| Imran Adebayo Ibrahim |

Arriving home from school, I was greeted by the sight of my mother all dolled up. It was almost as  if she had no cancer — like everything was alright.

The TV was switched on, she was catching an episode of her favorite soap opera, she even had the time to bake cookies. Like she was having her own tea party, the beautiful fragrance of Chamomile tea seized the whole atmosphere in the room. She drank from her tea like a fair lady, and I couldn't help but chuckle from the doorstep. This made her look up at me. She was so engrossed in the Turkish drama she was watching that she didn't notice my arrival.

Right in front of me sat, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Her glowing brown skin was something I've always been proud of. Sometimes I wonder how someone so beautiful has given birth to me — a pimpled face boy.

"Okọ mí, you're back," my mother stood up, walked to me and embraced me, I swear I could perceive her sadness that had mixed with the lily perfume she had on. "Come, seat, I baked your favorite cookies — fishy cookies." She pointed at the fish-shaped cookies.

She sure knew my soft spot. I bent down and picked a cookie. I bit on the crunchy texture and savoured the sweet and salty flavor of the cookie. I could feel a hint of vanilla sloshing around my tongue — she added vanilla flavor, one of my favourites.

"Mammie, how are you?" I asked, concerned. I took my seat beside her and laid my hand on her shoulder as she turned down the TV's volume.

My mother smiled, it sure was a sad smile. "I'm fine wúrà mi. I'm more concerned about you Imran, how are you? Did you meet with Miss Johnson — she's good y'know. She got her degree at that Ivy league university." My mother said, trying to remember Harvard.

Recalling the previous argument my mother had with Jamal, made a tiny wave of irritation ignited inside me. She was the one who was sick, yet she cared less about her own health, hiring a therapist for me like I was a demented patient. Abruptly, I perched out of the sofa, bringing out the permission slip that was given to me at school. I dropped it on the table.

"What's this?" She inquired, picking up her spectacles to read the information written on the paper, "I asked you a question," she reminded, as she was reading the permission slip.

"Can you sign it for me?" I requested, adding a little bit of disrespect in my tone.

She dropped the permission slip after reading it and looked up at me, "Imran Adebayo Ibrahim, I asked you a question." She reminded me again, her eyes scanning my face.

I averted my gaze, bit on my lips as I clenched my fist. She's sick, don't say anything crazy. I repeated in my head. "Yeah." The word flew forcefully out of my clenched teeth.

"Olúwa mí ọ, look at your face. It's covered in acne and eczema." She suddenly exclaimed, rushing to me and touching my face. I gently pushed her hands off my face. "Are you not using the Nivea skin care I got you again? Are you using your skin toner and moisturizer?" She inquired, concerned.

I've had enough. "Mom, thank you for pointing out one of my many flaws." I said, seething.

My mother recoiled, her face sad as ever. "What did I say? I know what I'm saying."

"At this point, you don't." I stated firmly, "you think you know me, you know what's best for me, but you don't. Just get my permission slip signed." I said, leaving her presence before I'd say something I'll forever regret.

"Adé, don't walk away from me." I heard my mother's voice from behind, but I was too hurt to look back.

I know she was the one with cancer, but it feels like I've been living with it since puberty hit me. Most people my age aren’t as skinny and pimply as I am. I've always been insecure about my appearance, but it never stung as much as when my mother acknowledged it. God, I felt like such a failure.

"Òṣì." I cursed, banging my room's door closed. I didn't bother locking the door before perching on my bed, bouncing up and down — my head landed on the fluffy pillow.

As much as I wanted to cry, my tears glands betrayed me. Not a single tear came out of my eyes, I couldn't unleash the anger boiling inside me, it felt like it was burning inside me — choking me — killing me. Banging the frame of my bed was the only way to unleash my vexation, I banged on a wooden frame cautiously, I was angry not stupid.

"Lil' dude." I heard Zayd called after me, he had already let himself in.

I sat up on the bed, backing Zayd, I was too embarrassed to face him. "What, now?"

"You were too harsh on ma', I'm surprised she hasn't smacked the pimple away from your face." Zayd quipped, chortling to the joke he thought was amusing.

"Oh. . . Please,"I rose from the bed, facing him now, "tell me how my face is the farm for acne, tell me how I harbor pimples on my face, tell me how skinny I am, tell me I'm practically a walking skeleton." I unleashed all my vexation at him, and my tears glands betrayed me once again, they released all the tears that I've been holding unto — breaking the dam they'd built.

"Bro," Zayd's smirk transgressed into an understanding smile, "quit hollerin' about things that ain't true." He completed it. He somewhat was mirroring my emotions subtly, like he was actually relating to my emotion. "You're not all those things you claim to be."

"Right? Tell me, am I attractive?" I suddenly inquired.

I watched as Zayd's mouth widened in shock. "Broda, everyone is attractive on their own terms." He answered me, taking a seat on my bed.

"Oh please—" I eyed him, tutting, "—don't give me that everybody is beautiful bullshit, tell me the truth ọgbẹni."

"Sit." He ordered before dragging me back to the bed against my own will. "Imran—" he began, his hand on my shoulder, "—you are the most beautiful sixteen years old boy I've ever seen, I will even say, your acne makes you unique. And besides, do you know having pimples is a part of growing up?" He inquired.

My shoulders comfortably reclined, I somewhat felt solitude speaking to him. "It is?" I inquired as to my response.

"Boy, you clueless." He stated, "you're an amazing person and I'm sorry for making you feel that way. Ma' as well was just looking out for you, you were rude."

And that's what he had to say in order to ruin the bonding we were finally having.

"I was rude?" I pushed his hand off my shoulder, "did you know she thinks I'm crazy, she set up a whole fucking therapy for me, like I'm a fucking psycho." I ranted, feeling rage growing up inside me, on my temple, I could feel pronounced veins growing on it.

"I think you need therapy, lil' dude, therapy is not for crazy people." He explained.

"Mr. Man, get the hell outta my room, please." I requested, pointing at the door.

He hesitantly rose from my bed, without a word he began walking to the door but halted midway. "Our mother needs us, the least we could do is make her happy." He simply said, before walking out.

"She's not even your mother." I whispered to myself.

* * *

At school, four teachers were specifically assigned to accompany the male and female students on the trip. By the boys' bus, Mr. Breckley stood ready, alongside Miss Sophia, who taught English to us. Miss Sophia, with her characteristic enthusiasm, chatted with the students — she was many students' favorite, especially Chris and his possé. I was never fond of her though, she reminds me of a naughty Avatar in Grand Theft Auto — her tight dress and whatnot. Mr. Breckley, on the other hand, tried making jokes, and as always, no one laughed.

I arrived late to school, ending up at the back of the line. On my left, I noticed the girls' bus, where Coach Ferrara and Miss Rochelle, the librarian, were checking permission slips for signatures. Those two were the most jovial teachers at Midtown High, always cheerful and known for their great jokes.

From my spot, I could see Sahar in her jeans overall and yellow short-sleeved shirt. Her face seemed brighter than when she had left my house that morning, the subtle foundation and concealer evident despite her efforts to make them unnoticeable. Completing her look were her Air Jordan sneakers with yellow stripes, tied into a neat bow.

At that moment, I realized how much I had missed her.

"Good morning," someone's subtle voice greeted me as their hand, simultaneously reached for my shoulder.

I turned and I was face to face with the only person that was romantically in love with me. "Francis." I said, swallowing the lump that had grown in my throat.

"Imran." He called with an awkward smile, "I. . . I want to apo—"

Before he could begin I cut him short. "It's my turn next, I better go now." I said hurrying away, I'd do anything to avoid the conversation he was trying to have.

After my permission slip was checked and I was free to go, I got inside the bus. To my surprise, Chris was also on the bus. I thought he wouldn't have his slip signed or maybe he might forge his father's signature — I guess he isn't as bad as I thought.

"What are you looking at, weirdo." Chris shouted from the back of the bus.

I averted my gaze and searched for an empty seat, and fortunately I found one next to the window. I didn't know where we were headed, but I knew it was going to be a long drive there. I relaxed on the bus' seat, set my backpack on the other empty seat beside me and brought out my phone. I always brought my headset with me, it was the only thing that would keep me sane.

"Now, that's all of us." Mr. Breckley announced, "can someone grace us with a road song?" He asked, "Any one?"

"Shut up old man." Someone yelled from the back of the bus and everyone babbled in an irritable laughter, I'm pretty sure it was Chris.

"No, that's not how it goes. Road! Road! Road!" He began singing.

Oh God, can he be less corny?

"—When I'm on the road. . . I see stuff going by. . .  When I'm on the road—"  he sang happily.

Instantly, I felt the shame he refused to feel, so I covered my face for him. I'd die if he was related to me.

"This homie thinks we're in some kind of SpongeBob fuckin' SquarePants show." Another of Chris Possé commented, following the song's rhythm as loudly as his voice can go.

"William, these kids don't wanna sing. Just sit, please." Miss Sophia said to Mr. Breckley, who sat down, embarrassed to the core. For the first time, he got the hint, right on the face.

Hitting the play icon on my phone, the cacophony that surrounded me dissolved into symphonic ambiance. Spotify — another escape mechanism of mine — held different violin covers of my favorite songs.

I was so engrossed in the music that I didn't hear Francis talking to me. I shifted my headphone away from my right ear to listen to what he was saying.

"Is the seat taken?" I heard him say it clearly.

"No." I simply said, I was tired of running away from  him and the probability of me getting another seat was slim.

Francis smiled wryly at me, took his seat, "thank you," he mumbled at me.

My astonishment was vivid, and I felt a twinge of hurt. I hoped he would apologize, to speak to me — I've missed my friend, and all I received was a mere thank you. At that moment, I wished Mr. Breckley would resume his song, so I'd know there were two losers on the bus: him and me.

Author's Note

Salaam y'all. I hope you're all doing great. Clearly our protagonist has a lot of problem, he doesn't want to talk to Francis, and again he wants Francis to apologize. Comment down your opinion on his behavior. Thank you.

Glossary

1. Okọ mí: it typically means My Husband, but in this context, it means My Love.

2. Wuri mí: it means My Gold in Yoruba language.

3. Olúwa mí ọ: means Oh My God in Yoruba language.

4. Ọgbẹni: means Mr. Man in Yoruba language.

5. Òṣì: means Nonsense in Yoruba language.