Welcome, Guest: Register On Nairaland / LOGIN! / Trending / Recent / NewStats: 3,148,690 members, 7,802,012 topics. Date: Friday, 19 April 2024 at 07:52 AM |
Nairaland Forum / Entertainment / Literature / A Chance For Love ( A Story Of Love, Hatred, Hope And Betrayal) (372 Views)
LOST IN UNIPORT (a Story Of Vengeance, Crime And Betrayal) ft chimexplosive / The Enemy Within - A Tale Of Love, Lust And Betrayal / PERFIDY- A STORY OF LOVE,BETRAYAL AND DECEIT (2) (3) (4)
(1) (Reply)
A Chance For Love ( A Story Of Love, Hatred, Hope And Betrayal) by honeymix3112(f): 12:37pm On Nov 10, 2018 |
Episode one
Sick
.
“Do you not care at all about your life,
Victoria?”
***
Somewhere close, a bell jingled. The
richness of this sound filled my ears
and wrapped me in a tingling cloak.
To everyone else, the bell only served
to usher in eight hours of sitting
down, watching men and woman
flaunt their expertise. But to me, the
ringing bell meant much more. It
officially announced eight hours of
undisturbed freedom.
For the next few hours, I would enjoy
relative bliss, breathing in
unadulterated air. But, in a while, my
time would be up. I would hear the
closing bell. The same sound that
brought me comfort would snatch it
from my grasp without any qualms,
and against my will I would stuff my
books into my backpack and drag
myself back home, into the rusty old
arms of slavery.
Slipping through the school gate, I
started toward the two-story building
standing tall and prestigious in my
line of sight. The building’s red bricks
gave off a western setting I admired.
Since its founding, Western High had
won several awards for its unique
ambience and physical environment,
organization, staff quality, and
exceptional student performance. To
top it all, they delivered this package
at a price affordable for the exclusively
rich who could spend millions on one
child’s educational concern and yet,
their pockets would not groan.
A disquieting silence embraced me as
I made for the stairs. I squinted at the
pitch-black leather wristwatch
Amarachi had bought me last session.
9:37am and ticking without mercy. I
shook my head at the person I’d been
forced to become. Who would believe
I woke up by 4:30am every day?
I would do anything to stop being late
for school. But each day, I ran in long
after the corridors had emptied its
occupants into classes. Victoria
Brown, the award winning latecomer
in all of Western High. Not cool.
People would always talk. The facts
never mattered to anyone. They only
wanted someone to be the object of
their derision. And at Western High, I
fit the bill in ways more than one.
Gripping the ornate wrought iron
handrail, I mounted the stairs leading
to my class. My lower back felt like a
rock had been placed on it. After the
arduous chores I had been forced to
battle with for four hours, and the
glaring distance I walked to school,
maintaining a proper posture posed a
challenge I didn’t know how to tackle.
The damp fabric of my white long-
sleeve clung to my torso. I couldn’t be
happier our uniform had a navy blue
waist coat to hide my hopeless
perspiration. How would I survive the
day when I had already died from the
start?
A throbbing pain in my head caused
me to halt. My headache had
awakened. For the past few days it
had become an unwanted best friend,
coming and going as it saw fit. It
would persist, hammering as hard as
it dared. Sometimes, I feared I would
never escape its clutches.
“Heeey, easy!” a deep and unfamiliar
voice said from behind me.
I didn’t need to turn to know my
abrupt halt had almost caused ‘him’ to
crash into me. Apologizing for the
inconvenience would be in order, but
his next words stopped me cold.
“What are you? Sleepwalker or
zombie?”
Anger welled through me, swelled like
a bubble and threatened to burst.
Everyone knew me as the greatest
latecomer ever, but the terms
‘sleepwalker’ and ‘zombie’ had never
been heard. Had those become my
new tags?
Amidst my wounded pride, his voice
swirled around in my head. From his
accent, I could tell he was no Nigerian.
With its syrupy r’s and e’s, it was
probably American.
A familiar throbbing in my head jolted
me out of my thoughts. Gripping the
straps of my backpack, I whirled
around to descend the stairs, but
found myself staring at an emerald-
eyed boy I had never seen before. His
skin, a flawless olive shade, held a
glow to die for. Silky, raven hair, styled
in a spiked faux hawk pulled me in,
bringing to mind those celebrities on
TV. For a moment, I gaped. He
probably believed I gawked at him
because I’d never come face-to-face
with a foreigner, but then he would
be a fool to think that, because we
had over a dozen of them in our
school.
A sudden wave of self-consciousness
swept me over as my gaze fell on his
finely sculpted nose as opposed to my
average Nigerian nose. How did he
breathe with nostrils barely as wide
as buttons?
My gaze traveled along the length of
his slender build. Although he stood
one step below, I noted he lingered
on the tall side, probably three inches
taller than my hopeless 5’4. My gaze
lingering on his face, I mentally shook
my head at the generous spray of
stubbles framing his high cheek
bones. I looked forward to the look
on his face when our principal asked
him to get rid of his facial hair.
A familiar pinching sensation in my
nose overwhelmed me, severing my
thoughts. A sneeze forced its way out,
jerking my head forward and almost
knocking it into ‘Mr. White’. I hadn’t
seen that coming, at least not until the
final moment. Gross.
If I hadn’t been fast enough to pinch
my nose while I sneezed, all hell would
have broken loose. And in his face. It
would have been a really snotty
moment. Double gross.
An apology would be in order, but I
didn’t give myself a chance. Tugging
at my collar, I descended the stairs,
taking two at a time. I could feel Mr.
White’s gaze bore a hole through me.
Other than being a zombie and a
sleepwalker, I had also ended up
becoming a clown for his
entertainment. How awkward could
our encounter get? Sneezing didn’t
make a crime, but doing it in
someone’s face did.
Musing over the mess I had just made
of myself caused me to fall sick all over
again. I needed the sickbay. Class
could wait. I needed something to
quell the throbbing pain inside my
head. And apart from that, I needed to
stay away from Mr. White. Amarachi
would laugh so hard when she heard
of my recent blunders. Two in a row.
Just perfect.
I walked as fast as my back ache
permitted. As luck had it, no teachers
were in sight so I didn’t have to
answer to anyone for loitering during
school hours. We had Literature—a
subject I could easily understand—for
first period, so missing this class
would not affect my performance. Or
so I hoped.
***
A wave of calmness stole me over as
the sickbay hit my line of sight. I
traipsed into the room, an uncertain
smile flitting across my face to match
the nurse’s welcoming smile. Clad in a
smart white gown, she sat behind the
counter, reading an Awake! magazine.
“Good morning,” I said.
Advancing toward the counter
compared to walking down an aisle. A
pathway stretched between the
counter and the door. On each side of
the room stood three petite beds,
dressed with blue covers and
matching pillows.
“Good morning,” the nurse said, her
smile accentuated by dimpled cheeks.
“You really don’t look well. What’s
wrong?”
I resisted an urge to roll my eyes. Of
course I didn’t look well, else I
wouldn’t even be here. Something on
my face must have alerted her. She
dropped the magazine on the counter
and walked around it to meet me.
“It’s nothing much,” I said. Before I
could utter another word, the back of
her palm greeted my forehead.
“There’s no fever.” Heaving a sigh of
relief, she touched my neck to double-
check.
“It’s just a headache,” I said, sneezing
into a checkered handkerchief I had
just pulled out of my backpack. “And
catarrh.”
“Aww. Poor thing. You’ll be fine in no
time. Paracetamol should do the trick.”
It amazed me how she never failed to
obey the laws of phonetics. She would
definitely fit as an English teacher. Had
it never occurred to her?
“You speak just like an English
teacher,” I said.
“What?” she asked. “Nurses don’t get
to speak good English?”
Definitely not the response I expected.
What did I expect? Thank you?
Mentally, I kicked myself. I definitely
should have stayed silent. Sue me.
“No, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I
was just saying you, uhm…” I trailed
off, gesticulating frantically as though
it would help complete my statement
and save the awkward moment.
She waved off my incoherent
comment with a strained laugh. “Don’t
kill yourself there. Yeah, I get that a
lot.”
Easing myself onto a bed, I watched
her return to the counter. She plucked
a card of Paracetamol out of its carton
and cut out two tablets with a pair of
scissors lying idly on the counter.
“And then you’ll need this for that
catarrh of yours.” She placed another
drug beside the Paracetamol. Turning
to the C-Way dispenser behind her,
she grabbed a disposable cup. But
then she turned to face me, a quizzical
look on her face. “I take it you had
breakfast, yes?”
My stomach rumbled in response to
her question. I had nothing for
breakfast. Breakfast only came after
chores. And today, like every other
day, chores took up all my time,
making breakfast a no-no. With a
subtle shake of my head, I supplied
the answer to her question and
waited for an outburst.
“What?” Her voice rang out. Although
I’d seen that coming, my headache
flared in response. I slammed my eyes
shut, allowing the throbbing in my
head slide back into my zone of
tolerance.
“You want to take drugs on an empty
stomach?” she asked. “Do you know
how harmful this practice is? Do you
know it’s just as harmful as this
headache, and other sicknesses we
run from?”
With half-closed eyes, I watched her
go on and on. It couldn’t be that bad.
Why did she react like I’d tried to
commit suicide?
“Don’t just sit there gawking at me. I
don’t administer drugs to people who
haven’t eaten. Go find something to
eat first, and then come take your
medicine. They will be on this counter
waiting for you.” Her voice had a tone
of finality. She obviously thought this
to be for my good. What then did she
think of the raging war, a Clash of the
Titans reenactment inside my head?
She sank back into her chair and
picked up the seemingly fascinating
magazine. Seconds stretched into
minutes and she seemed oblivious of
my presence. My stomach rumbled
again, reminding me of my task to fill
it.
“Can I just use the bed?” I asked,
hating the sudden dryness of my
mouth. The nurse raised her eyes to
look at me. She cocked her head, a
wordless statement that she hadn’t
quite heard me.
“I mean, the cafeteria won’t attend to
students until recess,” I said. “And I
really can’t go to class in this state. My
head is pounding so hard I won’t
grab anything they’re teaching. Please,
I’d just like to use the bed for a while.
Surely the headache will subside. It
comes and goes everyday anyway.” I
snuffled, gluing my handkerchief to
my nose. Curse my runny nose.
The nurse raised her neatly trimmed
eyebrows at me. “It comes and goes
every day?”
“Yes?” I said. Why did she seem
surprised?
“How long?”
“Two weeks,” I roughly estimated. I
wanted out of this question and
answer session. I needed a pill to quell
this headache. And since I couldn’t
have that, I could use a moment of
undisturbed rest. Settling for less had
become my thing anyway.
The nurse seemed genuinely scared.
“And you don’t attend to it? Do you
not care at all about your life,
Victoria?”
My lips parted to let out an answer,
but I sealed them shut. I would not tell
my life story to a stranger. I’d visited
the sickbay a number of times, and
the nurse had been a staff for as long
as I could remember, but I still
considered her a stranger. And even if
I managed to tell her my story, she
would probably doubt its
genuineness. And if she did believe
every word, it wouldn’t change
anything because she had no power
to do anything. She could only
sympathize with me. And I didn’t want
that.
I pushed aside her inadvertently
hurtful question and lay prone in bed.
Sleep would find me and steal me
away from the unbearable headache.
Even though it would only last a
moment, it would definitely be worth
it.
Heavy eyelids glided over my eyes. The
room and everything it held
disappeared around me as I slipped
out of consciousness.
“Victoria!” an indistinct voice called. A
gentle tap on my shoulder followed
almost immediately.
The unrelenting pounding in my head
and an emptiness in my stomach
greeted me as I slid halfway into
consciousness. My eyes lazied open
and I saw the nurse standing beside
me, an A4 sheet in her hand. How
long had I been asleep? An hour?
Two?
Handing the paper to me, she said,
“The cafeteria will let you eat once you
show them this permit.”
I bolted upright in bed and grabbed
the paper, too eager to read its
content.
To the cafeteria:
I know it is against the school rules to
attend to students during this hour.
But our students’ health is our
priority. Please, kindly attend to
Victoria Brown so she takes the drugs
I have administered.
Stella Adewale
School nurse
Decorated with white and navy-blue
stripes, just like my four in hand
necktie and flare skirt, our school logo
stood proud beneath the
complementary close.
“Earth to Victoria?” Fingers snapped
between my eyes, flaunting purple
polish on artificial nails.
“Thank you,” I said, grinning.
***
My walk to the cafeteria went
undisturbed, save for the sun’s
ruthless intensity and my sneezing
and snuffling. I felt like a walking tank
of boiling water. Actually, saying I
walked would paint a wrong picture
of the situation. I didn’t walk. I
tottered.
It stunned me how my health had
deteriorated in the blink of an eye.
Hadn’t I walked to school this
morning in near-perfect health, with
fatigue and headache being the only
exception? Why then did I feel so sick
all of a sudden, unable to take one
step without faltering?
As though my sudden sickness
couldn’t ruin my day on its own, Sir
Aaron’s voice pierced my eardrums,
bringing my struggle of a walk to an
abrupt intermission. “Hey, you!”
My insides churned at the menace in
his high-pitched voice. The very same
voice policemen reserved for catching
thieves red-handed. Why did it have to
be Sir Aaron of all people? This man
had a face of stone and a heart of
rock. To top it all, he had a voice that
could melt iron.
Holding my hands behind my back, I
turned to face my least favorite
teacher. “Good morning, Sir.”
“It’s barely even eleven and you’re
already loitering,” he said. “Is this the
example you’re setting for your
juniors?”
With every word he spat out, my
stomach tightened. I craved to be
away from him so I could finally
breathe fresh air. I could feel my blood
getting hotter by the second. No, I
don’t mean it as an idiomatic
expression. Literally, I could feel the
hotness of my blood, a sickening
feeling that had only arrived a
moment or two ago. I blamed the orb
of fury burning intensely above me.
Too sick to speak to the man before
me, I presented the nurse’s permit in
his face, silencing him. Hopefully, for
good. His quietude stretched over a
few moments. And in this little time,
my headache seemed to aggravate.
Plucking the note out of my grasp, Sir
Aaron drew it close to his rather
wrinkled eyes. After a moment too
long, he said, “Hmm. Sorry about your
ill health.”
Learning is an everyday process. And
in my final year in Western High, I
discovered Sir Aaron, the most feared
teacher, had a fraction of a heart.
Wide eyed, I stared at him, noting
how the look on his face transformed
from irritation to sympathy. And for
the most part, he wasn’t faking it.
I let out a mental sigh. I should be in
the cafeteria already. But here I stood,
stuck with my least favorite teacher,
and at the mercy of the ferocious sun.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“How bad is it?” Had his voice
softened in reality, or had it only
softened in my head?
I opened my mouth to tell him about
my headache, but then I reconsidered.
The man standing before me had a
heart of stone. He could consider
headache and catarrh too trivial for a
nurse’s permit, and that would
implicate the kind nurse.
While I still conflicted about how to
answer him, the back of his palm
rested on my sweaty forehead.
Genuine fear washed him over.
“You’re burning. You’ve got a fever.”
“Whatfever?” The words flew out of
my mouth without warning. I had a
fever? The nurse had checked my
temperature an hour or two ago and
found nothing. So where did it come
from?
“Quick, go attend to your illness.” He
returned the note like he would
burning coal. I turned to leave when
he spoke again. “And Victoria—”
What? He knew my name? Impossible.
He had never called me by name, but
always barked out a ‘you there!’ or a
‘yes?’
“Be sure to get well soon,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
He walked away, leaving me to
continue my floundering walk. I had a
fever. I touched my neck to be certain.
Underneath the back of my palm, my
skin burned with the power of a
thousand suns. That explained why I
felt like a tank of boiling water. How
wrong I had been to blame it on the
sun. Poor sun.
Two realizations dawned on me.
Number one, I had malaria. I didn’t
need a test to know it. The symptoms
were all there. First, the persistent
headache. Then a runny nose. And
now fever, accompanied with a cold
I’d never paid attention to until now.
These symptoms had become a part
of me. For the past four years, they
would come up every now and then,
but I’d never had a chance to treat
them. My stepmother never saw me as
worthy of medical care.
After persisting for a week or two, the
symptoms would walk out of my life,
and I would be good as new. I hoped
this time would be no different. But
for how long would this go on? This
sickness had been gnawing at me for
far too long, accumulating day after
day. It likened to a pile of books being
topped with more books with each
passing day. One day, that pile would
not be able to take in any more books,
and it would collapse. If I didn’t get
treatment sometime soon, I would
break down just like that pile of
books. Each time my good health slid
from my grasp, I always looked
forward to the inescapable
breakdown, but it hadn’t struck yet. It
stood around the corner, calculating,
waiting for the right time to knock me
off my feet.
My second realization concerned Sir
Aaron. We had all been wrong to paint
him as a monster. A fraction of him
knew humanity. |
Re: A Chance For Love ( A Story Of Love, Hatred, Hope And Betrayal) by Eberechi24(f): 6:24pm On Nov 10, 2018 |
Madam stop reposting someone's story |
(1) (Reply)
Win 50k In The “tushmagazine Bi-monthly Writing Contest” [2nd Edition] / Life Revolves Within A Circle / Please Can Any One Tell Me About Olympian Publishers?
(Go Up)
Sections: politics (1) business autos (1) jobs (1) career education (1) romance computers phones travel sports fashion health religion celebs tv-movies music-radio literature webmasters programming techmarket Links: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) Nairaland - Copyright © 2005 - 2024 Oluwaseun Osewa. All rights reserved. See How To Advertise. 53 |