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Kola's Day

Hi there! We have a new guest writer with us today. The one, the only *drumroll* Mazeeeeee! ^_^ Here's a throwback piece of his. Read and enjoy.
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The hour was close.

The night was conspicuously ominous. The stars nestled quite edgily in the black velvet blanket, and the moon hid itself behind thick cloud plumes – even the celestial bodies were scared for him. The silence was pristine enough for him to hear his heart beating in rapid rhythm.

He swallowed hard.

He stared at the sheet of paper for the umpteenth time. His palms were sweaty and the trickles of sweat began to muddle the red ink. “This can’t be right” He thought to himself. Again, he punched the figures into his calculator, shook his head and let out a sibilant sound. These grades couldn’t be right.
But they were.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the hem of his sleeve. He was really going get it this time.

“Why am I cursed with a Nigerian Father?” Kola wondered. What would be his punishment today? “Most likely Ijoko Idera he thought to himself. His stomach started to churn. He re-enacted the punishment in his mind. He would have to sit on the floor, raise his two legs, making them parallel to the ground and he’d have to stretch his two arms forward, parallel to his legs. His father would pick a small wooden chair and just watch him as he served his punishment. If his legs ever touched the floor, he’d receive about ten strokes of his father’s leather belt. His back had grown so familiar to the taste of the skin of a dead cow. The last time he did this, he wasn’t able to walk properly for 2 days.

He heard the rumble of a car. He checked his watch. Daddy should be home anytime soon. The car’s light seeped through the creaks of his gate. Getting brighter and brighter. Compounding Kola’s fear.
Daddy was coming!
A shiver ran through his spine, weakening his legs.
He clenched his stomach and held bated breath….

The car passed his gate.
It wasn’t his Daddy’s.
He heaved a huge sigh of respite.

“Should I go and begin to read?” Kola asked himself “Perhaps if Daddy sees me reading, he’d see that I’m willing to change and forgive me.”

The thoughts haunted him again. What if his father told him to stool down? His body trembled at the mere thought of this punishment. One foot on the floor. One leg in the air. One finger on the floor. His body, arched at a demonic angle, and its full weight on that one finger on the floor. His dad would still sit on a chair and watch him suffer. If he changed legs, or changed fingers. He’d get a whooping.

He tried to swallow again, but this time a lump, the size of a grape, had built up in his throat.

At times like this, he wished he were American. He’d get a “grounding” or a threat for summer school. At least that’s what the Television said American kids got as punishment. “

His martinet of a father showed no mercy. His father was a professor at the local university and couldn’t fathom his son being a blockhead. He dealt with enough of those in his class. He had made Kola promise that the last time would be the last time Kola ever received any “red” on his report card. Kola had failed to keep his promise. He was going to get it.

The hour had come.

He heard his father’s car hoot all the way from the huge gate of the estate.
He knew judgment came in the dilapidated old Benz.
He knew there was no mercy.
The skies darkened further.
He looked down to his shorts.
He had just peed himself.

- Maze 
  (@MazeDaMouth)

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