Chapter 1: Birthday Wahala
I give my cold, distant roommate—wey I dey crush on for mind—a mouse.
Inside my chest, my heart dey race like NEPA wire wey just spark. My hand dey shake as I dey package the mouse inside nylon. Sweat dey gather for my palm, but I gats gather my liver. Who for think say ordinary mouse fit cause wahala? For Naija, anything fit happen.
Suddenly, bullet comments dey flash for my eye like WhatsApp status:
[This mumu no even know say the mouse don connect to him most sensitive place.]
[He just give himself finish, na real mumu.]
[No be this silly baby be intersex? The thing even hot pass like this.]
[From now on, anytime him roommate dey spin the mouse wheel with im middle finger, this silly baby go dey twist for bed dey stick out tongue!]
The thing tire me. E be like all those family WhatsApp group where gist dey fly anyhow, but you gats bone.
I bone the bullet comments. I no send them at all.
Even as I try block am out, e still dey ring for my head, but I just face front like say nothing dey. Man gats package himself for campus.
Na so, until my roommate touch the mouse—and I just release small moan wey I try hide.
That kind sound wey suppose be small, e come loud pass my plan. Shame catch me but I just twist face, dey pretend say na cough.
Some people dey chop puff-puff, others dey share Coke and Fanta, everywhere dey jolly. But as I dey there, my own wahala just dey start.
My mind dey scatter. If wahala go burst, make e burst. But abeg, make ground swallow me now.