”Oluwafimihan”, my mum calls me exactly three times from the kitchen and I know why. The food I cooked, tuwo as she calls it, was a disaster and she’ll punish me for it. The rice got too soft, soaking all the starchy water before I could sift it. ‘Fimi, mummy is calling you now’, my brother shouts from the other room.

I clumsily get up from my mattress and the hinges of my bed makes funny noises like someone grinning their molars. My right calf hits one of the poles, almost sending my face flat to the ground. If I get to her a second late, there’s a lecture on how terrible a child I am, usually loud enough for the neighbours and passers-by to hear.

“Not a single word”, I make a mental note to myself. Better not make matters worse by blaming it on the rice’s quality or lying that I went to use the restroom and forgot, my usual excuse anytime such disasters happen.

Okay, maybe I admit, I’m not a good cook.

”Yes ma, Mò ñ bò ma”, I shout back. Yoruba is one language I enjoy speaking even if none of my parents demanded it. They somehow believed people who spoke the language were ‘local’ people and speaking it would make you inadvertently less eloquent in English. It’s like saying me speaking German would affect my fluency in French. Whatever.

Though, I don’t speak yoruba fluently  I can still have a normal conversation. Besides it being my mother tongue and it’s very fun to learn.

Scolding, as usual- staring, ‘eyeing’ me and the pursing of lips, giving me one of her numerous angry faces. Typical yoruba mother. Today’s face was more like the one you’d make when you see something irritating. Usually, this face made me laugh, God help me, I should, right here. I’m stuck with her till who knows when better be of my best behaviour.

It’s been four months now since the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU) went on strike. To be honest, I don’t think I support ASUU anymore. The union not finding a way to go about it without affecting students is infuriating because everyone knows the FG is least concerned about the matter.

I was one of those who wished for the industrial action when it was still in deliberation. It would allow more time to read ahead and prepare for the semester, I thought. Now I know better, preparation literally can’t happen unless one’s actually under pressure, in school.

You must be wondering ‘This girl like book’. Yes I do. I must. I must not not like book and If asked to write about the strike, I have enough for a whole book and might include a lot of offensive words. Still, it’s better not to cry over split milk, or ‘spilling milk’ as Grandma would say. We have to make the best of every situation.

We’ve celebrated almost a thousand birthdays, naming ceremonies and a couple of other parties, birthdays being the most, since my stay at home. ”I might as well just do my wedding”, I said jokingly during my toast on Aunty Titi’s wedding. Everyone but mum laughed. Saw that coming though, mum doesn’t find such jokes funny.

”Fashion designer!”, I corrected Uchenna, when he called me a tailor, with that Igbo intonation that stresses the ‘i’ making it sound like ‘tayyylor‘. You have to conjure the way you want to be addressed, this I learned during a seminar organized by an NGO on campus.

Safe to say I’m not a rookie anymore. I’ve been learning for almost two years now though mostly on and off. More practice and maybe I’ll open a firm one day. My plan B for when ASUU and FG decide to do whatever the eff they like again.

Maybe the strike is here to open my eyes to new possibilities, to show me how important acquiring a skill is or why I should try out other productive things outside school. Still, shame, shame on those FG officials blabbing that students should go learn a trade during the strike, and shame on the ASUU chairman saying that 2 years shouldn’t be too much to sacrifice.

I brought most of my textbooks to read at home and even chose days when I wouldn’t go to work so I could read. Now that there’s no hope this would end soon, I might as well start work fully. With everything happening, reading will have to wait.

Till I write again.

Yours,

Fimi.