WHO KILLED GBOLADE?

You don’t know if it is the glacial weather or the new bed spread your mother bought that wants you to sleep more.

You want to wake but the sleep feels extraordinary.

The alarm isn’t in support. It cries for you to get ready for school. You have rescheduled it to sound for the fifth time again.

You just want to sleep more and you are aware you running late for school.

Your Jesus yells telling you to get the hell up but your Devil whispers to you in a still small voice to sleep more.

It says there is still time, It says the hour isn’t now.

You heard what sounds like a gun blast. It landed on you.

It is what yourba people call “ABARA”. It is a kind of beating that parent use in telling their children, “I love you”.

Your mother just used it on you. It interpreted hate more than its actual meaning, Love.

This brought you out of bed immediately straight into the bathroom.

You lock the bathroom door behind as you try to scratch your back but they were too short to reach the spot you feel the pain.

You hear your mother shouting from behind the door at you, reminding you of your irresponsiveness and your immaturity.

She starts to compare you with Gbolade. The boy with a big head in your class. She reminds you of how he clinched the best punctual student award in your school.

“Can’t you be like Gbolade? ” she say

***

It is your third year at home after secondary school. You keep on failing jamb. You tell your mother that it is jamb that keeps failing you.

You tell her you know what you wrote down. This you keep saying every year.

This year’s own seem different.

You just checked your score and you can see 278 on the printed paper you are holding.

You can’t wait to show your mother.

You are happy.

You greeted Mr hassan or Mrs Ogene the tailor who spoilt your new ankara. An ankara that was given to you by Bade or Sade your lover.

You ignore the fact that you promised yourself not to greet him or her again.

You ignore that you promised yourself that he or she was going to be your enemy till you die.

All these you overlook because you are happy.

You can’t wait to show your mother.
Instead of you trekking home- that which you always do to save 100naira to buy airtime to call Bade or Sade, you decide to take a bike because you can’t wait to show your mother.

You overlook all these because you are happy.

You see your mother frying fish.

You feel even happier because you prefer fried fish to boiled fish.

Your mother asks you what your score is before you even mention.

You start to wonder how she gets to know
You stretch forth your result to her.

She hisses.

She asks what your score is.

Her Interest isn’t in seeing the plenty words printed on paper. Her only Interest is in your score.