vjsmiles:
BET MY Bleep 99.1/2% OF NAIRALANDERS WONT READ ALL THAT

Vivly:
And it's this 99% that is giving the rest a bad name Abi?

PROBABLY

yuzedo:

I got back upstairs just as the first peal of thunder broke the tranquility of the night. It was as strange as it was ironic, given that the weather remained as clement as paradise is imagined to be. Rapid claps of cannon-sounding, pain-dispensing cane lashes interjected by the anguished cries of two young souls in torture rent the air. It was a deadly day.

#

yuzedo:
The usual evening conversation between my mother and I while she cooked was interrupted at 7 o’clock. Opening the door to our flat, I let in an extremely downcast Nomso, who upon greeting my mom, asked for my presence in their home on his dad’s request.

I was perturbed! As the official neighborhood rascal and serial mischief-maker, I could hardly keep track of which debauchery committed was responsible for my summoning, and Nomso’s stoic countenance and reticence was not helping my frantic recollection efforts.

We arrived their downstairs apartment in less than a minute, and my heart thumped as Papa Nomso welcomed me with a forced cheeriness, his pseudo-joviality being an attempt at keeping me relaxed. I knew from painful experience that it was most definitely the usual grown person trick to lull me into a false sense of security and so kept my guard up, even as my brain stayed churning plausible excuses and alibis to utilize in the inevitable eventuality of whatever accusation(s) being thrown at me. Dumebi, the second son and my playmate stood morose in a corner, devoid of his customary liveliness. I knew this was big.

“Dimma, how was school today?” Papa Nomso asked.

“Fine?” I responded tentatively. School was NEVER fine, after all, and surely, I was not there to discuss the goodness of education. Or was I?

As if reading my thoughts, Papa Nomso continued, “I know you are busy helping your mom upstairs and I don’t want to keep you for long. You see, your friends and I are reviewing their homework and can’t get past a particular math question. Want to know if you can help?”

Simultaneous feelings of relief at not being called out to answer war crime charges, and amplified anxiety at the strong possibility of failing whatever Rocket Science that my friends could not answer immediately took hold of me. However, I knew I was not being given a choice as to whether I wanted to answer on not; I was there to either console or fuel the anger of Papa Nomso on account of his sons’ temporary lack of wit, and probably give him reason to tear at the falling academic standards characterized by our collective obtuseness.

I nodded my readiness to attempt this great, perhaps cancer-curing equation I would be required to solve. I didn’t feel very optimistic.

“What is a quarter of one hundr………. If a boy has a hundred kobo and is asked to divide it amongst four friends, how much would each person get?”

For a second I stared in confusion.

Confused, not at difficulty of the question, but the utter simplicity. My rapidly gaping mouth and expression of ridiculous confoundment must have given my friends a false sense of hope as they silently willed me to fail the question, even as their dad looked on in that second that lasted forever.

“Twenty-five kobo.”, I answered with a mixture of assured conviction and lingering doubt as to the true motive of what was surely a trick question.

Papa Nomso vibrated with what was undoubtedly a cocktail of emotions including righteous anger, happiness, pride, disappointment and the sweet, sweet feeling of justification for what(ever) course of action he was going to take next. These feelings were so overwhelming, he couldn’t contain himself as he rushed towards me, hands outstretched to shake mine, and concomitantly reaching to hug me.

Dumebi and Nomso cursed me in crestfallen despair, surely weeping in their hearts.

The next few seconds saw me being hastened out of the house by a man who needed immediate gratification through the expression of a well of emotions. A man who, neither for all the silver in the world, nor all the entreaties of its noblemen would deviate or reconsider his next course of action. His exact feelings needed conveyance, and a second’s delay could not be afforded.

I said a prayer for my friends. But even I knew it was futile.

I got back upstairs just as the first peal of thunder broke the tranquility of the night. It was as strange as it was ironic, given that the weather remained as clement as paradise is imagined to be. Rapid claps of cannon-sounding, pain-dispensing cane lashes interjected by the anguished cries of two young souls in torture rent the air. It was a deadly day.

The thrashing was not the only stiff measure Papa Nomso took against the boys, as their TV and video gaming privileges were withdrawn, as were the daily Mr. Biggs treats. He personally undertook their coaching on an intensive scale.

Result of that vehement intervention?

Dumebi left me behind the next year when he achieved an effortless double-promotion in a special exam at our school, which I spectacularly bungled.

Nomso was admitted on merit to Federal Government College, Warri to commence his secondary education.

ME?

My backside remained welt-free for the duration of my education, and I went ahead to not only supply the last four digits in Pi, but was also responsible for finally bringing peace to the Middle East.

Ya. **insert visuals of my most idiotic, drooling face here**

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yuzedo:
The pain of not being fully relieved of grief.... Of an inability to let it all out.

Of thinking everyday of the faithful departed, but more, of those left behind, without "adequate" comfort...

Some crosses are heavy.

..... Peace to all those mourning, amen.