Repercussion (creative nonfiction)

There were four blocks of classrooms in primary school: blue, pink, purple, and yellow. It was easy to draw a line among us, even though occasionally the number was never perfect when segregating by blocks or color. Primary six was the peak of elementary school, and though we remained children, we had some extra privileges from our tutors, which sometimes we overstretched.

Playing football during the short or long breaks during school hours was never enough to satiate our youthful desire to enjoy the bliss of growing up playing. Beyond the weekend plays at home, doing that with colleagues in school was something we always looked forward to. We often stayed a little beyond the closing hours to play, mostly soccer, and this we did behind the classrooms or within the school premises. I loved to play football with my colleagues after school closed (although I am no longer passionate about that now).

The boys from the two blocks of classrooms to play were in odd numbers, and I was offered a space in one of the teams even though I was not from any of the playing classrooms. My younger sister, being in the same school as me, often waited for me to go home together, relying on lifts along the way. It was a tradition for us to seek lifts for the 6km distance from school to the house; on a few occasions, we trekked the distance, mostly when returning from school in the afternoons.

I joined one of the teams to play football after school hours, and unlike every other day, we ended up fighting on the pitch. It was like hell was let loose for us as both teams went haywire in a frenzy. I remember being hit from behind suddenly, like a bolt. We were kids, and soon enough, the fight ended when we got exhausted. Luckily for me, there were no injuries, but the pain crawled through my skin.

When the atmosphere cleared a little, I led my sister home and, unfortunately, endured the 6km walk as we had no lift to take us home. I knew my mom would scold me for coming home late, but I had no option but to present myself for the slaughter. The latest time I got home was usually 5 p.m. But then, the sun had already withdrawn into the distant horizon, and time was already about 7 p.m.

My mom needed to look at me with her wide eyes, just like African parents did before I knew my place on my knees. My younger sister went into her room to change her school clothes while I remained on my knees in the corridor, unsure of what judgment and crucifix were coming my way.

My mom ignored me like I did not exist and continued with the meal she was preparing. Her attitude toward work massively showed she was angry, but I did not know exactly what her plan was for me.

"Now, tell me why you came home so late with your uniform looking dirty!" My mom asked soon after she was done with cooking. She dragged a small stool and sat facing me, awaiting answers. I wanted the ground to open and swallow me, but I had to bail myself out.

"We could not get lifted back home from school, and the teachers did not release us early from class," I said, almost teary. I hoped she believed the mixed truth I laid before her.

"And that made your uniform dirty?" My mom asked further. This time, she held a plate of jollof rice in her hands and enjoyed the meal in between. This worsened my hunger and caused my abdomen to grumble and rumble. My younger sister walked in at that moment and picked up her plate of rice. I was the culprit, and my sister was my responsibility.

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"Mommy, James fought in school today while playing ball with his classmates." My younger sister interjected and confessed to my mom, which caused my mom to pause immediately. My heartbeat's momentum became erratic, and my head felt heavy as though the weight of the world had just been placed on me.

My mom chuckled after hearing what my sister said. "Well done, James Bond. I hope you fought and won. It's because you have energy that you go fighting. Go inside and sleep." My mom said this without remorse before standing up.

I remained on my knees for a while, uncertain if I heard my mom correctly. I hated the fact that my sister had just added fuel to the fire, but I was left with no choice but to face the hunger for the next few hours of the night. As though that was not enough, my younger sister brought out her tongue to make fun of me. I shot her a deadly look after I snapped my fingers at her before she disappeared to her room.

I was thankful my older brothers were not home; my mom would have donated me to them for more punishment. After I freshened up and retired to my room, I struggled with hunger and eventually fell asleep.

The tap I heard on my skin scared the dead night out of me. I was certain it was past midnight. I reacted by shifting farther away from the figure that stood above my bed. Gradually, my eyes adapted to see my mom's figure, and my fear abated.

"Your food is in the kitchen. Next time you fight in school or come home late, you and I will wear the same trousers." My mom said this before walking out through the door. I cleared my eyes several times to be certain I was awake. I knew my mom was fond of waking me up in the middle of the night for punishments, but that night was different. I was reminded of my hunger and, like a drunk soul, walked haphazardly to the kitchen to pick up my meal.