BALTIMORE, NOVEMBER 2013

PAMELA

The winter wind blew harshly and I pulled my woolen coat closer for warmth. For a Nigerian girl like me this extreme weather sometimes feels like torture.

I jogged up the small flight of stairs to the lecture theatre with a fuzzy head after having spent half the night before pouring over lecture notes and slides. I was late again for the umpteenth time but was relieved because it was almost over; No more night calls at the clinic, studying as if I would go insane or enduring Mr. Peter ogling me as always. I'm a finalist baby.

It's insane how much time we spend in the education system. The moment you start, it never stops. It's always one certificate after the other, all to keep the body and soul together.

This class in particular was boring. The lecturer droned on about primary health care for autistic patients while I used the time to perfect my drawing skills. I can't be the only one who draws on my notes in boring classes. I half listened and dozed off for the rest of the class. "See you next week for your test and orals." he finished in that deafening baritone voice of his and finally walked out.

Hallelujah somebody! Yes, I was that medical student that hated classes and long boring lectures, don't judge. I had my next class at 10am so I could either catch a little sleep, join some group discussion 'or eat' my grumbling stomach reminded me. And I chose the latter. I gathered my stuff quickly and made it outside the class when my phone rang with the familiar 'Pills and potion' song by Nicki Minaj.

Pills and potions
We're overdosing
I'm angry but I still love you. 🎶

I fished it out from my backpack immediately after rummaging in it for a while, "Temitope mi o oko mi atata" (Yoruba praise) my mum's voice came through and I couldn't help smiling.

"Good afternoon ma," I greeted, almost curtseying over the phone because Nigerian culture was drummed down into my skull.

A loud hiss followed and I face palmed myself mentally waiting for what I did wronb. "So you don't like speaking Yoruba again abi? Because you are not in Nigeria?" I scratched the space between my eyebrows in frustration and tried my best not to answer.

Questions like this in Yoruba culture were rhetorical. Meaning if you love your life, don't answer. Just keep mute, Yoruba mothers were dramatic they only want to cause more drama.

"You can't answer Temitope?" I rolled my eyes grateful that she couldn't see me right now.

"Sorry ma. My head is aching," I replied and let a stupid grin split my lips at how wise I was.

Crisis averted. Another random fact about Nigerian mothers or perhaps all mothers is that they forget what they are mad about immediately you tell them something is wrong with you. It works sometimes but not always, especially when you don't overplay that card.

"Ah kpele omo mi (sorry my child)" after which she went on and on about how she was sure I wasn't eating well, how I was her baby and whether I had prayed."

My mother, my gold as I usually call her is a typical Yoruba woman of fifty-two years old married to my father: Mr. Williams Ore. She was beautiful, chubby, Godfearing, all in all the pillar of our home.

I was cut shut from my reverie quickly with another question, "so when last did you go to church?"

"Ooooh God!" I groaned mentally. Not again. "Ma, I went on Sunday but I did not attend any of the weekday fellowships."
I waited for the usual long lecture that never came, "It's okay. "

A part of me found it weird that she did not preach about not being too busy for God, but I did not push my luck. Chopping sounds could be heard in the background but it couldn't drown out the evident worry in her voice as she spoke. "How are you preparing for your last professional exam?"

My hands instinctively sought the bracelet on my wrist and I fingered it. I always did it when I was scared or overwhelmed.

Are we ever fully prepared for any exams? There is always something you don't know anyway so I answered her as truthfully as I could. "I'm trying my best ma."

"Toh, I'm praying for you" she replied with a distinct but low click behind her throat. I could just imagine she was nodding slowly; the way she did when receiving calls.

"I need it o, Iya Tolu" I replied, solemnly the weight of how important this exam was dawned on me gently.

"Don't worry my family doctor," I could sense the smile and obvious pride in her voice. This woman was my rock its because of her I haven't let go.

"Toh odabo o(goodbye) my credit has finished" and ended the call. I walked on to the Café close by, my long braids jiggling round my shoulder. I plugged in my headphones which blared Hillsong's-" Broken vessels".

The Cafe was painted shades of light pink and blue. White tables with blue stools and couches was littered in the main space.

The smell of Apple Pie was strong in the Cafe. It must be on the special menu today. Waiters wearing an orange tee shirt tucked into trousers milled around. Three of them stood behind a huge counter that had a show glass where Pie's and cake was kept. To their left was a huge stainless coffee machine.

I went straight to the counter and ordered.

Inside the Cafe was warmer but still I left my coat on and sat behind two couples.

I stared at the Asian girl with hair painted in streaks of blue and the Black American boy who had his head on their shoulder.

He wasn't eating but she was stuffing her face full of pancakes. They looked so cute together for a split second I imagined myself in a relationship.

My thoughts was cut off when my order arrived, steaming Cinnamon rolls and waffles were placed in front of me and I dug in while allowing the warm homey scent of the cafe wash over me.

The winter air swishing loudly outside still made howling sounds and made me long for home even more.

Adjusting to winter has been a big adjustment for me for the last five years.

A few female classmates who I didn't notice earlier were seated to my far left and I quickly averted my gaze not in the mood for petty drama and squabbles.

Something about me always made them feel threatened; maybe it was the fact that I've always been among the best five students in class, or my Nigerian origins.

I wonder what gave them the impression that I was dumb; I'm African, petite, I may not be Miss World but I turn heads sometimes.

I finished my meal quietly after giving them the evil eye; the classic Nigeria bad eye at that, where you eyed them senseless from head to toe.

The café's door dinged alerting me to the arrival of a new customer. I raised my eyes and felt shock zing through my spine with real fear.

Here I was staring at the one who ruined me. Matt was here with another student.

The revulsion and self hatred that flowed through me at that instant was enough to bring back my just consumed meal.

His hands were around her waist like it used to be on mine and she was smiling brightly, possibly on cloud nine, with stars in her eyes talking animatedly to him.

I wondered if she knew she was violating school ethics by fraternizing with a staff or the fact that he was married.

As if he knew I was staring, he raised his head and looked in my direction, then he smirked.

I made to leave immediately his gaze hit my skin. The dirty feeling became more overwhelming; like tiny ants on an anthill released to crawl up my skin.

The cold air outside hit me when I got outside and I drew a large breath to fill my lungs. It helped because suddenly inside that Cafe with him there made me feel claustrophobic.

Breathe Pamela, breathe.

I moved quickly down the streets, the scene close to the faculty building got my attention. A brown skinned man having a loud argument with a young lady.

He seemed rude, he was screaming at her and day pulling her by hand towards a white Porsche. The least they could do was move their scene out from public eye as they were beginning to gather quite a crowd.

I couldn't quite make out his face. Yet, somehow I could feel his stare burning holes through the back of my skull as I passed beside them into the building.

Definitely not creepy at all. Just what I didn't need, a creepy stranger and an abusive ex.

***

QOTC_ how do you feel when strangers stare at you? I hate it with passion makes me feel self conscious.

So leave me guesses on Matt's story and who you think the stranger is.

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Orex💓💕