OLISAEMEKA!

OLISAEMEKA!

I don't quite remember whether it was the sound of the crowing chickens or the desperate bleats of the ever hungry goats in the pen that woke me up that morning.

      I opened my bloodshot eyes and stretched like a flying bird, clearly starved of sleep ,I had slept for just an hour or so.  Whoever made history the first paper in the Senior School Certificate Examination deserved death by flogging with a peppered cane.

      I had read all through the night to the wee hours of the morning, the molten candle wax trickling all the way from the top of the locker to the cracked floor,a white evidence.

         I and my friend Olisa were the only candidates that offered history from St Patrick's.   

         Widespread  complaints about the collosal history notes, hatred for Mr Iwuchukwu our history teacher and the legend that it was impossible to pass history in the SSCE had generated a strong opprobrium for the subject and offering it was  considered a fools errand.

         I quickly went outside to get fodder for the annoying goats which they devoured like prisoners , their normally four legs now two  as they  stretched upward to eat the hanging meal , supported by the fodder they were eating, like a real life puma logo.

         I got ready for the exam,it was a 10 clock paper so i took things easy, polishing my sandal meticulously , staring at it with undivided attention like a new bride as i thought about the examination.

        Raising my bed after having my bath,i carefully lifted up my uniform specially saved for that day from the bed frame where i had set it to iron under my weight every night for the past two weeks.  It looked so crisp and clean, even the lizard on the wall nodded in agreement before disappearing into the crack the wall.

         The uniform was no more my size but a new one was a luxury, it would take me two weeks of selling ukwa at Nkwo Igbo to afford a new one. The majestic bongo trousers that formerly swept the floor as i walked now  swung about in the air like a flag because i had  grown taller.

        Olisa was already waiting as i was putting on my belt. He was always early. I picked up my books and we moved . On a normal school day, we would  have balanced our iron boxes on our heads like marketwomen  but today was different.  We set off  for St Patrick's in high spirits with the anxiety of a man about to present palmwine to his prospective in Laws, responding to the endless Gu moni!, Gu Moni!!  of the children going to the stream to fetch water. Most of them had lost their friends and siblings. 

        The missing children, incomplete families, half burnt houses and the bullet holes in the walls ,a sharp cutting reminder of the war, like a thick dark smoke of burning tires that hovered above the village.

        I and Olisa often argued whether the war was a good move by the General, i always told him that it was crystal clear that we would never have won the war. One particular day i was really piqued and i showed him the map of Nigeria, pointing with angry fingers  and showing him how small the area occupied by Igbos was, compared to that of the the Hausas and Yorubas . How unrealistic i thought it was.

     "Even the 300 Spartans couldn't have done it" ,i had said. 

     We eventually reached St Patrick's, the whistling pine trees standing like a big guard of honour all the way to the classroom blocks. We settled in for the exam, revising and waiting for the supervisors, 2 students writing an exam in a hall for 150😅.

       The bespectacled examination supervisor eventually arrived and set the ball rolling. I was   surprised she didn't ask why we were only two writing the exam, perhaps she was used to it.

       She eventually shared the question paper and answer sheets to us and i made the sign of the cross before flipping it open- a pre exam ritual.

       I anxiously surveyed the theory questions marking out the ones i would answer: The beginning of the Kanem Bornu Empire,  origin of the Igala people,Samori Toure, Uthman dan Fodio's Jihad  and the rest. I was happy, at least the exam didn't look like something i would fail.

All of a sudden , a shout of JIHAAAD!!!! pierced the delicate examination air, my friend Olisa standing and  tearing his uniform apart like the repentant people of the old testament did before they wore sackcloth.  I couldn't understand , he was now naked, saying things i couldn't comprehend, some students chasing him so they could bind him and take him to the staff room. Everything happened so fast.

Even after Fr Hussey took him to the psychiatric hospital in Nimo more than 6 times, even after he spent months there, the doctors said nothing could be done about it.

I would still wish that it was all a dream, that i would wake up, he would  smile and put some palmnuts that Nneora, his little sister had given him in my hands like he always did, i would still wish that he was there waiting for me to put on my belt so we could leave for school .         But for now, my friend Olisa was now a mad man, writing "JIHAD"  with his fine artistic handwriting on the sandy floor of the markets, village paths and everywhere he went. He was now  one of the "ndi ara" i saw and heard about. 

"Ndi ilo ekweroo", his mother had said, with the maternal tears flowing hard and fast.

©Ren 2020

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