My First Literature

Once upon a time I was in the Press Club in SS1 (Year 10), an invisible spectator. And as with a lot of school events at the time, I was happy being an invisible noise- and trouble-maker.

If you were as naughty as I was, you wanted few people to know your name and be able to tell what class you are in.

But one afternoon I headed to the club, intending to lounge at the back and doodle away or chat with my friends Moses and Chiedu as usual, when something unusual happened.

The teacher in charge – I can’t remember who it was – walked in, and the class scrambled to our seats. He calmly wrote five rhymes on the board and turned to look at us.
This was unusual, and as expected, he had our attention.

“I want you all to write a poem for me using these five rhymes,” he said simply, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a 50 naira note. “The winner gets this.”

Now this was before the 200 naira note was in circulation; by this time, 50 naira was gold.
Interestingly, another teacher (let’s call him Teacher 2) heard this as he was passing by, and from the window he produced another 50 naira.

Immediately all eyes sparkled and went from the money to the words, calculating.

“When you finish, submit it with your name and class to the staffroom,” Nameless Teacher said. The moment he walked out of the door, there was a mad scramble.

I turned beside me to see my friends scribbling away frantically, almost forgetting the goal was the one with the best poem, not the fastest writer.

Since I had never written anything that rhymed before, I was at a loss as to what to do. I considered calling it quits and told them both, but Chiedu was looking at me as if, true to my nickname, I was a psycho.

After a very brief lecture from Chiedu and on a dare from Moses, I took half a sheet of paper, wrote my lines, and submitted them to the staff room, as confident of winning as I was confident the moon was square.

Two weeks later, I was standing in line at an unexpected afternoon assembly, after our break, trembling nervously as Teacher 2 walked up our class line, asking for me by my full name.

Again I repeat: if you were as naughty as I was, you want few people to know your name and what class you are in.

Frantic and desperate, I was trying to remember what I had done lately that warranted this, and how I could deny and lie my way out of it.

When I was pointed out to the teacher, he looked me up and down and from the look on his face I knew I was dead.

That is, until the forgotten competition was announced, and the names of the runners-up were called, and their poems were read out.

I was bored by the time they got to first place and started reading the poem. Idly I wondered: why do these words sound familiar. Until —

“The winner is…” and my name was called out and I was marched out in front of the whole school, with the sole of my shoe torn, my clothes dirty, my hair unkempt from my earlier roughhousing.

I was a dirty kid, and I knew it.
And now everyone else could see it too.
But who cared!? I was grinning with 100 naira clutched tightly in my raised fist.

Mystery – Billy on Steroids

I was asked to write a stery on this topic by Emmanuel. And yes, I said a stery, not a story.
It is my stery to tell, and it will be a mystory.

Since the beginning of September, as part of my bid to get in shape and build my determination in one go, I’ve been focusing on my workout routine.
But you do not want to hear about that, and that’s not what this post is about.
As the title suggests, it’s about Billy.

I think Billy has been spreading rumours about me. “Beware the two-legged freak with four eyes”, or something. All the other goats, Kid included, are starting to run from me, even when I’m just sitting down while they walk past. They look at me, as if expecting me to jump on them, and they bide their time making sure I’m just sitting down, with no sinister plans in mind, before rushing past, bleating as they go.
Even some of the chickens are starting to fear me too.
And this suspicion is reinforced by the fact that they don’t even fret when Kunle is around. But me? They panic.

Somehow Billy, the newcomer, has power over the others. Probably because he dares to do what the others can’t.

Just a few days ago, Kunle poked his head outside him room to find Billy with his head inside the food cupboard, feasting on a tuber of yam. He was caught, literally.
Kunle opened my door, holding Billy by his two back legs, the poor goat bleating out of panic, for he had finally been caught in the act. Only now do I realise it would’ve been good to take a picture of that.
And hilariously funny.

Now, if Billy were on steroids, the whole scene would’ve been completely different.
For one, Billy would be massive. He would look more like a deer than the small goat he is, with biceps and triceps you do not want to mess with.
And he would not be sneaking in to munch on Kunle’s foodstuff, he would be marching up the stairs, his hooves stomping the ground with authority, big bad boss here to collect his due.
At this point, I wonder who else in the building he has been troubling.

Also, I would probably have to bow my head in greeting everytime I pass by.
Since my “Hey Kid” ritual has been taken away, replaced by a ritual where I chase Billy off the stairs to my room, this could become a new daily routine I follow. After all, he would be the thug boss around here. And since a turf war with him would leave blood on my hands (not sure whose), and since I don’t want to hurt someone else’s goat (again, Billy on steroids might be the one hurting me), that scenario would be something else.
Probably something I would like to capture on camera.

So…I follow my daily workout routine now, wondering: how far will I have to chase Billy today? And how would I fight him if he somehow gained access to steroids?
Thank God there is no spinach in the vicinity. If there was, and Billy was to eat some, would he have biceps like Popeye the Sailor Man?

That, right there, is a mystory.