Have the old scars in your life completely healed? Still healing, or far from healing? Do you look upset when the thought of a particular incident rears its hateful head?
The truth is that unless you take action, there will always be a negative or positive reaction. Many times, it is therapeutic to delve into the archives of your life and excavate one or more tortuous experiences with the purpose of re-examining and closing them for good. That’s why, after more than 34 years, I’m going back to my high school days to open an amazing can of stink worms.
In fourth grade (high school), I was the treasurer of my school’s Literary and Debating Society. Our annual party was held on a Saturday and was a huge success. I was scheduled to meet with the president, vice president, and secretary of the Literary and Debating Society the following Sunday to discuss finances and other matters. It was supposed to be a short meeting. A popular student, GE, was the president. Most likely, AA was the vice president, or the third, whose name and face I don’t remember. They were all male upperclassmen.
The following Sunday, around 8:00 pm, I went upstairs to his Upper Six classroom. Little did I know that I was going up to an event that would change my life. There were students reading in the classroom, and one guy in particular sat behind the teacher’s desk with his eyes and ears supposedly buried in his books. In the corner of the classroom, a few feet from the teacher’s desk, was a small storage room called a cubicle. It existed in certain classrooms in the school. This particular one was transformed into a reading oasis with two desks and chairs. It was here that one of the officials ushered me into our meeting so that I would not distract those who were reading. I sat in a chair by the door. The boys sat behind the desks. Our meeting was over in less than 20 minutes. I showed them the financial record, we discussed a couple of things and it was time for me to get back to my hostel before the lights went out. I walked out of the cubicle into the classroom and caught the sneaky eyes of that same student behind the teacher’s desk. I dismissed his gaze and continued on my way.
Five days later, on a beautiful Friday morning, I was warned by some students that my name was appearing in a very damaging headline on the Press Club bulletin board. (Back then, the Press Club was a group of faceless students who wrote about disorderly students. They backed up their stories with despicable cartoons and stories of their subject matter. Sometimes, they used their dastardly pens to fabricate and settle personal vendettas against other students. No ‘t ‘t report to a higher authority, hence the occasional abuse of his freedom of written expression.)
I was wondering what they were talking about until I came face to face with the bulletin board and saw in bold letters: “Is that Oyairo [my maiden name] taste the forbidden fruit? Please check for full details Monday morning.” I was frozen in shock. What? How? Who? Why? Is this a bad dream? What’s going on? “Forbidden Fruit?” Questions kept echoing in my mind. I was dizzy. with confusion. Tears began to flow uncontrollably. I knew my life at school would never be the same. Throughout that weekend, I begged the ground to fall away. open and swallow me. He declined. At the same time, I kept looking for someone who knew at least one of the anonymous members of the Press Club. My efforts proved futile.
On Monday morning, the article came out as promised. It was full of gory details accompanied by vulgar caricatures that still send chills down the spine today. My good name was submerged and stained with cruel lies written by a faceless monster. I wondered why. Who did this to me? Whose?
The article detailed how GE, AA, the other guy, and I had consensual sex in the cubicle. They all took turns with me, and the writer could hear me say, “I’m tired, I’m tired,” but GE kept saying, “Just one more round, just one more round.” The writer talked about how, when they broke up with me, I dressed as if nothing had happened and walked out of the classroom like a peacock.
I could not believe what I was watching. I kept pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Can you imagine what he was going through, considering how painfully shy he was back then? The principal, Mr. Udofia, called me into his office and told me that I would be expelled from school if the article was true. I remember the terror in my eyes when I told him with tears in my eyes, “Sir, I have never been with a boy before and I am ready to go to any hospital to take a virginity test.” I was fighting for my life. He said that he had already spoken to the boys in question, and they disputed the article. He promised to ask the Press Club to investigate and remove it. The sad thing is, even though he never called me back at his office, he didn’t order them to take the story down.
In fact, it stayed on the bulletin board for over a week. I wondered then and still wonder what was fueling this mischief. Out of pity, two members of the Press Club broke their code of silence and revealed some of their confidential conversations, as well as the brains behind the article.
Remember the guy sitting behind the teacher’s desk in the Upper Six classroom pretending to be buried in his books? Yes, it was him, Judge Jonusa. A tall, skinny, dark guy with a weird haircut, a disturbing cough, and a very weird aura. I still can’t understand why Justice slapped me so unfairly by inventing something out of nothing.
ACCUSED OF IMAGINARY INDULGENCE
My reputation was shattered. Some junior students and classmates whispered “Forbidden Fruit” to me. Life at school became unbearable. I withdrew into a very traumatic shell and, at the same time, became a shell of my old self. My academic performance was also tarnished. It seemed that nobody cared. The director failed me! The Press Club members failed me! The system failed me! I couldn’t even tell my parents what was going on. Where would I start? Second, he was 261 miles away at a boarding school.
This stigma followed me until I left for college a year later. I was too happy to start a new life free from false accusations. In my second year, I went back to my high school for an event. Guess what? Someone in the boys’ hostel yelled at the top of their lungs, “Forbidden fruit.” I kept walking as if I hadn’t heard him, but my heart skipped a beat and showers of shame washed over me.
I think it was during the second semester of my sophomore year in college that I started taking a shortcut after school through the teaching hospital. From the window facing the narrow path, he could see the patients admitted to a private ward in the hospital. He always looked at the patients every time he passed by. Most of them seemed lost in space. One day, my eye caught sight of a new patient whose bed was right next to the window. I stopped in disbelief. My heart started racing. Our eyes met briefly, and then I ran as fast as I could. Guess who he was? Jonas Justice! I didn’t know it then, but that room was called B1. It was for psychiatric patients. Jonusa was mentally ill.
The next day I looked at it properly. He was lying on the bed staring into space. His eyes were blank. He was in another realm. Frankly speaking, he had no sympathy for him. How could he not? He was angry, very angry! The arrows that his malicious act lodged in my heart resurrected and began to pierce me mercilessly. If he had had the courage, he would have opened the door of my mouth and rained many “forbidden” words on him. Luckily, I settled for a look that I hoped would speak volumes.
I kept seeing Jonusa most of the time I took the shortcut. Our eyes met a few times followed by prickly silence until I passed. One day, I noticed that her bed was empty. The next three times, he was still empty. I wondered if he had recovered or been transferred. Later I learned the sad truth: Jonusa was dead.
As strange as it sounds, my heart was full of sympathy this time. The disdain melted away almost immediately. I realized that Jonusa was a victim like me. As his pen declared Armageddon for me, he was fighting a mental monster in his personal life. No one recognized him. Like me, the director failed him. The Press Club failed him. The system failed him big time.
It is only recently that I began to marvel at this story. Who would have thought that he would end up in the same university as Jonusa? Why when I decided to take a shortcut, I noticed it in the psych ward? What about silent encounters? Did you want to tell me something? Should I have at least extended an olive branch with a smile? How is it that I saw his last days? How and why? Only God knows. May his soul rest in perfect peace.
I thank God for curing me of this bad experience. Who knows, maybe Jonusa was hearing voices and just hallucinating back then in high school. Be that as it may, I thank God that it’s over and life goes on. May all who suffer from mental illness obtain the necessary help and healing, in the name of Jesus.
I urge those who care for one wound or another to look at their pain from another angle. What if the perpetrator has unimaginable problems? After all, hurt people hurt others. Right? As painful as it may seem, forgiveness is the best option. Release one from the cell of bitterness, anger and hate. Is not easy. Once a decision is made and implemented, relief is gold. I pray by the grace of God that we find it in our hearts to truly forgive those who caused us pain.
