Last year at Saint Patrick's

Memoirs from the fifth year

The very first time I started keeping personal diaries was in OLASS. I mean diaries with nice covers and locks and daily plans and the peripherals of how fancy books with leather covers are made. I was in JSS2, still trying to figure the knick-knacks of being a junior student. My days were mostly uneventful and repetitive activities so sometimes I could have three different days with the same contents so it wasn't too serious until the second term of JSS3 in St Patrick's. I had made more enemies than friends, disrespected seniors that didn't deserve an iota of respect.

I wasn't ashamed to be on my own because I had a diary where I could pour in all my vengeance, anger, fears and worry. I wasn't afraid of who stole it to read behind my back whenever they got missing all of a sudden. The funny thing was that I knew these people and pretended not show it and I didn't write about the books being stolen to be read. I left it all unsaid—write down more things that would make them anticipate the next write up like how I fantasied killing senior Funmi with camphor that I planned to grind and mix in her food. It was a rough  write-up but I was glad she got the message and stopped harassing me for the slightest thing I did—it was all because I refused to arrange my foot wears they she arranged hers. I wasn't even her bunk mate in the first place we only shared one small corner that I only turned my back to because the sight of her sun burned face disgusted me more than her bossy and over the top attitude.
My diary wasn't completely all about revenge and my sole desire to rip people's skin off their faces and slip dead geckos and feather and pieces of paper under the pillow to make them think that they were about to be spiritually manipulated, not like I even had that power and time for that; I wrote about plan for the future, where I wanted to find myself in five to six years' time, people that I wished that they would talk to me, those suffering from peer influence and also about people I had a crush on. Anyone could tell me the 'Efo' wouldn't last but it was worth it for the period it lasted. Without beating about the bush the, Boyo was the very person I had a crush on but it never sparked up until we became friends.

He came off as a bossy senior, shouting at the top of his voice and flogging people in the refectory at every opportunity he had. I found him to be a very obnoxious person and pictured him to look like a goose with the way his neck retched every time he yelled I anger. It was a mixture of hatred with the sheer wickedness I harbored in my mind and sometimes I went as far as imaging a fan will fall on his head; perhaps it could humble him for a while nevertheless it took it a deep scar he gave me on my arm with a cane that had small thorns and his pleading on his knees when I threatened to make his life a living hell to change the bad blood that only existed in my world because I wasn't even sure he knew I existed until that very day.

I expected much from him, what were they? To be a good school daddy, buy me stuff without having to ask for it—I was in JSS3, just a stupid girl who didn't know more than fish roll and balls of groundnut baked with honey—but he didn't see all of these and I never said anything so he treated like he would treat any other girl. Then out of the blues the head girl became my school mother. So much for the silly songs they composed then—'Elefo Boyo'. I ripped off these parts of my diary and loathed for the entire session.

As if the Boyo wahala wasn't enough, it seemed as if I hadn't learned my lesson when Ossy boobs came my way. He was quite different from Boyo, she shared nothing in common and the only thing that attracted me to him was the dimple at the corner of the left cheek. It was very cute, no lies and he took it as an advantage to look cute in eyes of girls who chose to find it nice. Unregretably he was my first kiss; after sometime I couldn't even remember what it felt like after I lost vibe because it felt like he had gotten what he wanted and didn't care about my feelings anymore and I got tired of thinking about it and declining every chance he had to talk to me.; after all actions spoke louder than voices did.