“Kingdom-Phylum-Class-Family-Genus-Species”
“Kingdom-Phylum-Class-Family-Genus-Species”
The words reverberate through Ikhenna Onyeador’s head like an echo in an empty cave.
“Kingdom-Phylum-Class-Family-Genus-Species”
“Or is it Family before Class? Meehn, this is not even funny.”
It was July the 15th, 9:30pm, in LJC, and finals began in less than 12 hours. With only 15 minutes left till lights out, Ikenna was getting all he could into his head before Mr.Arina’s Biology test the next day. Bassey Otoabasi, just done with some late night laundry, quipped as he walked by:
Ah ah, Ikenna, you’re still jacking?
(Anyone who has ever heard Ikenna Onyeador yarn please flashback a bit to get the full effect of the next few lines)
“Meehn, this is not even funny. After Biology almost put me on academic probation last CA. I’m surreh but ah cannot allow dem to probate me.”
“But it’s the end of term, just bang the test jor”
“Noo! LJC? Local Jail for Shidren? They will probate me once I get back! I’m not in the mood to have Paulinus call out my name in the middle of my Saturday movies next term.”
As he uttered those words, Odia Egbire Molen, the trusty timekeeper, came out of his room and rang the bell for lights out.
“gbelen, gbelen, gbelen”, went the brass/copper/”only-god-knows-what-material-it-was-made-of” bell
Irede, the hostel prefect, promptly switched off the lights, as he wanted to get some shuteye.
“Heeeeeee, they will not kill me oh!” Ikenna screamed as he grabbed his notes off the floor. He promptly proceeded towards the laundry area where the lights were still on, waving his Biology notes in the air like a madman. “Paulinus will have to drag me to my bed tonight, and I will give him hell!”
Unlike Ikenna, The well prepared were already sleeping comfortably in their beds. The likes of Pat Oladimeji knew they would be bashing Mr. Enokela’s Agric science exam in the morning. “Citrus spp. and Musca Sapientum aint got nothing on me!” he chuckled to himself as he went to sleep. Little did he know that Mr.Enokela would only be giving half marks for all “spp.” answers, requiring full scientific names for whole credit.
Charles Okon and his roommates were also sleeping soundly, though not as prepared as Oladimeji. In fact, they had not studied at all. Having stabbed Hausa class all semester, what was the use in worrying now? Sugaban Dalabai, or whatever Mallam Shehu called it, could go and perish for all they cared. Maybe one of the Hausa chicks would give them dubs if she was feeling nice. In retrospect, they should have given the girls last night’s buns just to seal the deal. Anyway, it’s no biggie. They could always perform the old “write-on-the-chalkboard-and-erase-it-just-slightly-enough-so-we-could-still-see-it” trick. It worked for the passé compose in French during the last CA, and it never hurt to have a backup plan.
Hamza Ibrahim is also making last minute preparations. T.D board, check. Rotaring Compass and Protractor, check. T-square. Check. Pencils, Check. He promptly stashes the precious cargo in his locker and seals it with his personal combination lock before jumping into bed and shutting his eyes. He wasn’t foolish enough to use the standard LJC locks. One knife and a well timed blow were all you needed to crack one of those. And that was only if you didn’t know the trick to opening them silently. With Mr. Val’s Technical drawing exam two days away, he wasn’t taking any chances: Anyone with half a brain knew that T.D materials had suddenly become “scarce” a week ago, and anyone careless enough to leave their precious instruments unguarded would pay the price. The closer you got to the exam, the more risky it became: Many a T.D final had been accompanied by panicked students wondering how their T-squares had evaporated in the small span of time between breakfast and the Exam. Several opportunists were willing to sacrifice Akara and Pap for a decent T.D board. If it was Wednesday bread, all they needed to do was get a pal to smuggle it out for them while they obtained the goods. With this knowledge etched into him as deeply as his name is etched on his T.D equipment, Hamza peers one last time at his locker to ensure that it is as impregnable as Fort Knox before soundly falling asleep.
With the general populace all in bed, Sergeant makes one final patrol around the boys’ dorm before turning in for the evening. But, unbeknownst to him, there are some for whom the night is still young. For minutes after he leaves the dorms, a faint glow illuminates Regis’ Box Room 13. Within its confines, the true creatures of the night begin to stir…
“Abeg chuka, shine the light here small!”
“Dis guy, why you no bring ya own torch?”
“Mehn, Paulinus seized it last week when I borrowed it to one junior” (That’s right; “borrowed” would suffice for both borrowing and lending.)
The words flew back and forth between a certain Chimdi Enigbuna and Chuka Okwu. The pair of roommates had earlier been deceived by Tony Madaki into playing dorm soccer, and were unaware that he had already thoroughly jacked for all the upcoming exams. “Just one game”, Madaki had said. But as with most dorm soccer matches, one game turned into several, and before the boys knew what had happened, it was already lights out. Tony Madaki would be heading straight to bed, but for Chimdi and Chuka, a crueler fate awaited: Late night jacking in the Regis box room. NEPA had taken light (duh!), so they couldn’t even rely on the box room lights. Chuka had been well prepared enough to bring a torch, but Chimdi was not as prepared, and thus found himself in his current plight. He tried to get Chuka to share the luminous wealth, but his roommate was having none of it.
“Chimdi mehn, guys have Ms Ohia’s Economics final tomorrow. I need to jack! Olamide should have an extra torch. Go and check.”
“This guy, why you doing me greasy? Xavier house is far. Anyway, I’ll be back”.
“Don’t let them nab you sha!”
Ma guys, lower ya voices. You want Sargeant to hear us?
The grave voice belonged to John Chuchu Onwuagha, who was sitting in the corner. In one hand was his economics notebook. In the other, a loaf of bread and TITUS sardines (because sardine is not sardine if it isn’t TITUS). A trivial meal, one might think, but to the residents of LJC he might as well have been eating caviar on toast. (The smuggling exploits of this individual and his cohorts are tales of legend. But that, my friends is another story.)
“Sorry ChuChu, no vex. Anyway, let me be going.”
With that, chimdi snuck out of the box room.
The other residents of the box room then began their various affairs. In one corner, Olusola “Shogz” George Taylor, Umar Abdullahi and ChuChu were conducting their “trade operations”. Finals week was a good time to sell excess stock: everyone with extra cash was using it, seeing as they’d be back home in some weeks. People also got hungry during late night jacking sessions, such as this one. It was a goldmine for the professional smugglers. Nasco, aka “Nas”, would be going for prices between N150 and N200, seeing as it was finals. Frequent buyers may be lucky enough to buy at the regular price of N100, which was still a 100% markup on the street price (Shogz, you bagger, making boyz buy for N150!)
The other inhabitants of the room were of the jacking persuasion, each with their own torch and various textbooks. Science students were getting ready for Physics and Further math, while art students had Government and History to study for. Chuka was of the art variety, and aside from studying for Economics, he needed to do some hefty jacking if he was to pass his upcoming History final. That Ottoman Turk topic was some very “unsegzy sturvz”, and he had not bothered to read up on it till today. Needless to say, he wasn’t very thrilled when he heard it would make up majority of the final. As he cracked open his book, he heard a small shuffling sound directly outside the box room. “It’s probably Chimdi on his way back from Xavier with a torch!” he thought to himself. But it was not meant to be.
An all too familiar “Who are those?” resounded through the air, and not unlike the voice of God, it struck fear into the hearts of men (or in this case, young boys). A key was inserted into the lock, which opened with an ominous “click”. Chuka and his fellow students immediately put out their torches. The door swung open and in stepped a student’s worst nightmare. It was Mr. Orji, with cane in hand. It was the worst possible scenario for the lads: Trapped in a box room with only one exit, and between them and the door stood the scourge of mankind (or studentkind, as the case was). But as the cornered mouse would fight a cat, these boys had no intention of getting caught. Chu chu faced double incarceration if he was apprehended with smuggled goods (which is now an offence worthy of suspension in LJC. It’s as if they have nothing better to do. *hiss*) so he was not going to come quietly. It was indeed a desperate situation, but all was not lost: For once, lack of NEPA worked in favour of the students. Orji had not brought his torch, and the boys thus had the cover of darkness under which to make an escape attempt, which they promptly did.
As if led by a military commander, the boys proceeded to execute a retreat that would make an army general proud. Two boys flanked Orji’s right, and two others went to the left, while the braver soldiers attempted to break through the middle. Any normal human being would have been overwhelmed by the assault, but this is Orji we are talking about. He would not just let it end like that. His cane wielding hand moved at speeds that would make a black mamba envious, striking Chuka and Umar simultaneously. Umar chests it like a man, but the unexpected lashing catches Chuka unawares, and he lets loose an inadvertent “yekpa!”
Orji’s cat-like ears didn’t miss a beat. “Chuka Okwu, is that you? Will you come here!” But Chuka does not hesitate in the slightest. He bolts out of the box room as if his life depends on it. At worst, Orji will come to his dorm later, and he’ll deny every allegation. As long as his roommates didn’t cast him, he’d be fine. Speaking of roommates, where the heck was Chimdi? Maybe he had been nabbed by Orji and was already kneeling down on the lawn outside.
But the lad in question was already back in his dorm: On his way back from Xavier, Chimdi had seen the hardened disciplinarian heading toward Regis and promptly declared O.Y.O (on your own) on the poor sods in the box room. “Next time Chuka will share his torch!” he sniggered mischievously in his head. In fact, maybe he’ll try to extort two biscuit from Chuka in exchange for not casting him. As he lay on his bed, he contemplated the lost study time. “It’s all good.” he thought to himself. He could always jack right before the morning bell or during breakfast. To an extent, the point of partaking in late night jacking was the mischief and all other shenanigans one could engage in while perambulating the campus. Then he remembered that Economics and Government were back to back tests.
“Maybe i’ll just make dubs jor…”
End
