Leaving

By Joy Eyisi Jr.

Title – Leaving

Finally, I am leaving. As I think of it, I lost touch with everything happening around me. It was as if I had been building my way from my Nigerian experience to my Indian experience. I wonder if it’s because my friends call me Emmy Indi. My Indian experience was not completely different from my Nigerian experience. The same slummy slimy guilty pleasure. Never giving a thought for my own well-being or the feelings and sacrifices of those who loved me. I hadn’t always been like this. Anyway, I cannot say it’s my fault. I seemed to have left studying as a 200-level student of Accounting for what I later came to call my “Nigerian experience,” invaluable memories, a mixture of old pleasures and regrets. Memories that never dim.

But before then, do you recall that line from Shelley's "Mont Blanc," that mentioned large rocks strewn over the mountain, seemingly serving as a landscape of recreation centre for demigods of earthquake and storm? Consternation and pain were the unruly demigods of the shrivelled landscape that my body became. A part of this, was at the level of my mind from childhood, and it grew to become physical after my Junior Secondary School Certificate Examination.

Whatever it was, as a child, it did not always come as the cold feverish teeth-chattering, body generating heat with so much sweat that someone would rush to hold my arm only to feel warm. Sometimes, it was a legion of wild thoughts chasing themselves ceaselessly inside my head… what will she think of me? Why is he staring at me like that? At home, I was told not to worry about what people thought or said of me. I should rather consider and sieve them. I feel I have learned how to do that, not bothering about what people think of me. Some say I use it in a negative way. Well, isn’t negative relative?

At some time before my secondary education, I started to find my way out of gatherings. When I was in a room and someone stepped in, I created an excuse in my mind and stepped out. In my class, where I could not help but stay, I stayed present but absent to other bodies around me. During recess, I preferred to play tennis. Muna taught me. That was before he left to the secondary arm of our school, CrestVille Schools. I had never been able to easily wield the racket or strike the ball in the presence of other players. What will they think of me? I’m small for my age. I kept failing. But I did it up to what I thought was right when I practiced alone. Which was why everyone was shocked to see me in the court during our in-house competition.

My house master had put me forward because he thought it’d do me good, free me. “Emmy, nothing is wrong with you. You need to come out of that shell,” he told me. “You have to take control of your mind. I’ve seen you whipping a ball like an angry teacher.” My house master was known for making stale jokes. We did not always like it but for us it was much better than the cane and abuse. “If you fail,” he continued, “and your hands grow stiff while holding the ball, at least your posture will make everyone laugh and we will have a good time. Now run along. Break a leg!”

Though it was an in-house game for White House, I saw pupils from the other Houses, Red, Purple and Burgundy, standing around the court. They had come to laugh at me. The game began, and as usual my right shoulder became stiff. I tried punching the air with my left arm, jogging on the spot, waiting, waiting for my right arm to unlock itself from its socket. To my relief, before the ball from my opponent slid past my right ear, the racket shifted and my arm followed, swinging a swift half-circle backwards. The racket hit the ball at the right time and it flew back to my opponent. My right arm continued to swing well for the required time and my legs followed responding to the uproars of surprise and encouragement from the growing crowd outside the court. My team won the game that day and we were chosen to represent our house in the inter-house sports. We won again. It was our last game before our entrance examination into secondary school.

Muna was more excited than I was. “My protege!” He exclaimed. A word he said he had learnt from his English teacher. “Can you imagine having a protege at my age?” He was eleven or twelve and I was nine at the time. I smiled in return. I was grateful that I was leaving the shell my House Master had spoken about, and I wondered what would occupy it since it was said that nature abhorred a vacuum.

My mother was thrilled. As I ran out of the court, she reached suddenly for me, hugging me and picking me up as if I was a baby. She knew I hated to be treated like that, perhaps because I was small for my age. She always did that, hugging me and lifting me up while I wriggled for freedom. That time, I let her hold me, squeezing me to her softness. I held her too, my arms around her neck as I inhaled the sweet fragrance of the Happiness perfume she loved so much.

I passed my common entrance examination and got into the same school with Muna. At the time he was in Junior Secondary School JSS 3. Muna told me he was favoured to have a good protective school father. He had taken me earlier to greet him. Looking at Chuks, I could only say that he was a clean neat boy. He wasn’t big or macho so I chuckled to myself at Muna’s use of the word, protective, another protégé perhaps. We usually had our meals in a large dining hall on the ground floor of Spectrum House. There was a connecting pathway from the exit of the dining hall to Maroon House which then leads to Gray House, my own House. When the bells rang for us to leave the hall, I followed this pathway but before I got into Maroon House, the reflection of a belt from the louvres, caught my attention. That was the first time I was seeing that kind of belt. My belts you would have to insert the end tip into the front frame, adjust the prong into a punch hole that would fit your waist, and then insert the end tip into the belt loop. This belt had neither a buckle, prong or belt loop, just what I later knew as a plate, and I wondered how it would be worn, how beautiful it would look on me and how Muna would admire it. In that split second, I heard,

“Hey you, come here!”

Before me stood a hunky looking boy. My right palm grabbed the door jamb.

“You must be thirsty after eating that nasty beans.”

“Nasty beans…” I muttered.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing”

“I said, come here! Drink this, it’d quench your taste.”

“I already drank water from my house bucket. Thank you.”

“You still dey speak English! Who you be?” I glanced backwards. We were causing a traffic. In the instance of returning my gaze to the hunky boy, my eyes caught Chuks coming out of an adjacent room before the drink splashed into my face. It had the foul, ammoniacal tang of urine. The hunky boy was screaming amidst the shrills of Mi-chi-gan! That was his name. “Chuks, I don dey warn you. You are trespassing. Dey your lane. Everyday is for the thief, one day is for the owner!” Chuks took me away. I understood later that Michigan and his crew had the disgusting habit of pissing in bowls and cups and forcing their victims to have a drink.

In time, Chuks graduated. Muna became a senior. I remained safe with little or no discomfort. It was on the day I wrote the last paper of my Junior Secondary School Certificate Examination that I began to feel that someone tied large rocks in a large cement bag, placed it inside my chest, tied it to my bare heart and began to pull it. I had just finished answering the penultimate question and was about to stretch, sit up and think before attempting the last question, when I felt the deadly pull. I stopped immediately and remained in that hunched position. It seemed as if my bare heart was shattering. It started as a slight nudge at first, then it became sharp and steady, in my chest, in my back, A shrapnel shell exploding in my joints. I could not attempt the last question. My tears soaked my answer booklet and since I couldn’t move, my palms grabbed the two edges of my locker on both sides. “Emmy, what is it?” Lade, on my right asked. I sniffed. From the corner of my eye, I saw her raise her hand prompting the invigilator to our side. I remember only bits of what she said,

“Emmy, what is it? Are you blank?” she placed her left palm on my head.

“Pa-i-n.” I sobbed.

“Oh, sorry. Where?”

“Everywhere.”

I screamed when she tried to squeeze in some warmth on my shoulder with her palm, a broken glass piercing me from the outside adding to the tempest welling inside me. She seemed to notice that it was beyond, “take it easy” and “sorry,” so she called the ambulance. I couldn’t move. When they felt I was wasting their time, someone whisked me off into the bus, pricking me with broken glasses all over my body. A hazy figure sat beside me. At the health centre amidst the pain, they poked my skin, inserted a canula and placed me on oxygen. My mother came in later. She knew what it was.

She couldn’t look into my eyes. I kept searching her face for comfort. But it was evasive. Her eyes were sullen and weak. She only sat on the bed and took my palm in hers, her eyes fixed on the floor, her chin drooping. We had talked about it, my genotype. She spoke to me about eating healthy and drinking lots of water. She’s really bossy at times and she had made me take a glass of water that morning immediately I got out of bed. She wanted me to take more, but I slipped out of her grip, and ran into the bathroom, “I have exams, Mum.” She had left the water on the table saying I should not forget to take it when I come out of the bathroom. But, I forgot.

In school, as a senior student, I became Emmy Sicky. I overheard some junior students discussing me as I passed by our canteen. My friends confirmed it. It seemed I was going back into that shell my House Master talked about. I began to drain my mother, to consume her savings. The cement bag of rocks, the shrapnel, the sickle cells arresting blood flow in me and aiding cash outflows from my mother, sapping her. The crisis crushed me from once in four or five months to one or twice a month. Varieties of painkillers, herbal mixtures and supplements were recommended in line with frequent hospital visits. My mother managed this well.

I passed my Senior School Certificate Examination and I got into the university same year. I had learnt to fend for myself and I convinced my mother not to worry about me. She accepted I stay on campus only with the condition that I must come home for monthly check-ups. Before our names were written in pen, Effiong, Kanyin, Ibrahim and I became friends. We all stayed in the University hostel except Kanyin who resumed late and missed the opportunity. On one hand, we appreciated it because her lodge off campus became the haven for our clique, till 200level second semester.

That semester, we were meant to meet in her place on a Saturday, I arrived first and while we joked about silly things I sensed a nail piercing my knee. I knew what was coming, so I tried to sit and I asked for water. My right fingers went into my trouser side pocket for my Ibu-tab. But the nail was faster, it was not alone. A pack of different sizes of nails were already going into my joints, lower back and chest. I slid down the back of her chair to the floor, in a slippery pool of sweat. The pack of the Ibu-tab fell farther away and my hands gripped the legs of the chair as if the grip would stifle the fire raging inside me. I could not stop myself from groaning. Kanyin went towards her book shelf and came back handing me a blue pill and the cup of water. I took the pill which I now know as rohypnol or rochi. It was like taking cold water in an extreme hot weather. My nerves were relaxed. I became calm and curious. I was soon experimenting with either rochi or codeine or both rochi and codeine.

Effiong found out some days later and flared at Kanyin while we were on our way to our choice café.

“Can’t you see he’s always in pains? What sort of wicked and uncaring friend are you to ignore him and not find solutions?” Kanyin screamed back at Effiong,

In response, Effiong clapped and nodded thrice, stopping in front of Kanyin, “Oh, what a sweet friend you are, Kanyin. The world will be a better place if everyone is you.” Kanyin said no more still in self-defence. Ibrahim remained silent, indifferent. In the café, we ordered our usual pounded yam and ofe Owerri. Effiong didn’t eat, he rather asked for banana smoothie. It was his favourite and Mummy Kelvin made it well for him. We ate in silence for the first time that day.

Effiong soon stormed out, unable to stomach the situation. Later, he met with me, tried to reason with me, to convince me to turn off the road I had started on, tried to stop me from going any further, but it was already too late. I had tasted the forbidden fruit that helped me manage my pains, mood and sleep. There was nothing I could do to stop myself from going back to Kanyin. Sometimes I wondered if I could go back to being who I was before, but I felt that this new me was my cross and I had to carry it. Effiong couldn’t stand us, he found the stoner lifestyle very disgusting. On the other hand, I had found relief and clarity from the haze of pain that my life used to be, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.

And the deeper I got, I found out that pain management and relief came in different flavours and shapes, with a variety of brand names. Sk, methamphetamine, Indian Hemp, Colorado, if it could be got, we were willing to try it. It’s a thing of the brain, not all brains are strong enough to take it. In all, I stuck with Indian hemp –

“Hemmy Indi!” Sule hailed.

“Yo, that’s me!” I took an already-rolled joint from our collection. Sule was our expert mixer and roller. We were on our spot behind the University’s generator base.

“You’re a hard guy, man,” Kanyin remarked, as she picked up the lighter for her joint.

“What can I say?” My lips rounded welcoming and taking a shallow pull from the line that was supported by my right index and middle fingers, “that guilty pleasurable encounter with the blue pill,” my lungs released the air, letting my words dance in the smoke, “it felt surreal like paradise.”

“Have you been to paradise before, how would you know?” Teniola muttered, up for another joint. Teniola was in the group before I joined.

“We need to go now,” Ibrahim said, sitting straight. He was ignored as we lit up and puffed, and when we were ready and, on our way, back to the hostel, Teniola asked again,

“They say it’s beautiful beyond imagination and I can’t explain this beauty I feel, so …” but Sule didn’t let me finish, “I think right now, we are standing at the gate of paradise. Hey, who’s there? Open!” The gates opened, and we fell into our paradise, the murky waters of the gutter on our way. The security men found us. Rumours spread. My mother was distraught.

“Nna’m, please don’t bring shame on me,” Her voice still echoes quite clearly in my head. My mother has an elder sister who was married, and who had a daughter, Sochi. Sochi was a year older than Muna. They all sat me down to counsel me, reminding me that my mother was the only parent I had. My father had left her at the time of my birth, perhaps because I would drain him with crises or perhaps he hadn’t the fortitude to see me weary in pain. But, I didn’t experience any medical crisis till secondary school. They even added that they were making plans with an NGO so that I would undergo a bone marrow transplant. Still, I did not stop. I couldn’t stop and remember, I had learnt not to bother about what people thought of me.

“Omo! These days who dey listen to their mama?” Ibrahim blew out some smoke, “we go jus lie low and careful.” We couldn’t stop. We couldn’t breath in any other kind of borrowed air and my lungs began to call for attention with an annoying wheezing sound and streaks of blood in the phlegm I spat. I had always declined check-up calls from my Mother but this time, when she called, I responded. The deal with the NGO worked and we left for the Indian hospital. My mother, my donor; Sochi, our attendant. It took some weeks to get my lungs and my system stabilised for the transplant. It was a success. As we left the hospital to our apartment, I met Lamin, tall chubby Lamin. My mother, cousin and I were meant to remain in the apartment for about three months. I was instructed to take walks and move around only within the apartment for about two weeks after which I could take walks outside but not without protection. We were told to take precautions against infections and also visit the hospital biweekly for check-ups.

My legs couldn’t lift themselves easily at first, and my body said no to any form of movement. It wanted to be left alone until my mind pushed. Soon, the walks became rejuvenating. I could feel my lungs heaving with health, in the ease and serenity with which they took in and released air. They seemed alive, active and alert enough to capture that paradisiac fragrance it made them tingle. No, not again. Not after my mother had sacrificed her life much less her resources to see that I am alive. She gave me life again and I have only one life to live. I will not mess it up!

I met Lamin at the entrance of our apartment as he alighted from a cab. I was going for a walk and he had got back from attending to his mother at the hospital. He wasn’t sure if he was going to go back to the hospital that evening. He felt the nurses were doing a good job and he needed a little break. We shook hands and when he said, hey, that paradisiac smell hit my nostrils.

“What! You –

“Nothing much, man. Just to wash away the nasty mood and stay dope. How’re you coping?

“Can I have some… is there’s a difference between that of Nigeria and that of India?”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

“Just a taste of it though, nothing much. You know it isn’t good for my health, not now.”

“Yeah of course.” He brought out a joint and a lighter from the inner pocket of his cardigan, “I need that for tonight, bro. But you can have it, what are friends for?”

That day made it a month and three weeks since we were discharged from the hospital. I wouldn’t forget it in a hurry. More because my walk that day was different. The guilty pleasure, my Indian experience, it stirred a storm, a great one, churning the surface of a great sea, with strong winds blowing from every direction, giving my core, the centre of me a sweet chill.

Lamin’s mother got discharged the following week. This made him stay indoors most of the time. He ordered for all they needed except fruits and vegetables. For us, Sochi made some African friends in the apartment and within the vicinity who had also come for medical treatment. Together they went to the INA market weekly or biweekly for foodstuff. There was also a not-so-nearby vegetable market they also went to every other day. Lamin goes to this market too in the evenings. We met again the week his mother was discharged He needed to get vegetables and he urged me to change my walking route. At some point, I felt so tired and wished he would insist that we pause for a while so that I could rest. I wanted Lamin to stop but he walked a half-step ahead, dragging me on with his eyes and his body, pulling me, it seemed against my will, “trust me, you’ll feel better,” he rather said.

We got to the vegetable market, quite a large space enclosed with planks. Fruits and vegetables were lined the same way you would see in a mall but on plain wooden surfaces. From the entrance, the cashier’s long wooden table was by the right. I got some rest leaning on a plank at the entrance and watching Lamin pick all he needed into a trolley. He paid, bagged his picks and said to the cashier,

“Keep for me, I come again,” he lifted his right hand away from his body and brought it back to his front.

“Ha- Ha- ji ji,” the man replied as his chin went left up, right up. I cannot remember how many times.

We went towards the back of the large stall and a little farther We met Raj who took us into his shack, there were two one-legged tables that had three jutting ends at the base, like a tripod stand. The place looked like their road side restaurants where they don’t sit to eat, but stand, talk and eat at the same time.

“You come today, how is Mama, ha?” Raj nodded to Lamin.

“She’s better.”

“You received yesterday? I forward your message to Rakesh, you want to speak again?”

“No, no. I don’t like the mixture,” Lamin shook his head.

“No, you want. What you say, is not how we give in India.”

“Bhaee, I will see Powah!” Lamin turned to leave.

“No, no, I apologise on Rakesh behalf. Tell me again what you want,” his chin went left up, right up as many times as you can imagine

“Same mix, you know. This is my friend,” Lamin tapped my shoulder.

They spoke at the top of their lungs. The shack was rowdy and noisy. Raj did the joints and we made ourselves comfortable.

Sochi was the first to notice it. I always showered immediately after a walk. It was a studio apartment, each room has a kitchen, toilet and bathroom. Like our own self-con. From the entrance door to our room, the wardrobe was on the left while the toilet and bathroom were on the right immediately after the entrance door. So, I always slid into the bathroom once I get in. The day I knew that she knew, I had come in to meet her searching for something in the wardrobe. Our eyes locked. Hers widened while I got into the bathroom. The doctors cautioned me. Of course, my mother knew but she never spoke one word to me. I became Lamin’s subject. It was obvious he needed company.

All my test results were stable and okay. It was time for us to leave India. I felt justified that my system was in no way affected. I rather felt dope, you know. In Nigeria, I linked up with my fiends in Abuja and we continued getting baked. The doctors in India emphasized the need for constant tests. We did the tests again, some in Nigeria while my samples for others were sent abroad. Before I sent my samples, I had started seeing death with each breath, wandering, whizzing, watching, willing me to leave my friends and family and become its comrade. The results of the tests were in consonance, nephrology results were unstable, viral load was high and percentage chimerism pretty low. Was I scared? Did it in any way alter my actions? When you are addicted, you are addicted.

We moved to Ibadan with my mother’s sister, away from my friends. We now live in their apartment. They keep trying to wet my seared conscience. They say they know how to make me stop. They know the way. They try to show me. And so now, I’m leaving. I’m leaving again. Leaving to the rehabilitation centre and if death leaves me, I’d be there for about six months or till…

By Joy Eyisi Jr.