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Observations of a Young Nigerian Female . Powered by Blogger.

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I am young, "normal" and I like to write. People say I eat too much, people don't know what they are saying.

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Douglas Road (Series): Nnamdi .G. Nwaigwe - Part 2


Ten years later, I had the opportunity to visit Owerri. I had been offered admission to study mass communication at the federal polytechnic in Owerri. On the bus, the passenger beside me looked amused to learn it was my first time of going to Owerri. I had asked him, after about thirty minutes, how much longer we had before getting Owerri. He asked whether I hadn’t been to Owerri before and I excitedly nodded in affirmation.
“Hmm. OK. We’ll be there in about forty-five minutes or more,” he said vaguely.
There was an icy indifference to his voice that cooled the heat of my excitement. I felt reduced, physically, and wanted to quickly throw in a lie that I had been to Enugu, Port-Harcourt and Lagos – cities that should offer more validation of my existence than Owerri – but instead, I starred mournfully outside the window, observing the hallucinatory swish of the trees and grasses by the roadside.
The trees seemed to be running in the same direction as the bus but unable to muster enough speed, and therefore condemned to playing endless catch-up. It reminded me of those nightmares where a monster pursued me and I seemed to be running still, despite the efforts I made, wakingwhenever the monster was about to strike me down, my face moist with warm sweat. I had often wondered what would happen if the monster had succeeded in striking me down.
Among the many ungraspable things I was taught in Sunday school classes, dreams and their possible interpretations terrified and confused me the most. If a monster chased you in your dreams, it was evil and you needed to pray. If you ate in your dreams, it was also bad and a decent burst of prayer was in order. It was worse for the women, especially when they ate meat (and dream-foods are rarely served without choice chunks of meat), because it could mean they have eaten one of their future babies or even, God forbid, their womb!
Bro Udoka, the Sunday school teacher, had written a pamphlet on dream interpretations which he made us buy. I tried to read it, to make meaning of the weird dreams I usually had, instead of telling father about them and having him return the next evening with packs ofmalaria drugs. The book confused me. It was riddled with too many bible quotations, so much that by the time I finished seeking out the bible verses allotted to a paragraph, my thoughts would wander away or I would forget what the bible verses were supposed to clarify in the first place.
One Saturday morning, I burnt the book together with the shit-smeared old newspapers we used as toilet papers.I watched it burn, fists clenched and chest puffed out in silent rage. It was the only revenge I could serve.
The evening before, I had gone early for catechism class and had caught Bro Udoka fondling the breasts of Sister Nkechi, his assistant, at the back of the catechism class building. He had quickly withdrawn his hands while she hurriedly pulled down her gown. Too late. I had already seen her it-was-white pants and the new life in his crotch before he turned to hide it. I had come out to urinate, but the shock had frozen the urine and I turned back, heartbroken. My heart was heavy; I felt robbed. It was against everything he preached. And I had a crush on her!

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