I just had a sumptuous meal for the first time in weeks. Lying down on my small mattress in a room filled with mosquitoes, I can’t help but think of a letter in the English alphabet. Yes, the alphabets that the white man left for us after our fathers parted ways with them. Can you guess the alphabet on my mind?
I’m sure that if I leave you to make 10 attempts you’ll likely not get it. However, I’m certain you’ll mention the alphabet on my mind if I allow you make twenty six guesses. Do you know why you’ll get the answer correct if you make twenty six guesses? Your guess is as good as mine.
Well, the alphabet on my mind is the letter B.
Get a cup of coffee or water (if you don’t do coffee), sit down and let me tell you why the letter B is on my mind this night.
I’m a Nigerian from the south earthen part. I’m what most ladies would describe as their dream man. I’m tall, dark in complexion and I speak the English language fluently. As for my mother tongue, when you hear me speak you’ll think that the Igbo language began in my fathers’ compound. Well, enough about me. But2C enough about me. But, wait a minute, before I stop talking about me, it’s important to mention that I’ll likely land my dream job tomorrow. I have an interview with a firm a friend of mine hooked me up with. Well, I think the interview would just be a mere formality because I’ve done all that is NECESSARY. I had to capitalize the word necessary because it included sleeping with the manager of the firm. Goodness gracious, that woman is a horse in bed!
Back to my letter B story.
I developed hatred for the letter B some years ago. Not because it was handed down to us by the Whiteman. No, far from that! I love whites, and if I have my way I’ll marry a white woman some day. Well, my first hatred for the latter B began in my days at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. Those old good days in Carva Building (My departmental building was called Carva. But don’t ask me why bcos I don’t even know how that name stuck).
School life was a mixture of sadness and sweetness for yours truly. It’s common knowledge that lecturers in the department of Pure and Industrial Chemistry, where I obtained a B.sc would push you so hard until you give your very best. I loved those guys, even the mean-looking ones among them. I hated this particular one amongst them because he gave me the first reason to hate the letter B.
I still remember those days as if it was yesterday. We had all returned from a long vac and queued up to check our results somewhere close to the general office. When I peered through the countless heads of students that were blocking my view, I saw 69 written beside my Reg. no. ‘My goodness!’ I shouted. All the people who were there turned their gaze at me. You know that look you give to someone you think is not normal? That was the kind of look I got that day.
Dear reader, what kind of lecturer gives a student that kind of grade? Why not make it 70 for crying loud. Honestly, I would have appreciated it more if I had looked at that list and saw 65 beside my Reg. No. What’s the point bringing someone close to the gate of heaven without allowing him enter? Well, life continued notwithstanding.
My other hatred for the letter B was the worst case scenario. It was on April 14, 2014. I was in the final year class at Carva building when I got a call from a neighbour who said that my uncle was among those killed by a bomb that exploded at a bus station where he worked as a driver in Nyanya. Uncle Okey, a man who took care of me after the death of my dad had his limb scattered everywhere by the bomb of members of the dreaded Boko Haram.
When you look closely, you’ll see that the sect I just mentioned has their alias begin with the letter B. Before you conclude that that’s not a good justification to hate the letter B, let me tell you what’s going on in my mind right now.
I had to put this write up down because I couldn’t sleep, probably because of my Big tomorrow. Also, no thanks to these mosquitoes that are disturbing my ears.
Today is the September 22, 2016 and I heard that there would be a Sit-Down-at-Home for ALL Biafrans. Of course, before I became a Nigerian in 1914, I was a Biafrian. Or, I think it’s more appropriate to say that my fathers were Biafrans before they became Nigerians.
For crying out loud, tomorrow is my dream job interview and IPOB people want me to sit at home. Umunne m, checke nunu ife anuwa? Nwa nke madu dikwa confused o!
Before you wonder what Biafra has to do with my hatred for the letter B, check the beginning of the word, BIAFRA.