Last year at Saint Patrick's

Last year at St Patrick's

55 days later ...
The first time I heard of the outside world was from a visiting priest during mass; it was a long time at Ijebu-Ode, I was just in my second year in secondary school still trying to pick up my pace and now I'm here with a mortar board cap on my head and graduation gown covering the red blazer I wore over the white halter neck dress and listening to Father Jola repeat the exact sentence with the microphone in his hands, the mustache at both corners of his mouth moving back and forth every time he stretched a smile. I had dreamt that this day would come when I would finally graduate from school and for once harbor that feeling of being outside the walls of a place where horariums defined how you ought to live life. Though life was still full of horariums but it was totally different from the ones I was exposed to. I had the  opportunity to choose to follow them faithfully or to ignore and do them whenever I wanted to. Waking up early and getting ready for the day was part of it.

I adjusted the cap to sit on my head properly while he shared his experience with us to the parents and guests about how wonderful we had been during his administration.
For a moment I didn't think we had been that 'wonderful' as he said because there were times that we had to admit our wrong and embrace the severe punishment even though most of them were a little unnecessary; like the girl that had to beg in the name of God to end her strokes of cane that left painful bruises on her arm. At the end of the day we would think back to those times and realize that those treatments were out of love for us —were they really out of love? Perhaps the thought of it just beclouds your judgement and you're left to say: 'mehn I chop cane weh weh oh I no go lie!' You'd say that because you really don't know what to think.
What drew my attention back to the hall was the reminiscences he made from being the first set to throw a surprise send forth party.
I remembered a lot of things. The hand made floral card I had crafted, the  things we had gotten from the huge donations we got from every student in the hostel got us two cartons of chicken and six crates of soft drinks, and it made the Friday evening meal much better than the usual. I remember chop chop vigorously shaking a bottle of Coke until the fizz sent the cork flying off and splurging its content to leave a permanent stain on the white Plastic ceiling. He left a mark behind without knowing it.
A black big shirt Father Jola had given me was the only souvenir I managed to claim because I showed up late, maybe I could've taken the baked wood soaked in a vintage glass bottle with lavender scent but I chose to appreciate the shirt. I thought I could prop it in a frame with glass and keep it but I failed half way and it became a dust  cleaning cloth after it faded with several holes from aggressive washing.
I remember him walking to class wearing his caped cassock that swayed in the direction of the wind, Kizito scuttling before him with the bag that contained the Community Bible and a dictionary, two must haves that completed the lesson for that day.
I loved when he dictated, I wrote fast and helped the others who could put down words after he called them Cows for repeating the sentences. Adepeju was always a culprit. She would even widen her eyes and fold her mouth repeatedly saying hmm just to be noticed. I laughed when Stephen called her ojuyobo for it.  Those were cherry days. And there were more even after he got transferred to St Theresa minor seminary. My  mind went back to the last journey with Father Daniel to St Mathew's at Iwoye. It was a small church for villagers who had a few number of Catholics around the area but still he'd drive down there and celebrate mass every Sunday.
The road to Iwoye looked kind of similar to the plains of the safari park of Kenya, the only difference was that no animals roamed around, just warm brooks and small springs, bushes at both sides of the road and great vegetation peaks that looked like trees growing together to form a huge hill or mountain. I remember asking Father Daniel where we were heading to and I almost I lost my mind when he told me Igbo irumole and laughed about it.
I wasn't quite disappointed when we arrived at the small Father's house, got busy by helping Father Daniel stack out his theological books and ornaments he had left behind. I found something intriguing about the part of the house for a priest. It was a small place but it shared a border line between Ogunstate and Benin republic. So when I opened that door hoisted in the fence, he told me good bye from Nigeria. Funny. I thought. I felt like Edmund and his  siblings from the Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the witch and the wardrobe.
I felt satisfied that I had seen a hungry and stray dog trot about digging it's nose around for food in a French land. It wasn't my first time yet it would be the last.
I remembered leaving with a box full of Philippine and Korean series —courtsey of the seminarian who loved Golden Morn so much and also liked to talk—I think Paul was his name. It really wasn't striking a bell at all and seven feet away door was a huge brown hawk gawking on a dead tree at that time. I wondered why my mind's eye decided to capture every single moment like a camera snap shot—for reference purpose I guess.
Remembering a whole lot would be like an epic movie of about 5 hours or more and I would do anything to and everything to come back here even for a split second.
There was so much I had to say to people that I wasn't so sure I'd see in another two years and so much moves I wish I had made but it's all good. Time is not a constant commodity and it's wise for one to learn to contain it's use. Say exactly what you need to say, do exactly what you need to do.
I felt a sting in my eyes and blinked twice to reality hearing Father Jola's shaky voice in the microphone; admitting that he was terribly going to miss us. Hell he would. And so would we. Everything damn thing that made St Patrick's what it was. The annoying sound of the first bell for rising, having to drag your feet down to the chapel for early morning prayers and waging war with sleep during mass, hustling for own bread, beating it early to the assembly ground to escape Papa T's morning strokes of the cane, First period craze and long double periods of boring subjects that would make you feel like it's turmoils were unending, green sparks over bedsheets during the heavy harmattan season, class punishments, nicknaming teachers and mimicking— everything was everything for me. I shed a tear too. Good byes were actually hard but they opened doors to new beginnings and new experiences. The outside world. I wondered what it was like. No one would tell us until we had to see it for ourselves and make life changing decisions. Some to rue ourselves and some to love ourselves so when we threw up our mortar boards in the air that moment was to welcome our first step into the outside world.