Chinedu Ogoke - Under Fire

Isn’t this guy sick? Imoni thought. He felt the unusual attention Mickey drew to them. Pedestrians in both directions turned to fix Mickey and his attire a second, reproving look. Mickey, affected by his outfit, continued, unperturbed. He hit every step like in a discotheque. Perhaps to serve them a unique walk. He was occupied with himself, nervous and appreciating himself. He lit another cigarette. His showing was just beyond Imoni. Imoni meanwhile received and expressed New Year greetings.

“Imoni Waltz,” two male students waved.

“Yetunde, Kazeem.”

Two girls overtook them. “Imoni Waltz,” one of them waved above her head.

“Buki,” Imoni called back.

“Why are you walking so casually?” Buki asked. “Aren’t you for the lecture?”

“I am.”

“Is that the guy called Imoni Waltz?” both Imoni and Mickey heard Buki’s friend ask.

“Why are these girls always looking at me?” Mickey wondered. “Haven’t they seen a handsome guy before?”

“Because they admire you.”

“By the way,” Mickey asked, “why are people calling you Imoni Waltz, just suddenly?” Well, it was because he just arrived the school and rescued the school from a killing silence with a band, the Waltz Band. That was the previous session. Mickey turned with surprise. “You?” he said. “Aren’t you strange? You’ve remained an enigma to me. Believe me. It’s like one is always tempted to underrate you. No wonder everybody seems to know you, waving and all that.”

It was good to know, Mickey continued. How far back was that? he asked. He told him. Almost a year already, he whistled. And the school had been kept waiting and hadn’t had another ever since? They could go into it together. Men, in a big way this time around. He’d throw in a couple of money into it. How about that? Not a bad idea, Imoni replied.

The school was in full bearing, sending out its rudimentary characteristics. Campus activities were building up. And ostentation was already on display at the Elkanemi car park, with Dr. Maxwell’s Peugeot 504 car, a car which still resisted expiration, being the most eye-catching of the range.

Innocent and Salaudeen were beside the latter’s Mercedes Benz car.

“Let me see these guys, please,” Imoni said to Mickey.

“Alright,” Mickey said, waving to Salaudeen, and entering the hall.

Imoni went to them. “Hey, Cent.” He shook Innocent’s hand, and then, Salaudeen’s.

Of aristocracy and fashion on campus, Salaudeen was the pattern. Never known to be generous with speech, he only smiled, with interjections, based on the merit of your monologue. But he radiated excellence, and his manner wasn’t the least affected. Innocent was saying something, and Salaudeen was being so benevolent with his smile. Well, not a few people knew what it meant to tease Salaudeen, and what select few could do it. From their standpoint, Imoni could feel the visual impact from a part of the lecture hall.

“That guy with you, just now,” Salaudeen referred to Imoni, “is he a new student?”

“Yes.” Imoni realised the amount of regard that accompanied the question.

“The guy must be a big dud,” Salaudeen observed. “But that attire isn’t the best in the world.” He laughed. He might think it was a killer, Innocent said, laughing, adding that the design was awful rather than pleasant. “Some guy,” Salaudeen said. “We were at Lake Tchad Hotel together yesterday. Let’s go in.”

Imoni and Innocent went with him into the multi-purpose hall. Eyes drifted from Dr. Maxwell on a raised platform to accord them attention. This Salaudeen must be tough, Imoni thought, to progress not unsubdued by the press of eyes in the hall, whereas he, Imoni, a less attractive entity, fought to break the anxiety in him. Salaudeen and Innocent went to the back, while Imoni moved quietly to join Mickey. About one hundred students were seated, cut, to a seasoned eye, in various classes. Back to Mickey, Imoni frankly allowed him some little respect. “I know that guy like,” Mickey said in a low voice, his eyes darting about. “Salaudeen.”

“He said the same thing about you.”

Mickey’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

“Xactly.”

“You’re not kidding?”

Imoni was scared of what was coming then from Mickey. He hushed him to silence lest the lecturer picked them up. That quietened him, but he still turned to look at Salaudeen. Salaudeen was meanwhile absorbed with his glittering, brown shoes, without any feeling for Dr Maxwell’s entertainment on the stage. The lecturer’s hip-swaying greatly delighted other students. “Most of you hadn’t been born then.” The man had stopped dancing. “I tell you, it was too interesting. As soon as the British flag came down, and the green, white, green flag rose majestically, everybody rose and there was a deafening ovation. I haven’t seen such a spectacle in my life. We had ladies with nimble feet, then, natural, and they used their wonderful steps to usher in independence. Not the stiff-legged girls we have now. See them.” He pointed. The girls protested loudly. Dr. Maxwell’s act was only an illustrative answer to a female student’s question. Another girl’s hand was up. “No,” Dr. Maxwell said. “Don’t we have boys here? The girls are stealing the show.”

A male student then easily reached for the dangling favour. “You’ve painted colourfully, sir,” he began, “the independent spectacle and celebration, and we just wish, ourselves, we were there...” He was asked to go on. “Are we truly independent? And how have we justified all that nimble-footed celebration?”

Those were beautiful questions, Dr. Maxwell agreed, and went ahead to give unsatisfactory answers, to which students started whispering loudly. “Hey,” Dr. Maxwell stamped a foot. “You think you’re still in your kitchen?” What a comic piece he expressed even in anger. Some students were giggling. “Let me get you there,” Dr. Maxwell barked. “Who made that silly noise?” Eyes stared back at him, and he backed down. The girl who had raised a hand earlier, was raising a hand. “Yes, young miss?” Dr. Maxwell said. The girl was smiling. “What’s biting you?”

The girl got serious. “Sir,” she began, in a backyard foreign accent, “between the Prime Minister of the newly independent nation, and the President, who was more powerful?” Dr. Maxwell, a veteran of many foreign lands, mimicked the girl’s accent before pushing the responsibility to a willing, male student. The Prime Minister carried executive powers, the student said, but official discretion over formation and dissolution of Government derived from the President. He fed it with examples.

“Does that satisfy your question?” Dr. Maxwell asked the girl.

“Yes, sir.”

Dr. Maxwell would never cease being dramatic. “Hey, hey. You there.” He pointed unexpectedly. “That man backing us.” He meant Salaudeen. Salaudeen, with an out-door disposition, backed the lecture. He turned now. “Are you with us?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Maxwell shook his head. “You should be ashamed of yourself and the person sponsoring you. Spoilt child. These are the people who shouldn’t be in the university. Now, will you leave the hall?” Salaudeen complied. The entire class was stunned. “What personal achievement can he claim to in life? And he has such high opinion about himself.... I saw him when I was coming in for the lecture. Yet, he entered several minutes after the lecture started. And, now, he had his back to the class. Utter rubbish.”

What a close one it was for me, Imoni thought. He ducked behind a massive back. Students’ attention now applied to Medinatu, Salaudeen’s girlfriend, who was convulsing into a handkerchief. Some other girls had now screened her off Dr. Maxwell. But nothing linked his attention with the girl. Dr. Maxwell was hence firm and undemonstrative till the affair wound up.