Class

It had been 10 years since I last visited home – the Nigerian idea of home being where you are from – and the memories from those past visits are flooding my mind as I walk past the dirty St. John-Paul Cathedral, Ogoja.

The cathedral boasted the biggest field in the vicinity; spars showing of grass across its undulating terrain, two weak looking beams suspended by a collaboration of rusted metals – obviously improvised – on the far sides of the field to create what were obviously meant to be goalposts. This vast pitch, 120 meters long and 70 meters wide, was their Wembley, my old stomping ground, now turned by my more sophisticated eyes into a battlefield.

Two days into my stay in Ogoja, and I have made this place my “get away from it all” spot. I come here to think and to reflect on all I have; my education, my love life (you can tell I’ve been here several times), my goals and dreams… my person.

Each visit to the field leads me to one realization or the other, today being something I noticed the seconds I walked into this vibrant ghost town; I’ve come a ridiculously long way. Coke in hand and 2 galas in my back pocket, I approach the only seats available by the pitch, the posts, where I set down my galas and lean my back against the rusted metal, hoping it doesn’t tumble on me – there will be a match here tomorrow morning, wouldn’t want to ruin one of the few things that keeps this town going. 10 years ago.

I would have jumped at the chance to be on this pitch, running around screaming orders at my teammates to give me the ball, pretending to be a midfield maestro, dictating every move. Now, I see it as pointless and stupid.

This is how far I have come, from being okay with socializing with these people around; these kids who laugh at each other for making the mistake of thinking L.O.L to be laugh out loud (it bothers me too), these kids who text in short with “Xup”, “Tanx”, “Plix”, “Shyr”.

These kids who jump at the opportunity to be sent to the supermarkets to get things for their parents or in this case, their out of reach, superrich cousins from the city. It’s terribly frustrating believing I was once part of their clique. I would savour meetings with these people when I was young, but now it seems a little too vast, the difference between us.

Maybe I have grown older and too sophisticated to be around them, but there’s an odd warm feeling that runs through me when I need something done and one of these cousins of mine planted here in Ogoja is jumping up to race to my aid.

The painful part about it is the fact that it is hardwired into them from time. At 10, I would gladly run with them to the supermarket to get whatever I need, them just with me for backup, so I don’t lose my way back home, so I don’t run into trouble.

Now at 20, I feel bored having to be home all day, but I find the idea of leaving home revolting as well, especially to run petty errands. How then do they endure all of this? How then do they keep bubbling with enthusiasm? The gala in my hand is a recent reminder of this, I should ideally chuck it in a bush nearby but I’m way too hungry to waste it.

I watch the wind blow the sand on the field onto the patches with grass, now choking whatever grass is still alive to expand the ocean of sand. I’m desperately trying to fight this warm feeling inside which I know is neither satisfactions nor dissatisfaction.

It is neither anger nor guilt. It feels more like a sad feeling, but why warm then? Is it the idea of fixing this that makes me feel warm? Is it the need to put this situation right that spurs me on? I cannot tell because I know not what to do, I have not a word to say. I just sit there, looking at the sun, beads of sweat forming at my temple and along the column of my back in the sun-dipped field.

There’s a slim line between slavery and freedom in this place, I can see it, and I know anyone with a little compassion and an observant eye would have spotted it too. I can barely do anything to solve the issue because it is what it is, but the idea of indulging in it lets me down equally. I indulge myself in a lap around the field before making my way in the opposite direction of the now setting sun.

The streets filled with 10 year old mes, accompanied by their cousins, on the quest for what, I don’t know. I shake my head and remember my brother’s words of how in life there are people who are born to be served and people who are born to serve. The words play in my head till I approach the massive Indian red bungalow that is our family house in Ogoja.

Just before I hit the buzzer on the towering black gate of the house, ordering one of my cousins to come to my aid once more, I utter my dissatisfaction, hoping it can float along in the wind to find my brother wherever he is.

People train themselves to be served, and train others to serve them.

Written by Raury O. Tomic

Johnpaul O. Eta (Pen name: Raury O. Tomic) is a confident and creative young man, born on January 20 1999, in Abuja and raised in Calabar. Educated at St. Anne’s High school, Calabar, he is a secondary school graduate. He is mostly an erotic writer, but switches up with a bit of suspense and the occasional romance. He frequently visits his now retired parents in Calabar. He is currently enrolled in York University, Canada and is studying Computer Science.

E-mail etajpeey@gmail.com Instagram @tawo_e Snapchat etaot