FALSE HOPE by Chima Njoku

It was on a windy morning in early April 2019, nearly two months since I had been forced home from school by ASUU. Staying at home had literally taken its toll on me. Not that I had not tried my hands on anything. All the places with vacancies I applied gave the same feedbacks: they will not employ someone who will leave at any time. One of my uncles advised me to acquire a skill but my mind was bent on making some cash. Skills are good but I had bills to clear.

So, I decided to go on an early morning jogging to help regain my sanity. With fifty naira in my pocket for water, I left dressed in a black shirt that stuck to my body showing my “newly acquired” abdominal muscles; a black jogger to keep away dust and a black Nike trainers. Anyone who had seen me that morning would have thought I was a footballer who had returned from Europe to see his family.

Sprinting towards the football field in my community, my eyes saw something that caught my fancy. A girl. She was dressed in sportswear also and standing at the gate of what seemed to me her father’s. She beckoned on me to slow down as she joined. When she came closer, I saw the actual embodiment of the word “beauty.” She was tall, dark, and with the right curves. Her hair was covered with a black scarf. Without any facials, she looked cleaned like those rare breed of supermodels who appeared on adverts for deodorants and soaps with only a towel covering their bodies from the chest to the middle of the thigh. She looked nineteen.

I was drooling over her beauty and body when she greeted me. Oh! Her voice sounded like an angel: it was pure soprano.

“Hello. Good morning.” She said.

“Hi.Good morning.” I replied almost mechanically and smiling to hide my longing.

By this time, my mind was already developing ideas, sketching maps, and plotting graphs. I quickly changed my mind as to the time I will spend on the field. I had intended to spend an hour but quickly decided that I will leave whenever she leaves. I also reduced my speed to that of a snail so we can move in tandem.

“My name is Ikechukwu but you can call me Ike.” I said as we made to enter the field.

“I am khadeejat but you can call me Deeja.” She retorted with a smirk.

Being experienced in the field, I decided take it slowly. A hot plate of soup is taken in a rush to avoid being left with a scalded mouth.

After sprinting for about twenty minutes, she said she had to leave immediately. As a “sharp boy,” I also said I will leave too. On our way home, I tried starting a conversation but she seemed not interested. All I got was silence. After several attempts, I gave up, leaving the fight for another day. In my dealings with girls, I always won whenever I retreated and planned for a proper attack. She will surely not be an exception. To aid my next attempt, I made a mental note to take in her house’s description.

When we got to her gate, something happened that made me die ten times and resurrect. She spoke for the third time that morning. And her voice did not sound like a heavenly chorister this time but like a teacher giving her students instructions on how to do an assignment. Looking me straight in the eye she said plainly .

“I will advise you not to think of wooing me. I am married with too kids.”

She waved her ringed finger at me as she closed the gate behind.