It starts in a hospital…
It was a hospital hallway. She sat there ceaselessly in motion, the other patients looking at her like she was their demented and paranoid leader.
They say you have the power over your mind – not outside events. She’d disagree if she thought about it, something isn’t just right there, she can’t think then.

Her son.

Mrs Stevenson always wanted the best for him. For an only child to a widow, her unquestionable actions for the past few years were understandable.
At primary school, his crimes were punished, but his grades flourished because she taught at the same school he attended. He Never lacked anything, not even a pen.

At secondary, I met him, when he met me. That one man I’d never compete with. If there was a competition, he’ll still win without contesting. He talked the way he wanted while everyone else is careful. Everything about him was backwards. He played when we studied, stayed longer at the food vendor to pay the bills for the girls.
What do you know?
He graduated with good grades and didn’t even prepare for the university admission examination, JAMB.
A few hours after Jamb, I visited their home. Thirty thousand naira was all that was required. His mother would shove us up into the admission list. He paid, I couldn’t.
Damn Money.
The big man upstairs made me live through the rest of that year, wishing I had that money. He got admitted to the university, i didn’t. Stopped calling after the first week.
What do you know?
Second year, I was still home. Depression was taking me hostage.
My father would say, “don’t worry, everything you’ve done up to this point, you’re life is working.”
There’s something you call such propelling words, encouragement.

In the second year, he was dragged home from somewhere between pencils and pistols. A cultist in school.
He was pale with a fabulous smile, like nothing was wrong, like play. What happened?
Marijuana.
A leaf, they called it vegetable. He cooked with it a lot at the hostel. Don’t blame the pot, it cooks whatever you shove into it. Don’t blame the stove, it burns whatever you put on it, when its lit.
Marijuana and all kinds of illicit drugs you could be the judge of was his capital offense

There’s more to what meets the eye
He was acting abnormally at school, it got worse at home. Banging his head on everything solid, talking like he grew up in a dustbin, trash. He had gone cuckoo.
Finally, we got him to a hospital, not in a cab or car, he got there in chains, nose bleeding. Chloroform was injected into him to calm him down, anesthesia.

Ten minutes past, I had asked myself several times: IS IT HIS FATE?
NO!
Carl Jung once said
“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”

Till the last dot, I didn’t know the meaning of those words.
Someone had to take the blame, she was still crying at the hallway.
I excused myself to the toilet. Your son bled on my red shirt. This is all your fault… “The way to screw up somebody’s life is to give them what they want.” You caused all this. I felt like tupac, my tooth packed

As i was washing my face in one of the hospital’s toilets, I heard her screaming, grief-stricken. The doctor was out with that one word we don’t like to hear when a loved one is strapped to a hospital bed: We tried our best but…

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