Mature

When I was in Junior Secondary 2, I had a crush on my computer teacher. Uncle David. He was a strict young man in his early twenties. I wonder if he’s fine.

I also had a number of classmates who were older than I was. One of which was Blessing. About 17–19 then. I wonder if she’s fine

It was a typical class of 13-year olds. Loud, chirpy, giggling, and just being plain awkward. On this day, like many other days, Blessing was brooding. She was always lost in her unknown thoughts, moody and withdrawn. Well, always is an overstatement. She had days when she was in high spirits and sang Justin Bieber’s “Baby”.

But on this day, she was brooding. And when Uncle David asked her what was wrong many times, she consistently shook her head in a way that said “Nothing, I’d prefer to be left alone”.

So he got the message and left her alone. But then he turned to the rest of us, the entire class, and said “You see Blessing, she’s mature”.

For the next week, I’d try so hard to be quiet and brooding. Because to my 13-year old self, that was all it took to be mature. I wanted to be mature so bad so I could impress Uncle David as well.

Today I type this. Today, one of the many days that I sit and cry about the things I cannot share. The day I pray so earnestly for the world to pause or reset.

Today one of the days I watch how everyone around me is oblivious to the darkness that engulfs me. And how they are all carried away by the complexities of their own existence or realities. That when they do pause to see that I’m not carried along and care enough to ask what’s wrong, I cannot say.

Today the day that I pick up the phone to call my father in tears. He asks me what’s wrong. But I do not have the heart. So I lie and say that I have a cold.

Then it hits me. I got that wish. I am now mature.