Seeking Knowledge, Facing Obstacles: Bayo's Quest for Answers

Chapter 11

Seeking Knowledge, Facing Obstacles: Bayo's Quest for Answers

In an instant, the hair floated towards Èsù. Bayo quickly glanced at the mirror, relieved to see his reflection. He let out a sigh but continued to glare at Èsù. He despised him.

As Èsù grasped Bayo's Dada strand, he whispered, "A worthless strand for a precious treasure." Èsù's smile was chilling.

But when Bayo heard those words, the mirror Èsù had given him suddenly seemed repulsive. Wouldn't it be better if Èsù stayed silent for a moment?

Èsù snapped his fingers, and Bayo, gazing at his reflection, saw the bright blue hue in his eyes fade.

Narrowing his eyes at Èsù, Bayo remarked, "How generous of you, baba Èsù." He knew Èsù's generosity often came with hidden motives.

Èsù only smiled at Bayo's sarcasm. "I can only offer you this much," he said with a sigh, implying he could do more if given the chance.

Bayo, however, had a different opinion.

Bayo pondered his predicament and inquired, "How can I resolve this situation?" His expression conflicted.

Èsù's response was cryptic, "Seek a horned head," he whispered, shrouding the advice in mystery.

Before Bayo could process Èsù's words, he was dismissed from the domain with a sly smile, leaving him to ponder alone.

Bayo's eyes met with a white face staring closely at him upon returning to reality, causing him to recoil in disgust.

Mrs. Christian's lack of embarrassment made others uncomfortable, not her.

At the very moment, Mrs. Christian's lips parted, poised to unleash her cringe-worthy comment, Bayo seized the opportunity to make a swift and decisive exit from the library, leaving behind the echo of words unspoken.

Bayo had just four days to locate the horned head, a crucial clue he needed to wrap up his library tasks and rejoin the primary research group.

Bayo knew the clue connected to a specific orisha but lacked further knowledge.

Realizing the dark humor in "spotting a Yoruba man who rejected his god and tradition," Bayo acknowledged his limited understanding of orishas.

As Bayo stepped out from the confines of the main office, his gaze fell upon Dr. John. With a furrowed brow, Dr. John peered at him, his question laced with concern, "Bayo, is all well?" His tone betrayed his awareness of Bayo's unusualness at such an hour.

Dr. John harbored hopes that Bayo would rise to the occasion, eager to embark on the pivotal task ahead. In this instant of silent anticipation, Dr. Harold appeared, catching a glimpse of the exchange. 

With a sneer barely concealing his anticipation, he quipped, "So, has our 'champion' conceded defeat?" His laughter echoed, a sound dripping with scorn.

Despite his outward demeanor, Dr. Harold secretly yearned for Bayo's triumph, essential for the fruition of his schemes. Yet, he couldn't resist the urge to needle Bayo, to stoke the anxiety within him — it was his way of steering the game.

Simultaneously, Ms. Anderson's lips curled into a smirk, her breath a silent hiss, as if she foresaw Bayo's imminent departure, though his stance suggested otherwise. The task's difficulty was an unspoken truth among them, its weight felt but never voiced by Bayo.

Ms. Anderson, plagued by her neuroses, bore a resentment towards Bayo that transcended mere prejudice. Her disdain was all-encompassing, a reflection of her inner turmoil and the relentless pressure that rendered her wary of any perceived competition. Driven by a need for validation that had eluded her since childhood, she regarded Bayo as another obstacle in her relentless pursuit of recognition.

Bayo swept past the gathered onlookers, his voice faltering, "Dr… ah… John." The name escaped him, leaving a trace of red on his cheeks. Yet, his resolve was firm — to etch the name into his memory. Mrs. Christian and Èsù stirred up mischief, and Bayo thought that even a kid could recall those names. But it was not the same for others. He had a weak memory of retaining people's names.

He deliberately dismissed the discomfort and declared, "There's an urgent matter I must address!" The words vaulted from his lips, each syllable heavy with import.

Dr. John's eyebrow arched inquisitively, "What urgency beckons amidst such peril?" His question was a veiled reminder of the gravity of Bayo's actions.

The deadline hung in the air — if Bayo failed to fulfill his duties in the library within four days, he would forfeit his place in the school and America.

Dr. Harold watched with a predatory grin, "You do understand you have but four days?" He blended his tone with mockery and triumph over Bayo's looming misfortune.

Bayo met Dr. Harold's gaze, a silent challenge in his eyes, mighty enough to bore through the stone. The spoken and unspoken judgments formed a callous symphony in his mind. Doubt gnawed at him, yet a sliver of hope persisted — he must return before the deadline. The specter of failure loomed, but Bayo chose the solace of his counsel over the crushing weight of expectation.

After what felt like an eternity, Bayo finally arrived at his classroom block. They divided the block into sections, and his designated section was where black Americans and other African students attended lectures.

The root of Bayo's trouble came in the lively corridors where black students from diverse origins blended. It was a simple exchange — mathematical assistance for monetary compensation with a white student — a breach of the era's unspoken social contract. The question lingered: How and where did their paths cross that it ignited the fuse leading to Bayo's expulsion and looming deportation? The spirit of post-World War II — a time marked by youthful defiance and a refusal to be shackled by outdated conventions — had allowed such an interaction. Yet, when the consequences came to bear, Bayo alone faced the music while the white student slipped away unscathed.

Bayo often pondered the unraveling of their clandestine transaction. There was no bond between them, merely a transactional relationship forged out of necessity — Bayo's survival hinged on it. The white student departed with his pockets fuller and his academic woes lighter; they were not friends. As Bayo stepped into the corridor, his expression was a tapestry of conflict, for it was here that Professor Robert had summoned him. That familiar knot of apprehension tightened within him, a prelude to the storm he sensed on the horizon.

Upon entering the classroom, a turbulence of youthful energy and stifling air, Bayo's gaze met that of an African American student, eyes wide with anticipation. With a heart bolstered by bravery, Bayo greeted, "Hey, man." His voice carried the weight of genuine intent, yet he couldn't shake the feeling of awkwardness that clung to his words.

The student's response was a glance, fleeting and dismissive, like a leaf whisked away by an indifferent breeze. A self-deprecating smile crept onto Bayo's face, a mute admission of the interaction's absurdity.

Driven by a resolve to convey his earnestness, Bayo approached and tapped the shoulder of a bearded African American. The man responded with a piercing glare, a silent sentinel's warning that Bayo had trespassed into a sacred exchange.

With a graceless retreat, Bayo withdrew, his fist tightening as he chastised himself for the clumsy intrusion. Despite the rebuff, Bayo couldn't help but feel the sting of the man's response was more severe than warranted.

With a sigh, Bayo resolved to reach out to the African student. But he struggled to identify them among the crowd.

After numerous attempts, he finally managed to obtain the necessary information.

Without wasting any time, Bayo headed straight to the Divinity faculty. That was where he would find relevant knowledge about religion and traditions, with a specific emphasis on Africans, particularly Yoruba practices.

He sighed and thought, 'But how do I access this information?' Bayo shook his head, mocking his confusion.

While inquiring about the information, Bayo ensured to ask for the most knowledgeable African student who could assist him, and the name Ameer Amina resonated with him. Bayo repeated the name over and over so as not to forget it.

Ameer Amina was a French Algerian (from Algeria). The African student he had spoken to seemed to hold her in high regard. However, Bayo had no interest in such admiration; he only wanted to obtain the answers he needed to regain his powers.

Bayo realized it would take him years to comprehend the library books without his orisha's power.

After ten minutes, Bayo arrived at the Divinity faculty building. The atmosphere felt both communal and segregated at the same time.

Bayo went to the African Religious Studies department in search of the so-called Ameer Amina.

Bayo approached a fellow student, his voice carrying the melody of Yoruba as he inquired, "Excuse me, brother, might you know where I can find Ameer Ana?"

The Ethiopian student's brow arched, his mind grappling with the rich mix of sounds in Bayo's accent. With a gesture of patience, he extended his hand, "Hold on! Slow down," articulating each syllable with care, mindful of the cadence of his Ethiopian Arabic accent that might cloud his words to Bayo's ears.

Taking the cue, Bayo inhaled deeply, modulating his speech, "Where might Ameer Ana be found?"

"Ameer Ana?" The student's expression knitted in concentration; the surname had a ring of familiarity, yet the given name seemed adrift.