I pick up a book from the far end of the shelf in the school library and find a seat close to the window and sit down. Electricity, here, is erratic, and the school standby generating set is faulty. And so, the library is stuffy, and the air reeks of dampness. I quickly push the window open so that this pungent smell will dissipate, and a fresh air ushered in.

From the open window, I can see a panorama of the bank vicinity with a sea of students seething from all corners and lined up at the ATM gallery. School has resumed, and the school authority insisted that every student must pay their tuition fee to be eligible to attend lectures. I couldn’t wait in the line inside those banks, hence I thought it wise to come to the library and read, while the banks become less busy. My tuition fee, which Papa gave me this morning, was carefully enveloped and tucked between the pages of ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad,’ my favorite nonfiction book.

Before I start reading the novel that I picked from the shelf, my eyes catch a glimpse of the warning words conspicuously pasted at the doorsill of the library’s entrance. Twelve letters written in uppercase:

ON NO ACCOUNT SHOULD YOU COME INSIDE THIS LIBRARY WITH YOUR BOOKS.

I keep my ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad’ beside me, on the desk, and open the novel. The front cover, alone, is captivating. It’s about a schoolboy who generously lends his book to a co-student that is in need of it. But he does not know this student. When he remembers that his school fees is tucked between the pages of the book, he looks up from his assignment and flashes his eyes everywhere in the classroom. But the borrower is nowhere to be found!

‘’Hey, bro,’’ a soft, tiny voice pours from above my shoulders.

I look up and see a frail, sickly boy in torn denim jean trousers, a Bob-Marley T-shirt and a pair of counterfeit Versace slippers. His goatee is a miniature version of Osama Bin Ladin’s, and his backpack has the word ‘BATMAN’ and the picture of The Batman printed on it.

‘’Please, can you lend me your book?’’ He points at ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad’ on the desk, his eyes glinting with irresistibility. ‘’I will give it back to you once you’re ready to leave the library. I will be seated close to the door that leads to the restroom.’’

There is something about him that makes me condescend to his passionate plea. Perhaps it’s either his voice that sounds feminine and makes mockery of his masculinity or his pitiable look. Or, it could be because I find the novel I’m reading interesting and do not want to be interrupted by my ‘No’ and his pestering ‘Please.’

I give him the book without saying a word, my eyes still fixed on the novel I’m reading.

About an hour later, I look out through the window and see that the bank vicinity is now deserted. It’s time to go and pay my tuition fee without any hitch.

I close the book I’m reading and stand up, stretching myself to ease the pain in my joints orchestrated by sitting at one place for hours.

My ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad.’

The boy is nowhere to be found.

My tuition fee!

I remember the book that I just read — the similarity of its plot and what is about to unfold now is weird and terrific. A sort of déjà vu.

No! No! May this foreboding not come to pass.

I head straight to where the librarian( a fat woman who always sleeps on duty and has this repulsive attitude of belching all the time) is seated.

‘’Please, ma,’’ I say in the most supplicating tone, rousing her from her slumber, ‘’did you see the boy with The Batman backpack?’’

‘’Which Batman?’’ Her eyes are red with aggression.

‘’He has my book. My tuition fee.’’ My heart is pounding against my chest now, threatening to blow it open with apprehension.

‘’Your book or the school’s book?’’ Her voice sounds clearer and louder now, and undertone of incipient reprimand discernible in it.

I am quiet. I know my offence.

Without wasting time, she adds: ‘’So, you’re telling me that you didn’t see that warning sign pasted on this doorsill.’’ She points at the doorsill. ‘’Is it that you’re blind or that you can’t read?’’

As her words echo in my mind, stark images of the boy in the novel and the boy with Batman backpack emerge more than two hundred metres away, laughing and surveying their loot.

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