PopCorn and Soft-Soled Sandals

It really has.

I’ve got free Wi-Fi so let me slip this in before they catch me.

I miss lectures. I don’t miss the teacher talking, or showing slides. (The memories I get of that one? How we used to squint at the tiny blinking dots projected on the whiteboard, and ask, ‘What’s that?’ because yes, we always sat at the back.) And I don’t mean I miss lectures like I miss going to them. In a four-day lecture week, I was in class like twice. (Which was still better than a lot of people I know. I only ever saw Ellis in school during exams, so.)

I miss how we used to sit. Next to the window. Back. Left side. Nanciaga (and the Boss Martin) sat in front of me. She’s a fine girl so like every twenty seconds some boy would stop by the window and try to win over the heart that Sanchez had been holding since the first semester of Level 300. She had some coercive powers, so she could cajole notes out of their pockets and next thing we know, Nanciaga’s imbibing something with fizz and sugar, proof that men can be very st—generous.

Zion (aye, as in City of God, pronounced Zee-On) sat behind me, saying funny things. (The most absurd, funny, quick comeback providing girl I have ever come across, that one. Always pretending to be good. Don’t know why people bought it.) Had me doubled over in laughter like half the time, and she still kept the most rigidly straight face. Ei!

And Cindy will be sitting to my right, or if we’d remembered to save her a seat in our row, she’d be in front of me, turning every minute during lectures (!!) to gossip. If she sat behind me, she’d be, just there, stabbing me with a pen she no doubt stole (because if there’s someone who comes close to my pen stealing ability, it’s Cindy), pulling my hair. Because it’s my fault I leave it like that for her to pull. Hmm.

And Sanchez would leave the front and come and gossip at the back. It’s his real name, I think, maybe. We his loved ones call him Alexis. (If you don’t get it, well.) (Although...considering we called him after an Arsenal player I wonder if we qualify to be called his loved ones...) There was always a congregation of females around him. He only left them when he wanted to come play with Nancy, tug at her hair or rub her cheeks. She pretended not to like it. She was a terrible actress.  

Aban too would be at the back somewhere teasing Zion that she writes too much. (Emmom. We used to call her Chapter 6.) She and Zigah had a daily ritual of sharing Songo tales, and talking about some bitters bi. In the middle of it all Kafui (Kafui! How I miss thee!) would waltz up and down the aisles between the desks, her smile the weapon she brandished when she wanted someone to buy the skirt, or pencil, or shoes, or plots of land, or kidneys, she was selling.

And Zion wrote everything the lecturer said and still said the funniest things…herh, that girl is gifted.

Going home was a ceremony on its own. We’d wait for each other—which, unfortunately, was something I had to go through a lot, because the end of lectures for Zion and Nanciaga meant they’d go to the bathroom and touch up their hair and nails and shoelaces and garter belts. (Occasionally I joined in the tradition by swiping nude lipstick along my lower lip.) Plus, Kafui had a host of male acquaintances that always found her when lectures were done. That girl was just—nay, is just—a magnet. More times Sanchez will already be at the gate, with his girls, waiting, and waiting, and waiting.

And I’d pass by the popcorn seller and remember I’m hungry. That was also the time I normally remembered I didn’t want popcorn.

Then we’d move out, in a group that thinned as each person hit their destination, destination being another word for ‘where you board a trosky to get to the place you’ll board another trosky.’ (Uber? Who are we, Mark Cuban?) First there’ll be the tug of war—‘Through Britain, or not through Britain, that is the question.’ (I liked that debate. Each side had such strong points.) Then, on we’d go, in self-sacrifice and delight similar to the ardour of Robin Hood and his merry men, chattering about all that was and is and is to come.

Then, the Quarters squad (Nanciaga, and whoever else was lucky enough to be in our presence and had to leave) would leave us when we got there. Then the Sankara squad (Cindy, and the ‘guys,’ if they were there). Then the 37 squad (Zion, Kafui), for the days we used to walk there. Then the mall squad, mostly Sanchez and me, which meant we’d spend like a half-hour in the car talking about football. Mm, good times.

Before parting we’d plan. On what, you ask? On WHETHER WE WILL COME TO SCHOOL OR NOT THE NEXT DAY! It’s not like I’m a rebel leader or anything, but…

And we’d still turn up for exams and slay.

Although…come to think of it…slay is a bit much…

There’s no proper conclusion for this.

Hey I changed the look of my blog. You didn’t notice? Yeah. Me neither.