I like true stories because they are easier to write. So even when I write fiction, I first convince myself that it is true story with real life people and their problems, trials, tribulations, aspirations, dreams and all the emotions associated with these.
So this one is a true story. The problem is I can't remember if it truly is or I convinced myself that it truly is. This is a story about why a little boy of nine made a lifelong decision never to have a physical fight or a brawl.
Children fight easily and they forgive and forget just as easily. The reason for a fight could range from 'he said this, she said that' to 'you shifted my desk away from its normal position'. In any case, the result was the same - "Wait for me after school. I'm going to make you eat sand today". And that was it.
The stage has been set. Both fighters and the audience are aware of the venue and time. Failure to show up was tantamount to accepting defeat and accepting a defeat without a fight was unbecoming. Even if you were sure you were going to get the beating of your life, you still showed up with your head held high. Of course that would be after consulting your close friends, securing their promise that they would intervene by pretending to separate the fight if you were in a disadvantageous position you could not come out of without help.
I remember vividly the day when Kepo, easily the strongest boy in the school, had an altercation with John whom, for some unknown reason, everyone called Killer. It didn't seem like a fair match because there was no doubt about Kepo's strength. What no one factored in was Killer's obvious height advantage and the reach of his long arms.
The fight did not last very long. While Kepo was posturing for a boxing match, the slap came. It seemed to have landed like a thunder from the cumulonimbus cloud. He moved forward to throw a punch and once again the thunder clapped on his head. He raised his face to see the source of the slap and the next one landed on his eyes. He went temporarily blind and instantly used both arms to cover his head and run the opposite direction from whence the slaps came. Immediately, his friends stepped in to help him save face. Killer and Kepo never fought again after that day.
However, this story is about something else. It is about Veronica, my friend and classmate. Before the events narrated hereafter, I had been in fights a few times. In most of those fights, my heart was not really in it, so at the end, I regretted fighting because I felt I could have done better.
So, one morning, Mr. Ekwueme took Veronica's copy of Intensive English 5 and began to read. "I need you, I love you, Kels!"
I have to admit that prior to that moment, I was not paying him any attention because I always found his reading boring. But I was startled to hear my name read from the book. He got my attention. As if to ensure I understood what he had read, he said it again, "I need you, I love you, Kels!"
I was confused and totally embarrassed. You have to understand that love was not a word used lightly in those days. The only love I knew was from my parents. Now someone is reading it from a girl's textbook with my name attached to it. True, I liked the girl but not to the extent of proclaiming love in front of the class. "Oh, someone is definitely getting their ass whooped", I thought.
"Please stop", I heard myself say. Of course Mr. Ekwueme never knows when to stop so he read it again.
I wished the ground would open and swallow me. In my embarrassment I heard myself say, "You're stupid!"
Of course I really meant Veronica but it was a case of shooting the messenger. In those days, each one of us had a wooden desk with a receptacle for books and sometimes lunch, called locker Mine was just beside Veronica's but I couldn't bear to look at her.
"Get out of my class this minute." he barked. This order was mildly relieving. It means I could go outside and fume. I did not just go outside, I took my locker and stool to the middle of the football field and sat there under the sun. My anger was not really directed at Veronica but I was angry nonetheless and someone has to pay. The rest of the class could not wait until closing time because they knew it was gonna go down.
The bell rang for dismissal and the pupils trickled out of the classroom. It took Veronica forever to come out but I waited patiently. When she came out, I rushed her to fight but she wouldn't raise a finger against me. She just stood there as I punched her once and twice. Suddenly I lost heart. How do you fight someone that will not raise a hand against you? She was on the ground, showing no willingness to get up or fight. There was no pain registered on her face, only sadness. I was disarmed. I felt the urge to tell her sorry and help her up but many of my classmates were there to see the fight and doing any such thing would only confirm the love story. How thoroughly embarrassing. I took my school bag and left.
I got home and quietly entered the sitting room that had a window facing the road. There I stood by the window and watched the road to see when Veronica would pass. It took her nearly 45 minutes to leave the school and go home. She was sad and alone. My anger did a u-turn and directed itself at myself. With the anger came regret: I should not have hurt that girl.
This whole thing got me thinking:
If you fight and get defeated in a fight, you would regret getting into the fight in the first place. If you fight and win the fight, you would feel bad for having hurt someone. So, what exactly is the point of fighting?
Therefore I resolved that I would never fight again and that was the last time I fought.
Of course, Veronica really loved me. Even though pride would not allow me to apologise, all I needed was to say hello the next day and all was forgiven. Sometimes I remember her and wonder what has become of her.
It's still your boy Kels
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