Velvet

The children file into the room and honestly Bolaji just wants to die. OK, maybe nothing that dramatic. It’s just—the noise, the light, everything an assault. Small sleep, a little shut eye, that’s all he needs, all he needs for a good day. He presses his eyes shut, hopes that if he stays still long enough, everywhere will quiet and sleep will come.

Ah, what’s the point? How ridiculous, the expectation, quiet, of children for whom disorder, noise, is impulse. It’s fine. It’s fine. Easier to stand now, begin the day, before Princi comes and starts her lecture on early birds and stupid worms. No need for disrespect in front of the children today. Bolaji stands.

Nope. Nope. Bad idea. Not fine, not fine, definitely not fine. Bolaji sits back down, rests elbows on his desk. You’d think he’d be used to it by now: the heat behind his eyes, soreness in his throat, fatigue of his limbs, head feeling like a thing attached—heavy, swinging singly. But every morning he feels anew the manifestations of his passivity—acceding to the next bottle, then the next—and every morning he decides to do better.

OK, a little lie. He’d long stopped telling himself that. All the battles he fights and loses daily, no point armoring self- deceit, watch it stand giant and mocking before him. Let Princi come, give her speech, he says to himself. He’ll do what he does every day: listen, nod. He can’t kill himself. After all, as they say, this life na once.

But when clacking steps approach what does Bolaji do? He stands, bolts upright. There it is again, the feeling in his head as if it wishes to fall, separate from him, lie broken by his feet. Princi walks past in her ancient skirt suit, shoulder pads up to her chin. Tap the thing and watch motes fly off in frantic freedom. She waves, says, “My boy.” Bolaji nods. Jesus.

OK then! He walks to the blackboard, surveys the room. The sun swings in yellow and brash through vacant window frames. The asbestos of the ceiling above is soaked brown with old rain and sags open and heavy like a busted lip, dry heat like fevered breath pouring. Bolaji clears his throat—Jesus, the sting. “Stop making noise,” he says. His voice, loud and booming on a good day, arrives the air as a squeak. The children continue like he isn’t there.

There he goes being ridiculous again. Only one way to quiet these ones: his pankere, lying there on his desk. He sees himself picking it up, long and thin and light in his hands, its perfect balance a pleasure. Right in front is a boy—Bolaji had long abandoned learning names; fifty different ones every year, for why?—with his head shaved bald. The ideal specimen. All that’s needed is two swift strokes slicing the air, landing like knuckles rapping a door. Like flames tide paper, the hush will spread. But where is the will?

Bolaji faces the blackboard. He picks a nubbin of chalk, writes in big block letters, english language. He faces the class. “Where did we stop?” he asks.

English language. He owes the children more. He is their class teacher, JSS2B. Six years ago he sat before the principal in her office for an interview, promised he could teach mathematics, social studies, integrated science, even PHE and computer. How hard could it be; surely a brief perusal of the assigned textbooks and he’d be good. Princi had watched him through thick, swirling dust, nodding as he spoke. She’d been principal forever, stood at the head of every lousy assembly when he was a student. Molding files from back then were heaped on her desk, poured off shelves. No reason for him to lie, really. The job was already his. A friend of his late mother, she’d visited their home one day and asked what he was doing? Nothing? Come and see me in my office!

Now, well, English is what comes easiest, so English...