undergraduate
The Things In Your Heart
Foreword: This piece was written a while ago and first published on the beautiful MyMindSnaps. I have finally dragged it here (yes, it’s a stubborn post), and I hope you enjoy it. Please share your thoughts in the comment box below.
*•*•*
It was some minutes into the evening of one of those days the dusk descends earlier than usual. The entire office block was silent; a new building well detached from the clogged campus structures. Apart from the chirping birds and a little whistling of the wind, the only sound left was that of two heart beats; one thumping from anxiety, the other for salacious intent.
The distance between us was just a few meters, a short distance that would disappear within seconds. Three purposeful strides in either direction was all it would take. I could see the bulge in his crotch, and the lustful ember in his eyes as he stood by the cabinet. A number of things he had done to me with his eyes since I shut the door behind me, it was only a matter of time before he acted them out just like he had always wanted.
I moved slowly towards him, my steps deliberate as though I had forcefully willed my legs to move. A lascivious grin hung on his face as he pulled me close to him, sliding one hand over my back down to my derriere, with the other hand mauling my breasts. I felt his warm, foul breath on my neck as he cupped my bottom and gave it a hungry squeeze. Furiously, he swept off his table everything that was on it and shoved me to the desk surface. I was on my back, feeling the sticky leather of the huge office desk as he unzipped his fly to free his pulsing muscled member.
My skirt was yanked up over my thighs and my underwear ripped out of the way. I closed my eyes as he brought the monster home to the centre where my widespread legs met. The inevitable was a cudgel of intrusion slamming through an unwelcoming orifice, not in any way as smooth as a knife would slice through butter. The pain of his repeated thrusts was mine to bear, and the pleasure from the warm almost moist enclosure was entirely his to savour.
The lusty forty-something-year-old lecturer grunted happily as he raped me.
The first time I personally encountered him was a year ago, and a lot had happened in the months that had passed. It was in the second semester of my final year as an undergraduate. I’d felt his heavy gaze on me as he entered the exam hall for a few minutes of inspection of his course. A moment later he had accused me of examination malpractice and then signed on my script. That was the beginning of my private hell.
He brought me back to the present when he stopped his hammering, putting a halt to the crescendo of imminent orgasmic release. He turned me swiftly and made me lie on my belly, backing his phallus, with my legs spread apart and now planted on the floor. He probed yet again, further and deeper.
I drifted off to my thoughts again. An hour after the deliberate false accusation in the hall, I reported in his office as he had instructed. He sat me down so we could have that conversation that changed everything. Mr. Lecturer wanted my body – and a ‘No’ was what he wouldn’t take, otherwise he would fail me in his course and I would repeat the year. He promised that he would keep at it until I consented.
I turned down his offer and had carried over the course.
I felt him spasm heavily on my body as he finally came. His tight grip on my waist loosened gradually as he moaned his way up to his senses. It was over. The price I had to pay to put an end to the delay.
“Now you can have a D,” he said sneeringly as he tucked his softening erection back into his pants along with his shirt. “One more of this and you’ll get a C. You’re smart enough to know what will get you an A.” He winked at me as he carried his bag and retrieved his keys from the drawer. I walked out of the office and he locked his door. Then he started down the dim hallway without a word to me, leaving me to trail behind him.
One thing I had in common with the evening at that moment was the darkness, well wrapped in sinister thoughts of a much darker hue. He was in charge and I knew he would come back for more. The thought of doing what I just did with him again suffused me with its unbearableness.
I sank into my preoccupation as we approached the staircase that descended into the next floor. It was out of use because of the recent collapse of a part of the protective side, but it was the closest to his office, the fastest way down.
He started down the stairs carefully.
I watched him, feeling the darkness inside me rise and eclipse all within. My anger morphed into a vengeful energy, and I leaped after him, my hands outstretched as I pushed at his broad back, sending him over the edge.
We were on the fifth floor.
His scream was a choked sound that was whipped out of his mouth into nothingness by the slight evening wind. The thud that came from his body connecting with the ground wasn’t so loud.
I couldn’t see him but I knew I’d made a bloodied mess on the concrete faculty building floor. No one would see him now, perhaps not even today. But his body would be discovered tomorrow, and they would find his penis still intact. I hated that, but I was grimly pleased that it would no longer lift to molest anyone anymore.
I gave him an F. I hoped he would somehow be smart enough to know that nothing would get him an A.
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Quiescence: Our Great Undoing
*Inspired by Tolulope John*
* * *
The answers to these questions are fundamental; they’ll aid the understanding of this post. Please take a moment on them.
(1) Which would make you feel awkward the most: an electric shock from a faulty electric iron or an electric shock from an apple?
(2) What is/are the reason(s) behind your choice?
• • •
There is a category of individuals who will stand on their ground and stay rooted even if another Mount Vesuvius erupts in their immediate environment. I know there’s a verisimilitude of blithering stupidity in that, but these ones would rather die than renege on their words or beliefs, especially when they are nothing short of the truth.
A member of another category would promise to crucify his girlfriend because she wronged him, vent on how he would strike her dead with thunder as soon as she appears; but you’d be surprised to see him melt like ice cream in the microwave when she finally arrives and rubs his head, displays the come-and-do eyes and pouts him endearment. Mumu-button is pressed and the god of thunder loses his wrath. He sleeps off.
Kenneth belonged to the former category; I was unavoidably the largest shareholder in the latter. The other shareholders, Kenneth and I all lived together in the same building (a hostel of many self-contain rooms) as members of a family would. There were no boundaries in the way we co-relate. We’d see movies, play games, cook, discuss — current affairs, women affairs, sports, politics… and the corruption in the society, murder erring rats, and do many other things altogether.
We were like brothers with healthy camaraderie and common interests. But we had a common enemy too.
If you lived in my neighbourhood then and you don’t know Thunder, you seriously need to buy a scratch card and apply for your LASTMA cap online; you have officially jonzed. He is the terror that forces tenor out of you even though you never want to sing. “Unfortunate” is when you walk into him on a day he’s in the mood to “tax” you. “Very unfortunate” is when all the conditions in the “unfortunate” are present when he had just finished some wraps— not one, not two —of indian hemp.
As routine, instead of saying “deliver us from evil” every morning when saying the Lord’s prayer, we’d change that part and ask God to “deliver us from Thunder”. Likely are you to be in trouble if you greet him. You’re definitely in trouble if you don’t. The best remedy is complete avoidance.
The day he stormed our hostel with his protégés after one too many bottles of beer, for a reason that eludes me even till date, was one that should be named a national holiday in our honour. Say “Beating day” or “Thrashing day”. Kenneth was lucky not to be around. He met us all putting up a strong face, a futile attempt at obscurantism; weak joints, tumid cheeks and dark eye rings can’t be hidden.
He was so annoyed. Not that he would’ve turned to a superhero and fight for us, but we knew he would’ve faced Thunder and said his mind, even if the blows that were sure to follow would put him in a coma for months or some three-sixty-something days at least. He opined that we report the very heinous and totally execrable act to the police, but we knew the simple service rule: customers are always right. True, he would be arrested, say by 9pm, then you’d see him knocking on your door by 9:25pm— same day and same time zone —to tell you he’s back.
Will one survive the beating that must follow? That’s a question for the gods.
Unanimously, we debunked the idea and made sure he didn’t pursue it on his own. About a week later, our own Kenneth was “very unfortunate”. He had blatantly refused to give Thunder any tax after his rather rude and unwarranted demand. The consequence was obstreperous, forceful and gory. Thunder punched him heavily on the face, focusing on the nose and mouth until he lost balance; retrieved Kenneth’s wallet from his pocket and left him for his aides to finish off.
We watched as he writhed in pain. We witnessed his suffering and the hard kicks to his sides amidst the torrents of weed-invoked invectives. At a point he stopped fighting it. He lowered his defences and focused on us with glaring bewilderment on his rumpled face. In between his contorted mien were confusion, disappointment. . . and puzzled questions I didn’t entirely understand.
Our friend was being plummeted by touts but we didn’t interfere. We were silent. Scared. Traders minded their businesses as though it was a normal thing; the same way they neglected us the day we were thrashed in our beds. We would discuss injustice and proffer solutions in the comfy of our hostel but lose our power of speech and right to act when they matter most.
I understand him better now. I fully understand the looks on his face.
Thunder’s treatment was noxious and not humane, but what else would you expect from a half-sane— if sane at all —inveterate thug? The same way a bad electric iron is expected to shock (no shock is good but it’s not strange in this case).
As friends and neighbours to Kenneth, the proverbial apple a day that keeps the doctor away, we betrayed him with our silence and inaction. The shock must have been very devastating, just like an unexpected electrocution from a green apple.
Life is a tragedy not because of the strident clamour of the bad people but because of the appalling silence of the good people.
Martin Luther King Jr.
What difference does it make in shouting in your closet and keeping mute in public? For you have not spoken until you’re heard.
Anonymous
In the end, we will remember not the words of the enemies but the silence of our friends.
Martin Luther King Jr.
Ken is doing well as a budding activitist. He says he has forgiven us, but we’ve not forgiven ourselves.
Only if I can go back in time and undo things by raising my voice and acting against it; make others join me. We were more than them. We would’ve won, but our silence was a cue for them to go on.
If we do not act against injustice, we are accomplices in the perpetuation of evil.
I can’t travel through time, but the present is mine to fashion the future.
I am @jossef69 on twitter.
Adewoyin Joseph A.
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Diary Of An Undergraduate
In the very strict chronological sense, this piece ought to precede the previous one, “The Experience of a Corper” After all, there won’t be a corper safe his undergraduate days. Stuffs like these are best done with the appropriate triggers in place; my friends (a few bald headed and some well haired ones too *apologies*), lecturers, lifestyle and a ton of other events. After a little tête-à-tête with a friend, the thought found me.
It is a total truth that a journey of a thousand miles begins with just one step. This time around, the steps are replaced with years. I recall my arrival to the town (Ogbomosho) bearing my now alma mater, six years and some months ago. You need to see the look on the young boy’s face; peeping through the car’s window as if I’m at the scene of the 8th world wonder. After a few minutes drive, we got into the school area and the real feeling kicked in. My heart beat pattern changed from rhythm and blues to rock within seconds, many thanks to agitation. I began to question myself, “Am I seriously going to cope in this environment?” Ordinarily I shouldn’t be so nervous, but a number of factors made it a must. Trust me, I’ll tell you.
I finished secondary school a year earlier, happy and hoping life will continue to be bed of roses. Well, it was indeed one, until some tiny species of itchy flowers crept in. I was unable to get admission into the university that year so I had to try again (was so down because some of my mates did). You’ll pity me if I give you the full details; I lost my chances as a result of some juvenile negligences and mistakes. The second attempt was much more complicated. Imagine living in an environment where the less qualified candidates get admission and the better ones, none. I had no other option than to go join the pre-degree programme which started many weeks prior to my decision. In fact, they’ve done the test and already preparing for exams before I came. Long story abridged, I joined, registered and paid, hoping I’ll do the make-up test later on (although I know I’m in for serious business), but I was surprised when I got the real admission five days later. As we all know, there’s hardly any refundable fee in the university, especially in the area of admission. I’ve just wasted my own time, energy and my father’s money!
My undergraduate days wasn’t just about that alone. I’ll focus more on a few interesting ones; the people I met (met lots of wonderful ones as a matter of fact), the rigours of studying and hard times—yes, strenuous but interesting—and several others I can’t quite categorize. I’ll delve into a few and see if you experienced something similar.
First time in any place or setting is always somehow for some people, especially timid people like I used to be. I remember sitting down in one corner throughout my first week in the university, acting as though I was not one of the students. My first year in school wasn’t really fun since I didn’t mix or get myself involved besides going for lectures and returning back to my hostel as soon as I’m done. I discovered I missed lot of things later on. I made lots of friends over the years though, most of them interesting people. There was a time in my final year when I actually looked back to this period (fresher/jambite days as we all call it) and the clear distinction led me to the conclusion; I’m not who I used to be. Who or what to be blamed? I have no clear-cut answer. Just another proof that change is inevitable.
Teaching is often called the noble profession and I believe lecturing—a close equivalent yet with differences—deserves to at least feature as well in the good name. In the course of my journey as an undergraduate I passed through lots of lecturers. Some were particularly excellent teachers who did their best to make sure we understand what’s been taught, not minding the stress and hard gesticulation it would cost (much bravo to *Prof*). You really need to see him go down low…and up (literally), just to make the impression and get his points made. Those are the kind I ought to tag THE GOOD. Of course, there are quite a few who don’t really understand what they teach but will always demand more from you. They teach you in English and expect you to answer them in French…with serious accent (figuratively)! I’m sorry I won’t write names but you sure know the likes, you find them almost everywhere. Undoubtedly, they are THE BAD. The last category are those who are exceptionally too active, they won’t let the ladies rest! Our future wives for crying out loud! May God punish devils (say amen please). Some woo ladies as a young guy would, others involve your course/grades so you’ll have to agree or fail (remember you didn’t hear this from me). Those are most definitely THE UGLY. Truth be told, the ladies are to be blamed sometimes, but what of the other times? The other times nko? #Lips sealed
The issue of securing seat and the melodrama attached with it is one thing I can’t possibly forget. In fact, about half of the whole class acknowledged it’s one thing they’ll miss about the class. Perhaps you don’t know what I mean exactly, it is the paramount thing back then, especially in the final year. You get to school as early as 6:30am just to get a seat, yet you’ll still discover the spaces are already taken…by books. Yes books! Books stand in the place of potential occupants who are actually absent at the moment…many thanks to the concerned friends. If you decide to pretend you don’t know what’s going on and try sitting on the taken space, the popular words come out; Someone is there. I don’t know who to strictly blame as a matter of fact, though I’m more inclined to point fingers at the supposed providers of the required facilities. After all, there won’t be need to rush out of the comfort of our beds especially at that time sleeping actually feels so good (I bet you can testify to that), just for the sake of getting a seat if there are enough seats.
I know I never really lived much of what I’ll call the Mosho-rican dream (after the town, Ogbomosho), but I did have my own fair share. If you want to live reasonably large in that town you’re good to go, so long you have what it takes—money. In the same vein, if you choose to lay low comfortably, you’re also in the right place. I remember the way we spend back then just when the periodic allowance comes in, a week like that is what we call the week of pride (Òsè ìgbéraga in yoruba language) because we make sure we savour the moment and wait for the inevitable cassava flakes (garri) and konkorsion—that thing in our pots we call food—thereafter. A combination of many things and rice; an undebbuged version of the software “Jollof rice.” Undergraduate days really taught me how to konkorct practically anything. I mean anything! Just name it. Over time, I got the lesson and learnt to spend judiciously. Who said hunger is not a wonderful teacher?
One of the tiring things about my undergraduate days was the more than once in a while strikes. Today it’s ASUU, tomorrow NASUU; they all seem to have one complain or the other every now and then. I needn’t say all these affects more directly than indirectly. What do you think hundred working days strike (I’ve experienced one almost as long as that before) adds to a student’s knowledge or intelligence (considering there are no lessons/classes as we had it back in secondary schools)? Well my dad’s car kept my company and really suffered during those times, I think you understand (*whispering*…I simply take it out when he’s away). I strongly hope he (my dad) won’t read this piece any time soon. Except you attended a private university, it is almost impossible to complete a five year course in exactly five years (you wan’ thief am?).
I remember the days of night classes and repeated sessions in the library in the endeavour to make straight ‘A’s (or something very close at least) and accomplish my aims in the university. I’m actually not an avid supporter of night classes (I slept throughout on my first attempt), but I really enjoyed the few times I went. The attendance during the exam periods would make you think there is a lecture scheduled for the night, to be attended by the serious and the unserious alike. Ordinarily, night class is supposed to allow one read very well, far away from the temptations of the comfy of one’s bed and to motivate when you see others reading, but it also serves other purposes. First, it offers some, a bed away from their own bed. They get to read a few lines and, well… Au revoir! Till morning! (I’ve actually witnessed a snorer). Second, it’s a great way to show the I’m-serious facade even if the person is totally otherwise. Third, it proffers an avenue for gisting and ronzing; I mean chasing after ladies. After all, “man must not live by bread (books) alone….” The list continues.
Life as an undergraduate was actually one of the good and the bad happening concurrently. Mere thought of the happy moments makes me smile, and sometimes laugh out loud uncontrollably (not in public though). The talks and gists, packagings, scandals, parties, crazy politics, impromptu quizzes (plus the ‘copy and paste’ that accompanies it), final year events (rag day, native day, back to school, sign out, dinner…), relationships (coughs), bla-bla-bla. Others that I don’t like include the legendary awaiting results (ARs), the stress and uncomfortable lectures, the long queues for anything and everything… and saddest of all, the feeling when a fellow pays the supreme sacrifice. Sincere commiseration to all of us who lost someone, we are indeed, pencils in the hand of the creator. It’s been by His grace we are where we are today, not by anyone’s doing.
Now it’s all gone. I’ve changed status and now a graduate (not borne out of pride). Although the memories will always linger, it’s all in the past now. It’s time for other things entirely; fresh challenges, opportunities, endeavours, aspirations and many more. It’s time to correct the mistakes of the past and improve on the good stuffs. Time to be a better version of oneself because better days lie ahead.
A toast to a wonderful future fellas….
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Adewoyin Joseph || @Jossef69
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