was slow, it had reduced to droplets. I had to manage it anyways. water pumping which used to be every morning was now delayed and pumped once in a week and three days time. That's how long it took them since the last pumped. This was probably because of the amount of students that vacated as result of the viral out break. It was called "covid-19". It's been two weeks since we were asked to go home, and I haven't made up my mind yet on weather I should travel. I mean go home and do what? Wash plates and be disturbed by my parents? No I better stay here where I have peace of mind, at least no one is screaming my name to come clean up water that they spilled themselves. I stood still under the shower with it wetting me my body. I was lost in thought; thinking about so many things but majorly the uncertainty of the future. As I reached out to take my sponge it was then I heard heavy bangings on my door. gbaaaaam gbaaaaam gbaaaaam please open the door I heard a voice cry out. the person was desperate and I couldn't place the gender. I was expecting no one, all my friends had traveled. who could this be I thought. I picked my towel tied it round my waist and headed for the door. The Serene environment had become quite rowdy as I could hear people running as if they were being chased. this made me change my mind from opening the door. the bang continued for thirty seconds in quick succession before every where went soundless. I was quite scared now. "what could be the problem" I asked my self wrapping my both hands round my neck. it was then that the story my dad told me during his youth call time came like a flash. my father has told me lots of stories but this one stood out. probably because he almost lost his life. It was a story of how he was hit with a matchet in between his back during a riot after the June twelfth election was annuled. It was on a hot afternoon and my dad after teaching as was required of him, was now going home to rest. On the streets of lagos, wearing his nysc uniform he strolled. He then bumped into a group of boys who were rioting. Still calm, he was leaving the road for them, only for him to hear "catch am na babangida boy". He was confused at the whole scenerio and tried to muster courage. A group ran up to him but before he could blink an eye talkless of trying to talk he had received a heavy matchet blow on his back. It was then that one of the protesters ran speaking violetly in Yoruba language intervened. He could not understand what they said. When they jugged on he said to my dad "nwanne chorokwa way, aga egbu kwa gi ebe a" it meant brother look for a way to escape before this boys kill you. My dad quickly folded his trouser and threw his call jacket away, he removed his white polo and hung it on his neck then joined the protesters. He didn't know their language so he chanted gibberish as he followed. It was when he saw a safe "bole spot" a woman selling beans, roasted yam and plantain on the road side, that he ran in there to hide. That was a near death experience he hard. He nursed the pain of the matchet blow and when all was cool, he simply called a cab to take him home. **** Still inside my room I wondered what could be the problem. Cult clashes was not probable because most of them should have traveled and more over uni boys were no more endangering thier lives, they are looking for ways to make money. Most of them in my area all have cars. My friends when they were around will always call them "g boys" it stood for fraudsters. This boys spend money like it nothing that I started to believe all I was told by my friends. Before, I just felt they were boys from extravagantly rich parents. Who had no training on money spending, you know rich spoilt kids. In my place what I usually see was boys shouting at each other. "Alaye how far" they always shout those words, I wonder what it meant but it has never reached crisis state. I was shaking a little as I sat on my bed, then I walked to my window to peep at what was going on in the corridor. There was no one, no sound, no soul. I heard a sudden bang. It sounded like a gun shot, the sound was so loud and real that I felt it was along my corridor. I almost peed on my pants, I closed the windows gently and my curtains, with my hands vibrating in fear. What do I do? My room was the fifth on my row. Rooms faced each other and they were thirteen on each row. The lodge was a two story building with stair cases on both side then a wrought iron gate at the entrance to every floor. There were about three buildings of such in the same compound. My friends refered to my lodge as an estate. We hed an old security man who loved to smoke and drink, but the man was intelligent. In my country old men were usually chosen for this work, I wonder who will need protection if something were to happen, the old man or the young people he protects? Well something is happening and I wonder where the old man is. The gun shots had stopped, I was still scared, I heard footsteps, it looked like two people passed my door. I was contemplating on whether to ask what was happening or to just keep calm. I gently walked over to my window for the second time. As I put in my face to look out the window, I see a man wearing a black t-shirt with symbols written in red. I could only grasp the letter SARS. His hands on my window were stained with blood. My eyes locked with his. I felt something warm roll down my legs. Is this really happening.