‘Hey,
what’s that word for being afraid of cramped places?’ He asked.
‘Claustrophobia’.
I responded.
I briefly
flirted with the idea of exposing the meaning of the word, to include a lack of
means of escape, but refrained because he still would have been correct.
‘Correct
guy. You always have the answers to all my questions, in your previous school,
was your nickname Bookman?’
I smiled
ruefully. He was close.
Unbidden,
the memories surfaced, breaking to the top like air starved divers. As
usual, I tried willing them back into their forbidden mental compartment,
but, like Pandora’s box, once opened, attempts to force them back in seemed
futile. I succumbed and let them wash over me overwhelmingly. Another Place,
another time.
A little
under a year ago, James had taken one look at the spindly, sickly looking
eleven year old, when I had been introduced to him, being the Senior Prefect in
my new secondary school, and declared me his Boy. To my ecstatic parents, he
said ‘This Bookworm is my school son’.
‘Thank you
my son,’ they chorused. ‘He needs looking after. His head is always in the
clouds, like he lives in his books. Very forgetful. Please take care of him for
us.’ My mum pleaded earnestly. They left, secure in the knowledge their son had
a protector.
And what a
protector I did have. I defined the word breakable. I was thin and looked like
I should avoid heavy gusts of wind lest I get blown away. I had no
understanding of physical activities and contact sports, so I didn’t even get
on the field. Despite having an above average ability in Chess and Scrabble, I
was awkward around people and so kept away from them. My goggle-sized nerd
glasses completed my ensemble, making me ripe for being picked on by both my
peers and my seniors. That didn’t happen though for I was under James’
protection. I spent the first term exempted from every compulsory labour activities,
and slept at least an hour more than my mates. When I got a gift of a
rechargeable lantern to enable me read into the night, well after lights out, I
was in ecstasy. I became proud of my nickname.
I returned
home for the holidays, singing the praises of my benefactor to my parents who
were overjoyed. ‘Listen,’ My Father said, ‘we’ve finally found you the perfect
school for you to thrive in. Don’t you do anything to antagonize James.’ I
nodded vigorously.
Of course I
wasn’t going to displease him. He made me feel safe and comfortable. I had come
to trust him implicitly. Even when he started giving and requesting compulsory
massages although I had no physical exertions, I wasn’t altogether scared.
Maybe
that’s why it’s my fault. I should have run away the first time I felt his
hardness rubbing against me during one of the massages. Perhaps I should have
been wary of the seemingly constant alone times with him. To be honest, there
was no surprise. It felt like a mere progression of activities, feeling almost
natural. By the time it culminated in me lying face down beneath him, hearing
his loud grunts, feeling the warm, sticky deposits when he was done, I wasn’t
altogether shocked. I was passive, numbed by the repetitiveness and my own
powerlessness. It seemed inevitable, like a script acted in a daze.
Or maybe my
Parents should be blamed. They probably should have noticed my reluctance to
return to school after the second holidays, or the return of my solitary
lifestyle and not believed my ‘it’s alright’ answers to perfunctorily asked
questions about my wellbeing. But to be fair, I always was a morose and
withdrawn child and I do not expect anyone to notice an extra cup of water in a
full bucket.
Perhaps
James can take some of the blame. He found me too pliant (shoot, that blame
might be mine), but my pliancy probably encouraged him to pass me off to Jimoh
when he was graduating. Maybe I wouldn’t have snapped if I hadn’t been
transferred on to Jimoh like a mere piece of property of which my only claim
to fame is as a receptacle useful for stress relief.
Or blame my
books. Yes, blame them. Maybe if I hadn’t lived too much in them, I would have
known that one does not stab another multiple times and remain at the scene,
nose deep inside yet another book. All my book knowledge couldn’t make me
street wise.
Oh well,
I’d forgot I had a question to answer.
‘Bookman?’
I asked my Bunkmate, No. I was called a Bookworm.’ He laughed and got up. ‘O
boy, It’s almost time for parade. Get your beautiful behind up and prepare.’
While passing out of our corner, he rubbed my head, lingering longer than I
thought necessary. Perhaps my fear was unfounded, but I still reached under my
pillow and drew comfort from the feel of the sharpened breadknife I’d secreted
there.
I’d just
got a new book, as I opened it to read, I heard the call of the Bugle. I
hastily dressed up in my parade whites. I can’t slouch in Military School.
Here, I don’t have a protector.
