Chapter 1: The Genesis.

Phood, it's what they call me. It's not the name Mom originally gave me, just a nickname that became popular over the years at school and environs, due to my tolerance when it comes to food. That's not an indication of being gluttonous, but I don't joke with food for real. If food were to really make me fat, I would've beat the Guiness World Record.

My real name is Folorunso you can call me Runso for short. But that real me, no longer exist, so I most prefer you call me by my popular nickname, Phood.

I choose they spell my nickname starting with 'ph' instead of 'f', because of my undenying love for Physics too.

I began losing myself in Secondary

School, SS1 precisely, unmindful of my downward spiral until the person I once was fizzled away.

I'm currently eighteen but feel a lot older and weighted on account of the random silly things have done and how swiftly they took turns and played out.

I take full responsibility for my actions. I sat in judgment, too. But I'm also compelled to expose those who made me into what I am today.

Here's how it all started.

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Mom sat on our soiled velour sofa with my little brother, Ayomide, snuggled up against her arm.

Using her other arm, Mom patted the cushion on the other side of her. The dust floated up and glistened in the sunbeams coming through the window.

"Runso, Come sit with us and watch the TV. You're always running off from me and Ayo for God knows why."

I joined Mom on the sofa reluctantly but had to squeeze right up next to her so as to avoid the big hole at the edge of the cushion.

She clicked through the channels pausing a while at each one, looking for something interesting to watch. After flipping past a doctor's show.

I said, "Go back to that one Mom. What are those people doing?"

She pressed the back button on the remote. The doctors on the show raced around helping people in emergency ward.

"I want to be a doctor Mom." I said sternly.

She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. I don't know if doctors were rich, but they seemed happy with their lives. So many people wanted to be around them because of their life saving profession.

If Mom, Ayo and me had died that night, nobody would notice us. We didn't matter to anyone, or anybody, but the doctors on that TV show? They really mattered to everyone.

"How do I get to be a doctor?" I asked. Ignoring her stare.

Mom laid her hand on my shoulder.

"Won't be easy, my son, but you could do it. You can be anything you want to be. Just study hard and stay out of trouble. Graduate from higher learning and you'll find a job where you will earn a decent, honest living."

I've always admired Mom's attitude. Despite us being poor, life rarely got her down.

"Can I have lots of money when I grow up, too?" Ayo asked.

"Both of my bobos can become successful," she told us. "Play by the rules and you'll escape this place and chains of poverty."

Whose rules, though? The rules of the law or the rules of the rules? Mom never taught us that. I found out it didn't matter at that moment. The odds would always be stacked against kids like me, especially me, being slender in stature, despite my foody lifestyle, chocolate in complexion, living on a street that was harboured by muscle building, huge and troublesome peer.

I know some older kids who sell drugs," Ayo added. "They have lots of money now."

"Lots of money but no dignity." Mom objected. "Stay away from drugs, boys. Drugs will kill all of your dreams." Mom hung her head for a while, staring at nothing, then mumbled after some seconds, "Losing ones dignity makes a person empty and dead inside." she whispered.

I guessed what Mom meant.

Ayo was born two years after me, and we never met the men who fathered us.

No man would want to stay with Mom longer than it would take to say 'good night-good morning'.

Though she's very beautiful fair woman. I can't judge her manners from the angle of son to mother. Scarcely any child can tag their mother as bad. Mom is very nice easy going woman, neighbors love and admire her courage and charisma, but I don't know why she isn't lucky when it comes to settling with a man as husband. I don't know for sure. She don't like talking about it.

Our survival depended quarterly by random Charity programmes from our local churches. That, and from Mom's relatives who are still pathetic about her struggling situation and the meager fare she earns from her cleaning job at a popular supermarket.

But it still wasn't enough. The only way she could provide our secondary needs was by 'flatbacking ' often.

Talking about losing one's dignity.

Mom wasn't proud of our Gwagwalada East neighborhood in the outskirts of Abuja, or what she had to do to keep us afloat, but she loved us and did the best she could to give us the more chance she never had.

After watching that TV show, I was

determined to do whatever it took to become a doctor. From that day onwards, I mostly did as Mom told me. I stayed away from kids who were into drugs and other vices, and studied as best as I could.

I paid attention to the teachers. The annoying thing is, hardly anybody else

wanted to learn in that public school. They carried on in class with their unruly behaviours, acting as carefree as they could, that's if they even came to class at all. Most of the time the kids just wandered the halls and bushes they call 'jungle' hanging out. It got so bad that most of the teachers gave up their diligence.

That TV program about those doctors stuck with my memory, so I signed up for Extra-Biology class.

Mom always reminded me about Biology and Chemistry being an especially important subject if I wanted to become a doctor. Though I already knew that.

The Bio-teacher told us that the class would be made up of both lectures and labs where we'd conduct experiments like cutting up big Worms or Toads or even snakes, that Sounded creepy but okay to me, except the teacher didn't let us choose our lab partners.

I ill-fatedly got paired with Samson, a big muscular spoilt kid of a Senior military officer who didn't give a damn about school, and only showed up once in a while when he got bored of the streets or home. He was even the one that nicknamed me Phood. He was so notorious that whatever nickname he gave a student stuck on him or her like a glue.

I learned a lot during the lectures, and the textbook the biology teacher gave me looked pretty decent in shape and not written all over or ripped up like other ones in the library. It was like I had won the lottery getting that clean book.

A few weeks into the assessment, period had come for us to dissect pig's eye. The

teacher told us that schools in the rich

neighborhoods used plastic models for their lab test, but a local food processing plant donated the real thing to us.

Pigs Eyes.

The donation would supposedly give us real world experience and a leg up on the rich kids for a change.

I hardly slept the night before, excited about the experience and hoping that Samson would stay home as usual, so I wouldn't have to worry about him making a mess of the day ahead.

But that wasn't the only reason I had trouble sleeping. The corridors of our apartment ooze of choking smokes, human waste from leaking suckaways, and all sorts of rottenness and uncleanliness.

The bedroom Bayo and I shared had only one window which faced the refuse dumb site. Our place had no air conditioning. We left the window closed, preferring the punishing heat of Gwagwalada to the reek of rotting garbage from the Dumpster in the alley.

Keeping the window closed also helped to filter out the noise from random gunshots from SARS or Robbers to their preys during the night. And other random screams of all imaginable vices. .

Since I couldn't sleep, I got out my biology textbook and started reading with a rechargeable lamp minding not to disturb Ayo.

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The next day, when I got to school lab , the teacher made us all wear white lab aprons and latex gloves. Luckily, Samson was no where to be found. That meant I got to work on the dissection by myself in peace.

The pig eyes were packed in transparent covered container. They smelled like old vinegar. It seemed they were soaked in it.

I plucked one of the eyes from the container, carefully cupped it in both hands, carried it back to my lab table, and set it in a metal tray that looked like a large stainless sourcer.

The Teacher told us that when we got to cutting, ocular fluid would run out and collect in the tray. The textbook provided step-by-step instructions, with pictures even, on how to proceed. I took the scalpel in hand and got ready for my first incision when a shadow fell over the lab table.

Samson glared between me and the pig eye. My heart beat raced.

"You're late," I told him, disappointed that he had showed up. And not knowing if I was to greet him good morning first.

"Do you have any problem with that? Dumb Teacher don't care. Why should you a**hole care?" he whispered.

Because I wanted to learn. I wanted to do better in life than to just become another smoking-gangstar like him. At least that's what I wanted to say to him. But I swallowed.

But talking sense with Samson would only make things bad for me, so I broke eye contact with him and said nothing. I decided to act as if he wasn't there. Maybe he'd lose interest and walk away.

I set the tip of the scalpel against the top of the pig's eye, holding it at a 45-degree angle, just like it's illustrated in the textbook.

Before I could say JACK, Samson wrapped his hand around my wrist, the one holding the scalpel. With his other hand he grabbed the handle of the scalpel.

"Let go of that blade! . Let me see it! " Samson commanded.

My face got hot. "Get your hands off me, Sam, please. "

He squeezed my wrist harder this time. "Give it to me! You poor idiot! You can't even call me uncle Sam."

My temper rose, but I tried reasoning with him. "Look, Samson, this Bio lab doesn't mean anything to you. But it does mean a lot to me, so, let me please do the dissecting."

"Just imagine this skunk" he said. "You have until the count of three to let go of this blade. If not, I go break dis your mosquito wrist and still take the blade anyway."

My anger flared, accompanied by fear. I trembled all over.

"One."

I tried twisting away from his grip. Couldn't do it. Samson had a good 40-50kg on me and was too strong.

"Two."

Using the heel of my shoe, I tried stomping on his foot, but Samson saw it coming and kicked me in the shin. I yelped.

"Three."

As if I were a rubber doll, Samson twisted my arm behind my back. The pain made me cry out. Instead of breaking my wrist, I thought for sure he was going to snap my arm in half.

My grip went loose, and I let go of the scalpel.

Samson released me, picked the scalpel off the floor, and waved the blade in front of my face. "You had to do it the hard way, didn't you?. You tink say you stubborn abi?"

No longer able to control my rage, I yelled, "thunder fire you!."

The teacher stood at the front of the lab

helping two students set their table. He never bothered looking up yet.

Outbursts like mine happened hundreds of times a day. Just a normal accurance in and out-of- the school control. Nobody paid attention,not even the rest of the kids in class, nobody but Samson and I.

His nostrils flared. "You of all people should know I don't let anybody insult me like that and go free"

"What about me?" I shouted. "This is my

Biology experiment, and you're ruining it for me."

Samson crouched and held the scalpel at

waist level making ready to strike. His face was firm and serious, "Say your last prayers Phood. I'm gonna spill your Spaghettis.