Part Of The Things I Ignore | Deborah Akintayo

Part Of The Things I Ignore | Deborah Akintayo

Image by ARKORE ARTS

I counted the seconds in my head and prayed earnestly for time to run by so fast that I would be in Lagos, the loud, beautiful Lagos. When I opened my eyes, It was not so.

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The first time I committed this sin was on a luxurious bus on its way from Kwara to a park in Maryland, Lagos. I was sitting one, no, perhaps two-seat rows from the back. And although I could see outside clearly from where I sat, I did not have the window seat. Collins did, Emefiele Collins. The short, mouse-looking boy with a black dot on his nose. The boy who always seemed to glory in the misfortune of others. The one who was always laughing or looking for who and what to laugh at. I hate him. Or should I say I used to hate him? He used to bullied me alongside his close friend and fellow idiot, Damola. While Collins had not done most of the bullying himself, he had laughed at the whole process, never saying a word in protest. Now my feelings for him have lessened to mild dislike. 

I sat beside him and watched the buildings and trees fly past. They were probably beautiful, but I didn't enjoy them. I couldn't. I was road sick and I hated it. I absolutely hated not being able to enjoy that little joy of life that everyone else seemed to enjoy.

 

It doesn't matter whether or not I eat. I always feel nauseous and often vomit while traveling. The terrible state of the Nigerian roads contribute to it. Most times, all it takes for the vomit to come lunging is a single gallop. The potholes are never-ending, and so is the saliva constantly in my mouth. The saliva I can't swallow for fear of throwing up or spit out for fear of being perceived as disgusting and laughed at. 

I hate going home on holidays and mid-term breaks, but I still go anyway. The joy of going home is so great that it washes away all the discomfort of the seven-hour journey.

The bus suddenly jerked roughly, and I was tossed forward, almost hitting my head on the seat in front of me. My stomach  lurched; I felt the vomit at the very end of my throat. I could almost taste it in my mouth. Feeling sick, I quickly put my head against the same seat I had nearly hit. I cushioned my head with my arms and closed my eyes, knowing that I was too sick and uncomfortable to be sleep's guest. I counted the seconds in my head and prayed earnestly for time to run by so fast that I would be in Lagos,  the loud, beautiful Lagos. When I opened my eyes, It was not so.

 I opened my eyes instead to a strange feeling from the foreign touch on my thigh, my left thigh. My head shot up immediately. Forgetting my sickness, I glanced at my thigh first then at Collins. There was really no difference except for the fact that he was now staring at the window more intently. I looked at him for a while before looking back at my thigh. "I must have imagined it", I thought to myself. I ignored the deep feeling swelling inside me because Collins and I weren't that close. At least not close enough for him to rub my thigh. I was not that close with any guy. 

After staring out the window for a while, I returned my head and hands to the seat in front of me and closed my eyes. This time, I almost fell asleep, almost! I was awoken again by that touch. This time it was more of a rub. And it was closer to my butt, maybe even part of my butt. This was no imagination. I felt it to my core—this feeling of being violated. While I wanted to give him a dirty slap, I froze in shock. He rubbed and rubbed some more, probably assuming I was asleep. My body started to feel funny and I felt something I had never felt before. I began to feel wetness, my panties felt like something was dropping on them. It felt tingly and sticky, foreign even.

He kept rubbing and rubbing, and I did not like the way I felt or reacted. Finally unable to bear it,  I quickly moved my left hand to the side of my thigh, grabbed his hand, and put it on his lap. All this while my head never left that seat. I did not want to look at him. I didn't want to see the look on his face.

I could not sleep; my mind wandered and wondered. I was scared he might return his hand to my thigh again. I couldnt scream, shout, or even talk. Who would believe me? Plain Jane got assaulted, so what? People only believed pretty girls. Only pretty girls were assaulted.

So I let all the barking and ravaging dogs inside me lie. I sang them to sleep with the song of my insecurity. I had a lovely voice, and in no time, they dozed off snoring aloud. It must have taken quite a while, though, because when I finally mustered the courage to raise my head and look out the window, it was almost dark, and we were already in Lagos, approaching Maryland.

I knew my dad would be waiting for me in his air-conditioned car. I knew there would be fried rice, chicken, and Coke in the backseat for me. I also knew that Collins would be dead meat if I spoke to my dad. He would believe me. I knew I was his princess. To him, I was beautiful and, any act of assault on me would never go unpunished.

As the bus screeched to a stop, my stomach didn't lurch. It had stilled, and I had swallowed my saliva. Everyone started to descend. Parents were screaming and hugging their bundles of joy. I picked my beige school bag from beside my feet where it lay and got up. I turned to go. I had gotten to the seat in front of me when I paused and turned back to Collins. "Bye bye", I told him and waved, not meeting his eyes. I should have said, "I hate you and hope you rot in hell!" Or, "I hope you get into an accident on your way home and your right hand gets maimed forever!" But, I noiselessly left the bus. I did not even wait to hear his response.

Outside, my eyes immediately found my dad's car. They found the tall dark handsome man with deep tribal marks running down his cheeks, who waved at me. My father was leaning on his silver liberty. I ran with my bag and hugged him. And for a moment, just for a tiny moment, I considered waking them, the snoring dogs in me. But before I opened my mouth to begin, my dad spoke.

 "Oyinbo girl", he said, his eyes sparkling as he looked down at me. 

"Yes daddy", I responded.

 "How was school? How was the journey? I hope you didnt vomit this time?" He asked all at once.

"School was fine, daddy, and I did not vomit", I said, beaming proudly.

" Okay, that's my girl" he smiled in response and ushered me into the back seat of the car, where I could already see my rice and chicken.

We both he got in and he began to drive. 

"What did you score in English?", he asked.

It was always like this. I smiled and let the snoring dogs be. Let what happened with Collins become a part of those things I conveniently ignore. 

Just like they say, It gets better after the first try. My body got used to it, and so did my mind. I once thought forgiving was easier than forgetting. How does one forget? I guess I have found the answer, as I seldom remember what happened on the journey that day. I had responded to my dad, and stared at the street lights that illuminated the streets of Lagos through my window as we drove home.

Bio:

I am Deborah Akintayo. A current undergraduate student who loves writing. I have found it to be the best medium of self-expression and reflection. The ability to craft words and fill them with emotions is the most incredible thing I have discovered. When I get lost or derail, want to forget or remember, I write.

Link to my Linkedin page: LinkedIn