**THE STROKES OF THOUGHT**

DEDICATION: to all the graduate that thinks it's over, something good will fall in line for you all.

It was another Sunday, brother Dende had not been in church for three consecutive Sundays, and here was another Sunday. He awoke from his humble mat, which on top of it was a wrap of clothes that formed a pillow, he went straight to his mother and greeted her, "Good morning ma'am", '(omo olukun esin). "I want to believe you woke up well'' she replied. While he nodded his head saying ''yes''.

After he had finished greeting, he returned to his room and sat comfortably on a plastic chair facing his wardrobe.

He slouched backwards in the chair and began staring at the ceiling, casting his mind back to the time when he was at school with his friends. That period was filled with undiluted happiness and so much hope. He and his mates promised themselves that they would meet at top in the future. But now, that seems like a wish as well as a distant memory. As these thoughts went through his mind, he shook his head, feeling sorry for himself and what has befallen him.

Perhaps he had forgotten it was Sunday.

His mother walked towards his room, to see him alone and with worry clearly written on his old face.
"Dende aren't you going to church today?'', there was a moment of silence before he grudgingly replied ''I will''. ''Better", she replied as she approached the door.

Few minutes after everybody had left for church, leaving only him in the house, he continued with his thought. This was when he remembered his promise to (Omolara); his girlfriend which they had projected their future together, and had vowed to seal their love through success.

His thought shifted from worrying about himself, to worrying about Omolara, who may be waiting to marry a great and successful Dende.

''Why this God?'' he muttered.

He stretched his hand towards a brown bag beneath the table located at the center of the room, he opened it gently like it contained eggs. He took out a file which "My Mummy" was written on it with his good handwriting. Tears trickled down his face and he was drenched in his own sweat, checking through the papers contained in the file.

He hadn't finished sorting through, when more tears streamed down his face, as he realized what his education had cost his parents. Not only that they worked tirelessly to get money but also they took loans after loans which they were yet to pay back.

''I thought I would be able to change my life and my parent's with this", as he pointed angrily at the excellent credentials which were before him. He seemed to had lost all hope of becoming great.
Thus, he returned the bag and went straight to the window, placing his hand on the wooden bar, which was meant to keep intruders out.

He stood there looking dejected and crestfallen like a criminal in police cell.

Soon after he had conspired with silence, he saw two men heading towards each other. on looking at them, he heard a strange knock at the door. ''Yes! come in'' he instructed, but no one entered. "Oh! that must be Tinuke" he concluded.

Meanwhile, Tinuke, was the youngest daughter of his family, besides she was just 2 years old but she was known for playing pranks.

On returning back to the window, the men he saw earlier had already met, and there were exchanging handshakes. However they had also graduated from the University for the past 6years but never got employed. They were still expecting great things to happen as evidenced by the words they were exchanging.

Dende remained keen as he saw men who seemed to be in the same shoe with him, but there they were living with hope and happiness. ''Mine was 3years while theirs was 6years", he said to himself as he shook his head beholding a situation which seemed worse than his.

He left the window with hope renewed. He looked up to see what the time was, "it's past 11 already"..."No church today again'' he said.

As he was making his way to the door, he sighed "Hmmm", then he said to himself, "The best way to free one's self from depression is to be kind to one's self , because we are all middlemen".

@minkail olaitan.
olaitanminkail100@gmail.com.

Hmmmm