|Imran Adebayo Ibrahim|

"Stop hogging the bathroom; we all need to take a bath," that familiar, annoyingly rude voice yelled from the entrance of the bathroom. I've always said it's inhumane to use minutes in the bathroom, but I had to violate my statement, all thanks to Daddy D'z BBQ ribs that Jamal ordered.

It took us hours to rearrange — paint — and customize the house to my mother's liking, something about bringing Nigeria with her to Atlanta and feeling at home, that we forgot hunger was a thing. After Isha prayer, no one could cook, so my stepfather thought the best plan was takeout.

Takeout is cool in movies; I never knew my experience would be gross and painful. I didn't spend minutes in the bathroom but hours.

After much groaning and grasping my tummy, I gave up and thought of taking loperamide afterwards to ease my gastralgia. I proceeded by taking my bath the American way, the soothing body lotions and whatnot. And that was when I saw them beauties: Zayd's shampoo collection; he had like five different brands of shampoos, no wonder his hair never messed up like mine.

A little bit of his shampoo on your hair isn't stealing, I thought, before pressing two drops each from all bottles and gently scrubbing them on my hard hair. Instantly my hair became soft and well-conditioned; I opened the shower and allowed the lukewarm water to roam free on my head, wasting as much water Jamal paid for — something I couldn't do at home without my mom yelling and lecturing me about young children dying of thirst in Somalia.

After minutes of hot water frenzy, the whole bathroom smelled like Zayd Raymond's hair, and his fragrance lingered within me. I unlocked the door, facing Zayd who stood languidly against the wall, waiting and chatting with someone on his phone — his girlfriend maybe, because he kept smiling to himself.

I cleared my throat, "I'm done," announcing angrily.

He scanned me tip-to-toe again, this time it was awkward because my towel was the only thing covering me. It was wrapping loosely around my thin waist. And my small — under-grew abs were exposed, same as my chicken wings for an arm. "I'm impressed—" he laid his fingers on my bare shoulder "—people will kill to have a waist like yours." He complimented.

Did I actually got a compliment from The Zayd Raymond?

"I can see your pelvic though," he chuckled, telling me indirectly I was a walking skeleton. He entered and shut the door, leaving me to stand in front of the occupied bathroom, cussing at him in whispers and yet again, the door swung open. He stood, sniffing the air surrounding my hair like a pervert.

"Did you use my shampoo?" He inquired after a long sniff.

I hissed right at his face and walked away; I owe him no explanations and his father technically told me to feel at home. Using his shampoo made me feel at home, and that was the beginning for him.

***

The drive to school was a very awkward one. Jamal and Zayd kept speaking Atlantan slang. I felt like an outsider, alone as they said their 'no cap,' 'fye,' and 'shawty.' It would surely take me years to fit into this puzzle called Atlanta. I couldn't even imagine what lies at the new school I was going to.

It should look a lot like the ones in the CW series, All American; I imagined, but I don't think Damon Sims and Simone Hicks are high schoolers. All I could do was stare at the black and shiny asphalt as the car sped off them.

"How's your stay so far?" Jamal asked, applying the car's brake after he almost drove past the red traffic light.

I sighed dramatically, "fine. . . I guess." I showed them I was unhappy.

"Y'know what, there's this Afro restaurant in town, their food there is ooo-wee son." He did it again, he spoke Atlanta and all I could do was nod and smile awkwardly.

"It actually means lit, brah." Zayd translated it for me, and I frowned at him in response. "Don't sweat it too much lil' Imran; you're gonna love the school, unless you're some kind of nerd, then you'll have a lot of problems."

"Thank you so much for that talk. It was relieving." I mumbled: knowing surely I won't last a day, unless I could only change the way I spoke and could learn a little bit of Atlanta in the car, and that's what I did. I googled the most-used slangs in Atlanta and boom, with constant practice, I would be fluent as Jamal and Zayd. I never wanted to drive with my stepfather to school; it would even be nicer to drive with Zayd than him but my mom took his car. I can't even imagine what her day would look like — it would be fine, since she'd come to Atlanta occasionally.

After minutes of Google lessons, we arrived at the hell on earth teenagers were forced to go to. Our car pulled over in front of a gigantic building which I was supposed to call my school.

Midtown High School.

Reading the school's name on the big signboard took my mind back to the Spiderman movie I had watched, No Way Home to be precise, Peter Packer also went to the same school as me. That was another silver lining in this whole Atlanta thing; I had something in common with the coolest superhero there is. I couldn't wait to brag about it to my best friend when next we FaceTime.

Jamal literally kissed me goodbye (all in his act), before he drove off leaving me and Zayd alone. According to my schedule, I had History class first period. It dawned on me that I'll be studying Atlanta's History and not Nigeria's, and at my previous school, we haven't even started Herbert Macaulay's history — I think he was a great man. I would love to study about him, but now I had no choice but to read the lies Google had to offer.

But as for now, I've got to study Martin Luther King's history or any other African-American person's history.

As if I didn't know what to expect, my jaw dropped as we arrived at the school's hallway. Midtown High School was bigger than my previous school times-two despite the fact of it being a public school. Nigeria's public schools are better, but Atlanta's is the best. Even though there were rivers of black kids at the school, I still felt I had high anabolism of melanin — my religion made another layer of blackness enveloped me — an indescribable wave of insecurity enveloped me as I felt like a foreign matter. I stood still, looking at who was going to be my potential friend and I couldn't find any.

Zayd noticed my insecurities and laid his hand on my shoulder. "Lil' bruh, don't be scared, just try to mingle and please don't pull off your stupid know-it-all attitude here. Can you be less religious?" He uttered with an emotionless expression.

How was that supposed to ease my worries and who was he to call me know-it-all? We literally just knew each other for two days, and he thinks he can judge me. Yeah, I'm a little bit bumptious about my intelligence, but I couldn't do that here. And again, what about my religion? I thought he was Muslim too.

Oh my God, did mom marry a non-Muslim? I spiralled again.

Like a psychic, he answered my inner thoughts. "I'm a Muslim too, but you don't see me using the Kaaba's image as my wallpaper." He uttered arrogantly, or ignorantly. In an instance, I hid my phone behind my back.

Well, forgive me for loving Islam. My mind was at ease because he was a Muslim, but again I was angry. I don't want to speak to him anymore. "I'll go now," I finalized, walking inside my own annihilation — hoping to find my class on time for History.

After missing homeroom, I finally found my History class, the teacher was already inside. That was typically how new students were introduced, and public speaking wasn't what I'm best at. As an introvert, I always spoke with phrases, but now the teacher would make me shorten my biography into a sentence and expect me not to stutter.

I unlocked the wooden door, interrupting the teacher's lecture. He gazed into my eyeballs for a minute, like he was trying to recall something. His eyes lit up after minutes of his trip down memory lane. "Oh... Good morning, Mr. Raymond, I see you've found your class." He said to me with a bright smile.

That was a good sign.

Wait. He called me Mr. Raymond. The guts of Jamal to change my last name without my consent.

"Can you introduce yourself to your fellow classmates?" And he said the word I dreaded: Introduction.

Should I begin with Salam alaikum or Just Hi? That was a hard question. Remembering Zayd's advice to be less religious, I decided to go with Hi. Just Hi

Hi, I'm Imran Adebayo Ibrahim. I'm a new student from Nigeria, pleased to meet you. I repeated perfectly in my head. "Hi," I waved awkwardly, and the students all gave me weird gazes like I was an alien baby. "I'm Imran Adebayo Ibrahim; I'm a new student from please, Nigeria, to meet you." Yep. I flipped; I said it perfectly in my head but spoke like a true fool when I was to say it out. There goes my perfect first impression inside the trash.

"Did you just say you're Nigerian to meet us?" A guy whose hairs were locked said to me and I couldn't say anything other than nibble on my lips. His annoying face made me nervous, all of them made me fidget — they all looked like models.

A pretty girl smiled at me instead. "Hi Imran, we are Atlantan to meet you as well." She quipped, generating an outburst of irritating laughter, including the history teacher.

Something about that pretty girl's insult seems lovely, and I didn't think that was meant to be an insult. She gestured for me to take the empty seat next to her, and that's what I did, sitting close to the new girl.

Maybe the school year was going to favor me after all — time would tell probably.

Author's Note

Well hello there lovelies. Thank you for the 200+ reads on TLBB, I'm so happy for it. As I promise this chapter was longer than usual. Shout-out to all the Atlantan reading this story. What do you think will happen next? And do you think Zayd has the right to speak to Imran that way? Tell me all your thoughts in the comment, be sure to vote and share — don't be greedy and laugh alone.

Glossary

1. Daddy D'z: A BBQ place.

2. Isha'i: the last prayer of the day for Muslims (Muslims have to pray five times a day).

3. Kaaba: In (Islam) is The small and nearly cubical stone building in Mecca, holiest place of Islam, and also holy to pre-Islamic Arabian religions.