Flames

Fabro

“What is it with all these paintings?” his mother asked him whimsically.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten my passions so soon?” he protested gently, scratching his already paint-soiled hand.

“No... I haven’t.” She assured him. “But this looks more like a paid job than a passion... You seem under pressure my dear.” She observed.

“Nothing is changed... I will do what I have to do, to keep myself distracted from the displeasures of the world.” He posited.

“Talking about distractions... Smart, my brother was here sometimes ago... wasn’t he?” she queried with her bloodshot eyes shooting vigorously out.

“It is been a long time... he visited...” he replied, avoiding her gaze and wondering why she would bring up the issue of Sir X, which was nothing put a sorry past.

“How long?” She probed, quizzing all the sinews of his patience.

“I can’t tell... been a while!” He said to quell the lingering conversation that may get her worked and ultimately end her up in depression. It is been a while since they had a decent conversation, so he wouldn’t want to ruin it by giving in to her incessant depressing questions. She had been up in a bit that evening, coming around to the corner of the sitting room that he had made his own. Place he called his art room, studio or whatever he chose to call it at that time.

She had started to act normal. She had acted like she had missed a lot, asking questions and throwing one or two comments that were rational and stately. He has started to feel enormous and breathtaking peace, when she had come to the dinning, although still unkempt, she was a beauty nonetheless but in manner and in character. He stole glances at her as they ate almost quietly on the dining, making sure she did not catch his gaze. However, he was still conscious that the peace within her might be temporary, probably another respite, or a break from those complex spasms of jangling nerves but despite the looming fear, he dared not break the cycle of her reunion with him. He had to savour every minute with her.

The night soon vanished into their arms as they slept in the same room and on the same bed. He was sure she had missed him. And he could not also deny that he had missed her. So it came as a little surprise when she urged them to sleep together in the same room. The last time that happened, he was certain he was a suckling and she was definitely nursing.

***

School was all pleasant and stately the next morning and he knew his classmates felt there was something about him that morning. Although he was reserved as usual yet there was this visible inner glow that radiated through the innermost parts of his soul. It was so visible that some tried to share some part of that glow. Nevertheless he saw fears permeating through their skins as they were quite unsure about this joy that reflected through his inscrutable face.

“Is there something about you this morning?” I heard a voice intruding my tranquil landscape. He knew that voice was familiar, so he turned and met Fatamata’s curious but smiling face. He smiled back, rejecting any form of ungodliness, as well as the menace of rudeness. “I’ve never seen you in this light before... in fact we all haven’t!” she quipped. At the sound of that question, he felt a sudden rush of emotion, the one that might lash out on her but he had to be civil and control that melancholic and choleric effect that have been associated with him, since he arrived through the door of that class. He knew she had a free spirit- that kind of girl that wants to talk to everybody and please them as well. He was not going to throw her down, so continued with his ear to ear glee, jettisoning the temptation to be irked.

He just wished she could see through him and probably see the handwriting on the tablets of his heart and probably go away. She should have known that it was improper to intrude into someone’s space at some time of peaceful meditations but she was the big bug. The attention of the class was already fixated on his shy frame and it wasn’t a good feeling, especially for him. “Come on, tell me!” her infernal voice re-echoed in his ears yet again. He felt like hitting that round heads of hers but he knew any wrong step or statement would spell meanness and he was not in the mood to be called a gnarling cry baby. So he only smiled and let out some few incoherent words from his locked up lips.

“Maybe i won a bet!” he declared, hoping she would get a clue and move on but Fatamata will always be Fatamata.

“Tell me about it!” She probed further.

“You don’t want to know!” He frowned.

“I do!” She insisted, provoking the little demon inside of him. He looked her over and observed for the first time that she was really beautiful under her Hijab that veiled most parts of her face. He deduce she most really be hairy because there were spots of almost invisible stubbles plaited on her fair, fat cheek. He noticed she fixed her tiny eyes on him, waiting to strain every word that has been locked up in his heart since he resumed classes with them last term. He also observed she was not the only eye fixated on him. He saw million, prying eyes waiting to hear more words from his ever- sealed lips, especially the one of another reserved spoilt kid, he presumed was Fatou. She was keen to hear more from him, even much more than Fatamata’s desperate questions.

“Well...” he began slowly, hoping to say little. He was trying earnestly to construct a two lettered sentence, when the history teacher walked in. He heaved a heavy sigh of relief. No one would bother him now or after now. He knew he would wear a smirk malevolent face after the class. Just then, the husky voice of the teacher saturated the entire class with his most formal greeting mannerisms.

“Good morning class!” He greeted as he dropped his worn out long note on the improvised lectern.

“Good morning Mr. Banjo!” The class replied in unison. The whole class watched him, appreciating his clean and smart looks- something that was not unusual with him. His grey linen shirt was crisp and neatly ironed, with creases as sharp as blades. The lines in the shirt were standing tall as he carefully tucked them in to a corresponding pair of navy blue trousers. He had the habit of the greeting the class first. There was some degree of twinkles in his eyes, when the class echoed their responses. That was the ritual that always marked the beginning of a class that shuttled between boredom and excitement. History was a remarkable subject. It had a way of flourishing nostalgic rush through the corpuscles of a beating heart, even when you are not privy to the firsthand experience of whatever story they may be.

“If you had time to run through some of the points in your note...” he began slowly by running through a quick recap of the last class, a habit that was exclusively his. He was wont to think that he overdid it a times because it always ended up eating deep into the time of the new topic, something that perpetually contributes to the boring part of his class, and leaving the rest of the class with irritable feelings. The European incursion into Africa was majorly motivated by three factors: the religious factor... the economic factor and the political factor. There were other reasons but these were the visible reasons. We believe the economic factor was more prominent in their agenda than the religious and political factor ab initio but we must note that in wielding total economic power over a strange continent, culture and race, they must of necessity, create a significant platform to have total control of the wealth Africans possessed, hence the introduction of colonialism and imperialism, which is the third and the most paramount motivation for the white man...” he said most of these things from his head. It was evident he did not need any book to rake up his head for the story every rational African knew too well and he was passionate about these stories. Most times, Fabro noticed tears welling up behind the walls of his iris, which constantly made him feel pity for him as if the story did not in any way touch him.

His period had a way of making the class fall asleep. Some who were patient enough to stay awake and alert ended up distracting themselves, hoping the class would wound up as soon as possible, a trait that had come to haunt them as a people as he normally opined. “How do you wish to change the future, when you don’t know your past?” He would always say. “Or how do you intend to stir a revolution when you are unaware of what you are changing from and what you are changing to.” The class took those words with sheer levity. Something he discovered was a marauding demon living in their heads and blocking their vision for posterity. He was not free from these demons either as he kept yawning away or trolling his eyes to wherever he willed. Fatamata was already off, dozing carelessly away but her seatmate was quite alert, stealing glances at everyone except Mr Banjo, who kept yapping away. His eyes met her’s somehow in a mid-casual staring but as usual they often tried to look away from each other as quick as possible. Soon, the casual stealing of glances started becoming more of a fixed stare. He wondered what went on in her mind because he always felt the repulsive attitude she gave everyone, including him.

Meanwhile Mr Banjo was busy dishing out his sermons, not minding who listened. He could faintly hear him as he had delved into the topic of the day, which had echoed colonialism. But somewhere he found his exchange of glances with Fatou- Fatamata’s seatmate, amusing and rude at the same time. There was basically one way to end that ungodly exchange and that was to focus his attention on Mr Banjo, maybe with that, the war of sight as he called it would cease.

“... Colonialism was a monster with multi faceted complexities. It had its ills and gains... but I am wont to assert that the ills far outweighs the gains... our people have abandoned their tradition, for what they call civilization. Our culture has been treated with disconcertion and disdain over the years. We choose western names over the meaningful indigenous names... we decide on western foods... we pride in western norms and attitudes over and above our custom. And funnily enough we also pride in the devaluation of ancestral legacies. A borrowed life is what we have and a borrowed culture has succeeded in alienating us... we are neither here nor there. We only bask in the euphoria of our melancholic stupidity...” the words that flew out his mouth were incoherent for their level. At times, Fabro wished someone told him they were just senior college boys and not some advanced students.

He was wont to think that his highfalutin words were one the reason, some of the students dosed off in his class. Because when people are not properly acquainted with issues that the meticulous, they give in to the ridiculous: sleeping had become a way of protest, especially against the ridiculous.

“Money has been enthroned above value” his voice snapped him back to reality again. “People make money and they are hallowed, nobody cares about the moral reflection of the said wealth... colonialism has enthroned class and class prospers where there is capitalism and capitalism thrives on money... people wrought abominations to transcend to the upper class. They also maintain abomination to remain there. Otherwise, how do you explain the existence of excruciating poverty and extraordinary affluence, placed side by side? How do you explain the existence of starvation in the midst of plenty? The answer is the obvious. The doctrine of colonialism pervades the contemporary age. Our people have abandoned our tradition of communalism, where the priority is the well-being of the community for individualism...” he was beginning to have a feel of his teachings. His attentions had suddenly become undivided before the rousing shouts by his dozing class mates knocked the wind out of his sail as a result of the incessant chiming of the bell that has ushered in the long break. “The time prefect had a way of making nuisance of himself, doesn’t he?” he asked himself as he watched Mr Banjo walk out of the class, after taking his time to arrange his worn out notes under his armpit.

Break was something Fabro never looked forward to. It was the most boring part of school at the Federal College. It was a time when faction convened, cliques converged and feathers flocked together. He had been a loner until he was barraged into the school team, which he regretted at every possible chance. He would urged himself to play terribly, perhaps kick the ball towards his own side- achieve an own goal, so he could be left alone. But that perfectionist spirit that lurked within would not allow him. It had a way of smoking him out like a rebellious fish from shoals.

Being in the school team meant he was not going to be alone. He must participate in the physical training and the ever overrated tactical drills. With that knowledge handy, he often took his time to arrange his books into his flat- looking bag that passed for an office file before tucking it away to the locker. He would stand up; counting minutes generously. He would then stretch out like python trying to crush the bones of its prey. He did that, conscious of prying eyes that seared holes of infamy into his body. Those eyes were mostly owned by girls. He knew he had become popular by some margin, a result of the unnecessary accolades he earned the previous day. Fatamata’s eyes spoke volumes of curiosity. He was certain she wanted to continue with her question- and- answer session but he definitely was not in the mood for such bellicose and his face was a lot testimony to that. He guessed she took the cue because she could only scurry out of the empty class, leaving his femme alter-ego and him all by themselves in the already emptied class.

He chose not to look out at her but he was convinced that something was obviously bonding them, even if we they pretending about it. Every member of the class agreed that they shared some degree of melancholic affinity, seclusion and unique peculiarities. He avoided her gaze as he made to leave the class for the field but their eyes met somehow, rather too strangely. He could not explain the momentary pulse as he was transfixed, motionless and rooted to the ground. His toes curled like a curly cur. However he felt a sudden urge to break the long standing silence that has animated them over the few weeks of contact.

“Hello...” he greeted impulsively, searching for her name in his little memory box. She looked at him and breathed heavily with a breath of insolence, sizing him from head to toe and blinking her eyes irregularly like a miscued puppet. Whatever virtue that was left of him was lost immediately. He hated himself for initiating the pleasantries first. That feeling of self- hate pushed him out of the class without daring to turn his back for a second wild guess.

He left, feeling blighted and insulted. However he reckoned that attitudes were all there was to man. He had heard one or two say “attitudes make man!”But attitudes were inseparable from experiences, especially the one that emanates from the home. He charged himself to forget his miscalculated gesture, a stretched-hand of acquaintance and focused on the training. It was perhaps the best he could do at the moment to distract himself from the ridiculous, an attitude that he had adopted aftermath his father’s demise.

The husky voiced coach, whose muscles were expanding by the day, was already standing gingerly in the middle of the field, with highs veins threatening to tear out from the flesh above it. “His veins could pass for a rope.” He seldom mused.

“I won’t warn you again about your lateness.” His thick voice smacked the flimsy smile out of his lips. “If you must stay in, you must fit in! I hope we are clear?” He asked sternly.

“Abundantly, sir!” He stammered.

“Exactly, the word i would hear!” he snapped, seemingly diluted and purged of his initial belligerent form. “Unto it then... five aside, rally round, tag your favourites. Come on... chap, chap, chap...” He kept clapping indiscriminately, with the ultimate aim for motivation. “Listen, we have barely weeks for the national sport festival... it might interest you to know that today will decide, if you make the cut or not... I want you to play like your life depends on it. I believe you are aware the team will not exceed fifteen players... so go in there and have fun, alright?”

“Yes sir!” They chorused in unison.

The selection process was brisk and automated as they clicked into chunks of familiar teammates. The coach urged at intervals, reminding them that the national sport festival was not farfetched.

They played their hearts out that day, hoping to make the team. Who would have thought that he would be motivated to make the final team? Nothing even him! But the truth was that he did not need much motivation to make the school team because football was one of the things he found himself flowing seamlessly with. The first passion had been painting and drawing. Such flairs dwarfed his underwhelming performance in academics. Football was natural to him and that was a major plus for him and the team as well as he did put up a virtuoso performance, earning him applauds from the spectators and other neutral teammates. He earned accolades from his sport master as well, a feat that would endear him to a few and engender strife in many at the same time.

After the training, he made the team and was atrociously made the school team’s captain as well. Many were not pleased with that development, especially those, who were a class ahead of him; the ones that claimed the bragging right of the school, the final year students.

At that point, he knew it was not going to be an easy ride because storm clouds were already brewing around the team.

“Why should he be made the school captain?” He heard one of the senior students ask.

“When did he join the school that he should be afforded such privileges?” his friend corroborated.

“Wrong move Mr. Okafor!” the last of them, threatened.

He kept quiet as he moved ahead of them from the bend of the field, which led to the outer lawn. They sneered at him, hoping to draw provocations. He however ignored them as he moved ahead, choosing to be dumb and deaf instead. He knew how those wanton provocations ended in colleges and he was not ready to be at the centre of any fight between two classes, especially as he was not popular among his classmates. He had every conviction they would boycott the tournament but he positive it mattered less nonetheless. He was focused in raising the money that would see his mother and him through in the forth coming days and not some unprofitable school captaincy.

He smiled when he reminded himself that the portrait was almost done but it needed finishing touches and that was his distraction, not any tension brewing over the school teams’ captaincy.

He entered the class with fewer rousing welcome. He perceived there was a smear of jealousy in the faces of some of the guys in the class but still he was hardly bothered. He moved straight to his and discovered his locker had been vandalised. He knew he would be pissed if anything happened to the portrait he was working on. He stood there for some minutes, bamboozled. He quickly analysed the situation, even as he felt prying eyes searing holes into his conscience, almost anticipating the unknown.

He took his time before opening the wooden locker amidst wistful subdued jeering. He searched through the contents of the locker, with a special attention to the portrait. He found his bag significantly intact but the portrait was nowhere to be found. He turned to the on-looking class, smiled and then turned back to his locker to be sure he was not running into hasty conclusions. False alarm was something he lacked talent for. He searched again, this time thoroughly, scrutinizing the nooks and crannies of the desk and the inner locker, yet there was no positive sign of the portrait. He turned to the class, who were still gazing at him. He suspected a play, so foul was going on and it was abundantly adequate to irk his spirit.

“Do you mind telling me what’s going on here?” he turned Essiet, his customary seatmate. His face was practically inscrutable now.

“Dunno, was in the field! He answered with a straight face. He looked at him and recalled he was in the field with him and he had in fact played so magnificently well as a centre half that he earned himself an automatic spot in the team’s first eleven.

“What then is going on here?” He asked no one in particular. He turned to Fatou, the last of the student in the class before he left the class for the field. She was obviously the last the person in class before he left and there was the possibility she knew more than her pouty face could reveal. He however saw himself fretting. He had no courage to question her but his eyes did a lot of the asking.

“Don’t stare at me like that! I have nothing to do with your vandalized locker.” She protested. He had not asked her a single question but she had ultimately refuted any claim to the knowledge of his missing portrait. The person who could be so kind to unravel the mystery beclouding his immediate predicament was Fatamata but she was nowhere near the class.

He was confused. He lacked words to describe what was happening around him at the moment. He did not know whether to call it a prank or a cynical gesture.

He recalled that the business end of that portrait was nothing beyond dusk that same day and he had been given part of the money to commence the work. He had no money to pay back the contractor and that aggravated him. The thought began to wrought wonders. He felt anger begin to well up in his chest. His stomach began to tighten, his chest heaved indiscriminately, and up and down it went rapidly and vigorously, threatening to explode, with the contents of spurting through the crevices of the classroom.

“I know you all don’t like me and I really don’t care!” He began slowly, my voice resounding through the hollows of the class, threatening with massive echoes of distinct thunder claps. “I know you want to hurt me because you want to see me cry... i know you might have reason for your hate. You have the right to transfer your questionable attitudes to me but you dare not touch my stuffs! I bellowed, hitting the desk so furiously that the class suddenly went deaf.

“You are disturbing the class!” i heard the class rep assert as he stood lamely from where he was sitting and standing up to me.

“So what?” i barked, with the elasticity of my muscle making my body to shake with a scattered rhythm.

“I will have no choice but to report you to the class master”

“I want to see you do that!” I inched towards him with a malicious intent.

“Back to you seat! The class rep bellowed, hoping to bully back to my soft corner but i was having none of that.

“And if I don’t?” My rage has crossed the red line and it was not going to come back without wrecking havoc. I wished the class rep understood my fiery insatiable anger; he would try to pacify me and not bully me.

“Then i would be compelled to use force on you!”

He stung me with those words and i knew it would not take long before i unleashed the beast. My muscles swayed and breath increased malevolently. He did not take the cue, perhaps because he was bigger and muscular, with a threatening dark skin radiating his stretched-out veins. His bully status had earned the class rep. He was appointed to curb the excess of the class and he had so far succeeded in doing just that as he spanked one person to the other. Perhaps, that misled as wisdom would have taught him to be diplomatic with someone that just lost an invaluable material to an infernal nosy class.

I saw his hand raised and descending like a flash towards my face. I knew i had to be proactive or else i would be disgraced in a class that spited me so much or so i thought. I held is hand mid air and grasped onto it. My grip was so intense, as i felt his arms wriggling to break free from my clutch. I wanted to tell him to be clam or he would get his arm broken but i was too incensed to be rational or kind. I kept the grip tight and there were evidences of a crackling bone, even in the atmosphere of a roaring class. I felt the urge to let him loose but he kept struggling as if he was bent on hurting me. I lessened my grip on him when i felt his bone was about crack and then released him subsequently. The force he applied to the grip threw him to the ground to roaring laughter of the class. He stood ashamedly, and with his embarrassment punched my blind jab. I staggered backwards before settling. I stood on my toes to repel more of his attack but he was swift, dealing another blow across the left cheek. i felt a wet sensation forming around my lower lip. I would have staggered again to the roaring pleasure of the class but i felt a surge of energy, gripping my legs and locking them to the ground. He pounced again, throwing a deadly left clenched fist towards my temple, a killer punch that threatened to rip my body to shreds. The class at this time had gone raucously staccato with lots of the boys throwing their lots with him. The few girls that showed no savage intentions showed solidarity by expressing their loud fear, obviously showing sympathy to my imminent plight: a sorry plight.

“Urrgh... arrrggghhh” rented the air as some of them urged the boys to end the fight, with a special pity towards me. But something told me it was my turn.

Having evaded his last ferocious strike, he was encouraged to throw another one that i evaded as well by duck and an accompanying body shot on his lower rib. He gave a shrill shout. I knew i had hit his diaphragm and that was what i needed. He threw another punch, this time aimlessly, yet deadly. I employed an elbow block and dazed his either ears with my open hands. It sounded more like a slap and it took him instantly to the ground. The class grew quiet suddenly.

The silence was marked by two significant reasons: the “where did that come from?” silence as everyone had expected the prefect to pounce and devour the lanky, tall me and the huge frame standing over the door, obviously livid with the disgruntled state of the class. He stayed silent but his silence spoke volumes and the class was reset to default in a bit, with everyone minding his spot, except the prefect and me. We stood with ruffled shirts that displayed our heaving breaths. The class master descended further into the class with obvious rage. He glared at me for what i thought was an eternity and then turned to the class rep before he faced the class.

“Free field day, huh?” he asked calmly. “A high intensity in the fort eh... with two upstanding gladiators entertaining your lust for blood...” he turned to me again but this time i was bent on ignoring his hard stare as my rapid breathing lessened. “And you, you would need some time with yourself, for turning my class into a sport.”

I wanted to protest and let him know that my locker had been vandalized but he was sure having none of that. He gave us no room for explanation as he lorded the issue like a corrupt national judge that was paid to pervert judgement and punish the innocent, who could not afford his prize. He turned around sharply and ordered both of us to follow him.

We followed like ship to the slaughter to his office and right there he slapped us with what he called capital penalties. He gave me one the rust machetes and ordered me to west end of the school, a place infamous for its outrageous growth of stubborn grasses. He gave me no definite portion to clear as he ordered to move in instantly.

“You will slay those grasses until i am satisfied, by then, we can review your case... now move, he bellowed.