Directionless, pointless? Frustrated? Sick? Does my story matter? I would still tell, lest I leave my fellow students thinking they are alone in their frustration.
February.
It was on Valentine’s Day that I noticed a swelling on the middle finger of my left hand. I felt it was nothing serious. The swelling increased day by day. At some point, it got real painful, that I had to get painkillers, even tramadol. Fast forward to a few days later, it got so bad that I had to travel home.
After a few days, I returned to school only to see that I had already missed two quizzes and a lot of lectures. I was seriously lagging. By now, the swelling had metamorphosed to an open injury leaking pus, blood and water. I carried a pack of cotton wool anywhere I went to clean up the leaking wound. I lost the use of my left hand for any serious activity. I needed help with almost everything. Bathing, dressing, washing. I felt handicapped. I cried many times.
On my return to school, I had to leave my room in Ibiam hostel to a friend’s lodge who would assist me in some activities I could no longer undertake. To keep things airy, I left the wound uncovered, attracting people’s attention.
“Jeez! What happened to your hand?”
“It’s so irritating!”
“Sorry”
“Get well soon.”
I would go back to my friend’s lodge and cry. I didn’t want to lose my finger.
March.
It was on the day of the SUG elections that I travelled back home for the second time. My parents had decided I needed professional treatment. The next day, my Dad and I left for the hospital. In all my certainty, it was just a matter of prescribing drugs and some advice on how to manage the injury. I was wrong. The doctor had asked for my Dad’s permission to have me admitted to the hospital.
“You are lucky you came at this time. It’s already started rotting inside.”
Tears welled up in my eyes but I had to hold it in. Not for long though.
When I went to the laboratory to have my blood tested, I burst into tears. The tears flowed freely and it took some time for the Laboratory Technician to calm me down. I was led into my ward.
That single day, I had four packs of liquid antibiotics pumped into my bloodstream and my urine
smelt of drugs for the next three weeks. More tears, more antibiotics, more painkillers and I was discharged.
I was still dependent on people for carrying out simple tasks. The injury still had to be dressed daily, antibiotics and painkillers in form of pills and capsules still being taken and I was relieved of all house chores.
It didn’t take long before I heard about the two weeks warning strike action by ASUU. In all sincerity, I was happy about it. At least, it bought me time to recover to some extent, before returning back to school.
April.
The lockdown started. The cases of the pandemic increased. I became a movie marathoner. I watched Money Heist from the beginning and finished it in no time. I watched any movie I could lay my hands on. I was enjoying the 'break'. I didn’t leave the house. I didn’t go to church. I’d
call my friends for long hours and spend all day on WhatsApp, chatting the time away. My Mom would remind me to read my books but I would just laugh it away At this time, I barely remembered that amidst the lockdown, there was an ongoing strike action.
May.
I woke up one morning feeling down. I complained to my parents and they gave me some Paracetamol to take. It got worse. I completely lost my appetite, I was very weak, the light from my phone was blinding, my stomach was constantly in pain. I started browsing the symptoms of Corona Virus. I’d vomit anything I ingested, I couldn’t eat my favourite food and my Dad contemplated taking me to the hospital. I started having pains by the side of my ribs. My elder sister had become my babysitter, bathing me, cleaning up my vomit, washing my clothes and calming me down when I had a fit.
With time, I bounced back to health.
At this time, I barely remembered that there was an ongoing strike.
June.
For studies, I set a poorly drafted timetable which was rarely followed. My movie marathon continued. I watched and watched and recommended to friends. I never left the house. I went to church once. I started taking the ongoing strike seriously. I tried to weigh our options for resumption. I set it for September.
At a point, I cut off from the outside world. I switched off my phone, removed my battery and sim card. My view on several issues changed. I paid more attention to my inner self. My church attendance improved. I gained weight.
July.
I managed to put my phone on again. I felt like a different person. I applied for essay competitions. I decided to learn Graphics Design, downloaded some apps for that purpose and played with them. For once, I felt I had a purpose. Music became my inspiration and my source of remaining sane. Staying at home tired me. Wake up, chores, eat, stay on your phone, sleep. I was tired of that routine. My Mom teased me about gaining so much weight. I downloaded workout apps which I never opened. I wanted school to resume. I needed a form of escape. I became frustrated.
August.
All my applications for competitions failed. I gave up writing essays and faced graphic design. I explored more in that area and grew. I left for Enugu. In all sincerity, to run away from my frustration at home. I had a good time, visited friends and the change of environment did me a lot of good. I soon became tired and hurried back home.
September.
I expected the strike to be called off. Why were they wasting time? I continued graphic design, contemplated opening a brand of my own in that area. Music continued to be my safe escape. I picked up reading on a serious note. I set a reading goal for myself. During the day time, I’d read. At night, my frustration crept in.
October.
Here came the #ENDSARS protest. Something to distract me and unwind my frustration. I followed it up on social media. I made posters and distributed in solidarity. I watched videos of protests held in different locations. I followed all the stories told.
Tension heightened with the Lekki Toll Gate massacre. I followed that up too. Watching every video. Observing a moment of silence for the departed.
Once again, hope fluttered. The government was ready to negotiate with ASUU to stop the protest and “keep youths off the streets”. Once again, my hope was crushed.
Civil unrest heightened in my area of residence, Oyigbo. The government placed a 24-hour curfew which lasted for two weeks. People fled their homes. Two friends of mine ran to their village in another state. My father contemplated us running to his cousin’s living in a safer part of Port Harcourt. At night, we heard several loud gunshots and people banging on our gates telling us to come out and defend our country. Defend our country? A country that massacred it’s own citizens because they organized a peaceful protest? Is such a country worth defending?
My frustration increased. I denounced my citizenship in all entirety. My mother asked each of us to pack our necessaries in a small bag just in case it metamorphosed into fight or flight. I still have my small bag by the door of my room with an easy-to-wear gown beside it. He who fails to plan plans to fail.
November.
Few days into this month, the 24-hour curfew is called off. In the twinkle of an eye, prices of foodstuffs skyrocketed. For the first time, I have to fry my egg without onions. I have officially opened my brand of graphic design, improving my skill set and producing paid designs for clients.
Would school resume this year? Have I lost one academic year? Is reading law in a country that has no regard for it pointless? What is the fate of a Nigerian undergraduate studying in a government-owned university - directionless?
You are very strong Mara. Stay strong.
Nice oneee💯