It was a time of yet another excitement. Although Oje had slept in snatches, half an hour at most; the fatigue was doing tricks with his vision. He’d always relished the idea of getting up early so he dragged himself up. He read already, his paper was ready to be turned in, in every breast captured the lifestyle of a partial student-hood; a book-bag comprised two pens, two handouts, a notebook, a textbook, and a novel.
At 5:45am he grabbed his bag, fortified himself with a quick drink and stepped out. The outside possessed light air with accomplishing feeling, like the electricity of a storm which just burst. The wind sighed; birds twittered; the trees stretched their leaves for good morning hugs; and every other promise hovering the air of a delicious Thursday morning was in effect. Except one thing: he wore a summer garb. Like many previous days, the weather wronged the weatherman who left him hanging his head and accepting the notion that the entire day was going to be hot.
With arms akimbo, he squinted up at the sky to calculate the leftover night. A vague exposure revealed the clouds scudding westward. Clutching himself, leaning forward against the wind, he walked down the street, and halfway was a woman making sure her children's seat-belts were fastened; and a couple of blocks, a swarthy lady wearing jewelries [not gaudy] made of beads in beautiful and colorful combination. Both had one thing in common - a green-white-green bumper sticker stuck to their respective automobiles.
Ravishing people, he thought and cracked a smile.
He glanced at his wrist watch and murmured, “Damn! I’m dead!” He ran for some couple of seconds, sometimes trotted, cautious of the foggy and ghostly gray atmosphere. He stopped and started walking again, though, in a faster pace. Suddenly, he felt something sour in his throat, a faint sourdough bread taste. “I hope I make it on time.. ain’t got time for Dr. B’s drama.”
He finally made it to class. He was three minutes late. Gently, he opened the door and made an impatient motion with his eyes which swept toward the class. His teeth were gnashing, shoulders twitching, bearing same level as his ears thereby making him seemed as though he had no neck. A success, he thought, but not for long as the reversal wasn’t. The door made an irritating sound.
Dr. B. curiously stared at him. The squeaking door had distracted his teaching. A little fury covered his face: nostrils raised, and forehead wiggled. "Okay?"
Oje chanted, half moaning his words, not speaking them. His breath came in quick, short gasps, with an indrawn “umn!” between each rapid word. “What had happened was-”
“What?!”
Lost in his thought, he mumbled, “huh.h”
“Excuse me?!”
"I mean nothing." He was conscious of his own voice, the tone and language.
“Good.” He picked up a marker. The man didn't play that. He was a strict guy who loved to see his students thumb out beads of sweat from their foreheads even in cold temperature. Occasionally, Oje had [silently] mimicked him when he repeated phrases like “Don’t bother to show up when you’re five minutes late; otherwise, you’re a mere scarecrow taking up space.”
Oje spotted a seat in the middle of the class, sat down and sighed, almost simultaneously. He had no sooner understood the discussion than he had started wandering. He’d heard the professor mentioned Nigeria. With captured wrinkle in his face, he sat gazing into space, trying to inventory the event unfolding in his stomach. “Nigeria was mentioned? Negatively or..," he muttered.
“Okay,” he said. He cleared his throat and picked up a ballpoint pen. He was a tall, healthy man in his early fifties; his hair freely sprinkled with gray, dressed in navy corduroy trousers, a white collar shirt and slipped on pair of half-moon reading glasses. "So, this is what we experience today. American Literature since 1865 has been this way."
"Is it just here in the States or other countries of the world?” a student asked.
"I'd say almost every country,” he said. He adjusted his glasses and gazed at Oje as though he’d wrongly done something. Well, yes, he thought. “Like I was saying before interrupted I know Nigeria to be one of the few countries" he stressed, "There, you're most likely to witness world renowned playwrights and griots like Wole Soyinka."
This smote the class. Oje, on his part, was overcome with a feeling akin to awe. He was at peace. Not just peace. No more wandering. He removed his left hand that had been cupping his belly and freed his right hand that had been carrying his jaw.
Oje figured it'd feel good hearing it again. He grunted under his breath and pretended not to have heard him clearly. “I’m sorry. What country? Nige-”
“-Yes. Exactly,” he said sharply. He lifted his chin, his eyes semi-closed, and immediately, widely opened when he noticed a gleam of happiness on Oje’s face. He turned to him. “What’s funny?"
“Oh me?” he asked surprisingly.
“No, me” he scoffed.
“Well then.” He stood, snickering. He was ignorant of even the most fundamental rule, which defined his rights and responsibilities as well as established system of procedures for dealing with students charged with violations of such rules. Much of the impetus for this act came from a silence after his mind had gone back and forth to the time when he saw the Nigerian women; the green-white-green bumper stickers; and jewelries. And now this, he thought. “What a coincidence! Today is Nigeria’s Independence Day anniversary” he stressed, “It's a good feeling to see Nigeria acknowledged for a job well done, even though in countless amount her heart has been torn by foreigners with grief feelings and selfish interests. And stereotypes. And a torrent of criticism” he stuttered, “And-”
“-Go on,” he said sharply. His wrinkled eyebrows were upwards. “This is the reason we’re all here.” Meanwhile, majority of the students in the class were stunned. They’d never seen Oje expressed himself that way. Dr. B., Oje thought, was cool at least that time.
“Nigeria is a woman. A real woman. Although born in October, she should be treated like a November cotton flower - with respect. Nigeria is a woman. She’s no white elephant. She has potentials. Yes, I said potentials.” He looked at him and grinned. “I think I’m done.”
“Well said.” He smiled. One student clapped, and then others joined. He looked at the other students and then him. “Well said”
“Thank you.” He wasn't wearing his smiley face at that point in time. He was serious and at the same time nodding his head, showing appreciation. He sat down, sighed, shut his eyes and escorted his mind to another realm of thought. This time he pictured Nigeria as a woman. He sensed her pride for him. He saw her wept for very pleasure when she felt his little arms clasping her; his hard, ruddy cheeks pressed against her own glowing cheeks; and the look into his face with hungry eyes that could not be satisfied with looking. He opened his eyes, cracked a smile and said within him, “Good job but this doesn't mean I'll stick to complacency. I’ve got more work to do.”
