: LONGING FOR HOME
BALTIMORE.
NOVEMBER 2013
The winter wind blew harshly and I pulled my woolen coat closer for warmth. For a Nigerian girl like me, this extreme weather sometimes feels like torture.
I jogged up the smallflight of stairs to the lecture theatre with a fuzzy head after having spent half the night before pouring over lecture notes and slides. I was late again for the umpteenth time but was relieved because it was almost over; No more night calls at the clinic, studying as if I would go insane or enduring Mr. Peter ogling me as always. I'm a finalist baby!
It’s insane how much time we spend in the education system. The moment you start, it never stops. It’s always one certificate after the other, all to keep the body and soul together.
This class in particular was boring. The lecturer droned on about primary health care for autistic patients. I half listened and dozed off for the rest of the class. “See you next week for your test and orals." he finished in that deafening baritone voice of his and finally walked out.
Hallelujah somebody! Yes, I was that medical student that hated classes and long boring lectures, don’t judge. I had my next class at 10am so I could either catch a little sleep, join some group discussion “or eat” my grumbling stomach reminded me, so I chose the latter. I quickly gathered my stuff and made it outside the class when my phone rang with the familiar "Pills and potion" ringtone by Nicki Minaj. I quickly fished it out from my backpack.
"Temitope mi o oko mi atata” (Yoruba praise) my mum's voice came through.
"Good afternoon ma," I greeted, almost curtseying over the phone because Nigerian culture was drummed down into my skull.
A loud hiss followed and I face palmed myself mentally. "So you don't like speaking Yoruba again abi? Because you are not in Nigeria?" I scratched the space between my eyebrows in frustration and tried my best not to answer.
Questions like this in Yoruba culture were rhetorical. Meaning if you love your life, don't answer. Just keep mute.
Yoruba mothers were dramatic.
"You can't answer Temitope?" I rolled my eyes grateful that she couldn’t see me right now.
"Sorry ma! My head is aching" I replied, and let a stupid grin split my lips at how wise I was.
Crisis averted! Another random fact about Nigerian mothers or perhaps all mothers is that they forget what they are mad about immediately you tell them something is wrong with you. It works sometimes but not always, especially when you don't overplay that card.
"Haaaaaa kpele omo mi (sorry my child)" after which she went on and on about how she was sure I wasn’t eating well, how I was her baby and whether I had prayed."
My mother; my gold as I call her, is a typical Yoruba woman of forty-nine years old married to my father: Mr. Williams Ore. She is beautiful, chubby, God-fearing, all in all the pillar of our home.
I was cut shut from my reverie quickly. "So when last did you go to church?"
"Ooooh God!" I groaned mentally. Not again."Ma, I went on Sunday but I did not attend any of the weekday fellowships."I waited for the usual long lecture that never came, “It’s okay. " I found it weird that she did not preach about not being too busy for God, but I didn’t push my luck.
Chopping sounds could be heard in the background but it couldn’t drown the evident worry in her voice as she spoke. "How are you preparing for your last professional exam?"
My hands instinctively sought the bracelet on my wrist and I fingered it. I always did it when I was scared or overwhelmed. Are we ever fully prepared for any exam? There is always something you don't know anyway so I answered her as truthfully as I could. "I'm trying my best ma."
"Toh I'm praying for you" she replied with a distinct but low click behind her throat. I could just imagine she was nodding slowly; the way she did when receiving calls.
"I need it o,Iyatolu" I replied.
"Don't worry my doctor" I could sense the smile and obvious pride in her voice.
"Toh odabo o(goodbye) my credit has finished"she rushed out and ended the call. I walked on to the Café close by, my afro curls jiggling round my shoulder. I plugged in my headphones which blared Hillsong’sBroken vessels. The title of the song was a representative of what I was: broken.
I munched on my cinnamon rolls and waffles while allowing the warm homey scent of the cafe wash over me. The winter air swishing loudly outside still made howling sounds and made me long for home even more.
A few female classmates were seated to my far left and I quickly averted my gaze, not in the mood for petty drama and squabbles.Something about me always made them feel threatened; maybe it was the fact that I've always been among the best five students in class, or my Nigerian origins. I wonder what gave them the impression that I was dumb. Is it because I’m African? Finishing my meal quietly after giving them the evil eye; the classic Nigeria bad eye at that, where you eyed them senseless from head to toe.
The café’s door dinged, alerting me to the arrival of a new customer. I raised my eyes and was shaken to be staring at the one who ruined me.Matt was here with another student. The revulsion that flowed through me at that instant was enough to almost bring back my just consumed meal. His hands were around her waist like it used to be on mine and she was smiling brightly, possibly on cloud nine. I wondered if she knew she was violating school ethics by fraternizing with a staff or the fact that he was married. Gathering my stuff quickly, I made to leave as the dirty feeling, becoming overpowering, crawled up my sleeves like tiny ants on a hill. The cold air hit me outside and I drew a large breath to fill my lungs.
Breathe Pamela, breathe. Moving quickly down the streets, the scene close to the faculty building got my attention. A brown skinned man having a loud argument with a young lady. He seemed rude. The least they could do was move their scene out from public eye. I couldn't quite make out his face but I could feel his stare burning holes through the back of my skull.
Definitely not creepy at all!
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