I recently remembered some wicked people I’ve met…
The very first wicked person I remember ever meeting in this life was Aunty Ijeoma. I mean, it could have been the doctor who gave me un-identical ear piercings but I don’t remember meeting her so Aunty Ijeoma would have to do. She was my class teacher in primary 4. She was Igbo, tall, fair and hairy. Of course, that did not necessarily mean she was beautiful, but she thought she was and you’re who you think you are. So, let’s say she was pretty. She was also really frustrated. So, she was pretty and frustrated… pretty frustrated.
She hated children (see how I said that with utmost confidence). She did. She did lots of wicked stuff to my classmates (I was EVERY teacher’s dream student…So, no wicked stuff for me). However, I’d just skip to one I vividly remember. Okay, not so vividly. I don’t remember what my classmate had done but he’d done something very forgivable. It was just after break and I think he was even ill. I remember I was looking forward to going home badly. Then she called him to the front of the class and started ranting and raking. He just kept looking at her sickly… because he was sick. Then, I remember her getting really reeled up and standing from her seat in her almighty hairy glory, removing one leg of her shoes (which was heeled… pointy heel) and then she hit it on his head.
Please note; at this point, that the average age for pupils in my class then was 7. So, there beheld the whole class, on one hand; a sick 7 year old boy with blood running down his head, shock on his face and body vibrating and on the other hand, a hairy tall fair igbo (nee: pretty) monster of a woman, standing uppity with a (rather ugly) shoe in her hand. The class went really dead quite. But Aunty Ijeoma was not done. (I think) she slapped the boy and told him ‘see what you’ve caused’. And I vividly remember her taking the chalkboard duster (which is the dustiest duster I’ve ever seen in my life) and wiping my friend’s bloody head. She cleaned the blood on the floor too and then told the boy to ‘c’mon go and sit down’. I remember thinking, ‘Surely this woman shall rot in jail. Surely, I shall have a new teacher tomorrow. Wait… what? I’ll have a new teacher by tomorrow!! Whoop!! Just let closing time come’ I wasn’t excited to go home anymore. I just wanted to see the police come into my class and cause a scene. But they never came… I don’t know what his parents did, but Aunty Ijeoma pretty much remained my class teacher till the end of that session.
Oh… and she used to fart in our faces every time she bent down to ‘assist’ someone with his class activity (which pretty much involved slapping and shouting at him). The fart was usually mixed with the rubbish scent of her bleaching cream and her bad body odour… ughhhh. *shivers*
The next person on my list is one of the maids we had when I was growing up; Aunty Aina. She stayed with us for two really really slow, long and painful years. Honestly, I feel like I can remember everyday of those years. She was a good worker; really. I mean, the house was always clean and stuff. My mom used to cook the bulky stuff… maybe soup and stew for the week. But aunty Aina had to make them eba, amala, rice, etc etc, on a daily basis. Her cooking was okay… just there. But, dear Lord, she was a force feeder. She’d cook soooo much. I mean, we were petit petit children in the house and she’d serve us like we were Igbo village elders who had just come back from a long journey and had not eaten for days. And then, when we couldn’t finish it, we’d line up and she’d force-feed us.
The thing is, I was usually the only victim. My elder brother was… well, elder. My sister was a vomiter and no one likes to clean up vomit everyday. My younger brother was still a tiny little child. I was just the perfect weight and condition for her force-feeding dreams. I remember one day; she had given me a really large plate of beans (of all foodsss!) and I ate just a little portion of it. I was quite ready for her that day so I walked to the kitchen with my plate and with a flint face. She said (in Yoruba) ‘what is this?’ I said; ‘I cannot finish it…’ She said, ‘Ehehn? You did not even eat up to half’. And then (and this is how I know I was a genius child… I just don’t know what happened when I got older), I said ‘To whom much is given, much is expected’. I can swear that she did not understand a word I said, but the next thing I heard was like a swarm of bees buzzing around my ears. The slap was mighty. I ate beans like a fool that day. Sometimes, when I’m doing my ‘purposely practice optimism’ exercise (yes… it’s a thing), I think to myself, ‘maybe the little height I have is as a result of that day. Maybe, in fact, I was born to be a dwarf. Just maybe’
The third wicked person I’ve encountered was this woman on one bus I took from Jibowu under bridge to Iyana Ipaja. Now, this might not count as wickedness to other people, but it was to me. First of all, she had body odour. Now, the kind of person I am is; if you have body odor, I wouldn’t hold my breath or give you the stink eye(no pun intended). I’d pity you and tell myself ‘It can’t be that bad. Your eyes are faulty so your nose has become stronger and hence can pick up smells that others can’t’ (I honestly, tell myself that).
Anyway, so, I didn’t judge this woman… that is, until she removed her shoes. Obara Jesus! (*in igbo voice*) Everyone on the bus started ‘mmhn’-ing. That was when I knew that it was not any optical nerve whatever… this was real. Please note that; at this point, we were just on Ikorodu road and Maryland was not even in sight… and we were still going to IYANA-IPAJA (ask Tsetse and Bade… they’ll tell about the struggle). People in the bus started forcing windows open and suggesting what could possibly be stinking. There was one man that just kept saying ‘I’m sure se, it’s someone’s shoes. I know this smell se, it’s someone’s shoes’ (in Yoruba, of course). Mind you, my neighbor (the cause of all the wahala) was saying ‘mmhn’ too o.
After everyone on the bus agreed with the (rather insistent) man that someone’s shoes were about to kill us or bloat us up, she quickly wore her shoes. But the smell would not go so quickly. So, the people in the bus quickly put on their Sherlock Holmes hat and started searching for ‘the person that would not respect himself’. Because my neighbor (let’s call her ‘Obunigwe’ :|), sat by the window, there was no one seated at her left side. Suddenly, the guy seated by my right side said, ‘It’s around here. I know. It’s someone on this line’. I was even thinking of trying to cover up Obunigwe and avoid a ‘everybody bring up your shoes’ situation when she said, ‘EHEN! I knew it. I just did not want to talk before.’ Then she faced me and pointed at me and said, ‘You this girl, you’re the one causing all this smell. Please, wear your shoes ehn darling. I know the bus is not comfortable but consider us. If you know that maybe water entered your shoes, then wait til you get home ehn. It’s called sacrifice’.At least I think that’s what she said. I blanked out after ‘You this girl…’. Until we got to Ikeja Along, someone would just hiss and throw a one-line insult at me (or my upbringing, or girls of nowadays, or my ‘physical beauty vs. hygiene’) Shii… it wasn’t funny at all. I was just a diploma student… I had not learnt enough words to defend myself. So… there’s that. My number three most wicked person.
Finally, number four. I saved this one for the last because I was kind of really hurt. What’s a story of wicked people without mentioning at least one man? Or boy; in this instance. To be fair and honest, the boy (name withheld… but he’s Igbo) is a very nice person… and was quite nice to me. I’m not one to have my head in the clouds or rant on and on about anyone (except you are Uche… or Demilade… or Precious… or… ) Okay, I take my words back. But usually, I can be very Kristen Stewart about these things. Now, what did he do? Well, he didn’t ask me out… simple. I mean, I like(d) him… he liked me. I told him (first oh… and I never do such)… He told me also (I remember he said, ‘That’s interesting. We have so much in commo…) Oh…… Dear Lord… wait… what? That’s what he meant???? ………….
N.B. There’s a touch of Igbo in the four stories. It was quite unintentional. I am not prejudiced or unfavorably disposed to any race, religion or sexual orientation (I mean, I need to say this. Who knows? One day I may be promising Nigerians fresh air and some change agent might want to dig up dirt from my past. God forbid…)
Oh… and also, only one out of the four stories really happened. The others are figments of my bored imagination. Goodluck trying to find out which is real (although I think he’s a little too occupied with the election for that) 😐