A Trip To My Worst Experience As A Teen

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Back then, in secondary school, I had this classmate Rahila, whose mother raised her with an iron fist. As someone whose father is a chef, Rahila comes to school with different delicacies, making almost every one of our classmates want to be her friend.

I will not lie; there was a time when the foodie in me wished she could trade places with Rahila. If not for anything, at least for the fried rice, coleslaw and chicken she always brings for lunch, or was it the cabbage mincemeat sauces she brings with white rice? How about the minced beef Nigerian stew? Or was it the cake? In my head, Rahila had the perfect life, and like everyone else in my class who was her friend, we all wished to visit Rahila's home. So, one day, our prayers were answered.

It was the last day of our exams, and we closed early. Rahila and other friends in our class accompanied me home. But since there was not much food or drink to use in celebrating the completion of the exam, Rahila volunteered we take the party to her place as they have a lot to eat and drink there.

We did not hesitate and even I rushed in to change from uniform to three-quarter jeans and a handless top paired with a scarf to cover my shoulders. I got set, and off we went to Rahila's house. When we got there, no one was home as her parents were out for work. We let ourselves in and went straight to the kitchen, acting like we owned the place. Truly, there was so much to eat and drink. I even went to the noodle compartment and put some in the fire.

My other classmates were also helping themselves with anything they could lay their hands on. My noodles got ready, and I was about to fry the egg when we heard the gate. Like a stunt master, Rahila flew from the chair where she was watching movies to the window. We all followed behind, and as we peeped with our heads low, we saw the mother open the gate from outside to let herself drive in.

Immediately, we saw Rahila thrown into Chaos as she started having a panic attack. We could barely hear her, but we knew from her signs that if her mother caught us in the house, there could be consequences. We looked at how messed up the house was, and immediately we all ran helter-skelter. They had just one exit, and going through there would mean coming face to face with her mother.

While the rest of my classmates ran to hide somewhere in the house, I let myself slide through the back door leading to the balcony. It was a story building, and as I stood contemplating jumping, I heard the mother turn off her car engine. I listened carefully, and while I was sure she had gone into the house, I jumped down from the story building.

Like a miracle, I didn't sustain any visible injuries, but I had a limp. And as I limped out of the compound to the gate, I saw that it was locked, so no escape for me. Thus, I stood at the end of the car facing the wall to check my leg and be sure where the pain causing the limp was from. I saw that I had sprained my ankle, and while I nursed my wound, I heard the entrance gate open to let the remaining girls out. They all looked like robbers caught in an operation by the authorities as they appeared sober, their fingers entangled in front as they came out in a straight line.

They got out and they called out my name in whispers, I dragged my sprained ankle to them, and probably they were all too tense to notice my limp as they didn't ask what was wrong. Rahila opened the gate for us, and we got out. Like forbidden words, we spoke nothing of what had happened as we just walked quietly to board a cab home.

It was a Saturday morning, and I woke up feeling that my troubles were over. I freshened up and as I was about to go meet my mom for some hot ointment for my foot, a sibling came that my attention was needed. The next thing they asked was What did you do? Because our mom was visibly angry as my classmates and her mother came to report me. Immediately I heard that, my heart flew.

Like this woman still came to my home. Haven't I suffered enough? I got dressed and put up the most remorseful and pitiable look I could pull up while hiding my limp.

As I approached the parlour, my mother asked me to kneel first before anything else. She asked if I knew them, and I said yes. Then she asked about my relationship with them I explained to her. She took a deep breath as if begging God to suppress the spirit of an African mother, because I knew I was seconds away from a beating.

Next, my mom asked what had happened the previous day, and I narrated. I wanted to lie, as the mother didn't even see me, but then I saw my scarf in her hands, and I knew I had to come clean.

After the ordeal, my mom gave me the advice of my life, asking if I wanted to end up like the girls on the street, because if we start parading ourselves like Rahila's mother suggested we did, what sort of life do I hope to live? I was mute.

At school the following day, while we deliberated on what had happened, it turned out Rahila's mother had seen us leave, and she wasn't pleased with what I was wearing while the other girls were still in their uniform after school hours.

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