The week had so far, gone on wonderfully. I chose wonderfully because, it was the first week that heralded my final year session, the week I packed into the hostel, the week I bought myself a multi-coloured plastic cupboard, the week I was going to be staying downbunk for my very first time, the week the rare luck of having a well mannered acquaintance from my previous hostel year, rather than a total stranger for a bunkmate (or bunkee like they were fondly called) showed up on me, and in all of my three years in the higher institution, the week a fact shocked the hell out of me, so much so that I found myself thinking deeply about someone other than myself for several hours in a row or the hours spent thinking about one guy when the mysterious crush happens.
My hands wouldn't have been able to wash all of what I had washed that Saturday morning if I had seen it then. Two hours after, I still couldn't permit myself to believe it. I rather convinced myself to believe that it could and definitely had to be a huge mistake. But how randomly are mistakes made on Identity Cards? It probably had fallen out of her Credentials off her bed, to my rug carpet earlier on. I stepped on it and went numb after scanning through. Oh My God! And she stayed upbunk. My Bunkee! The whole fondness of the name was traditionally to endear the older final year occupants of the down bunk to the younger upbunk occupants who were usually in one hundred or two hundred levels and were undoubtedly between the age ranges of 17, 18, 19, even 20, 21 and rarely 22. But, Theresa was 28 years old! or so the Identity Card bearing her face stated, in two hundred level!! while I was 20 in final year, and treated her like a smaller girl which she never for once objected to behaviourally or otherwise. I even taunted her with not only "Bunkie" but branded her a "Smallie"!!!
How would she go about the compulsory National Youth Service of one whole year which is required of every Nigerian graduate who must not be above age 30? How was I going to continue calling her Bunkee and Smallie, playfully ordering her to sweep my rug carpet because of the sand from her medieval black covershoes as I nicknamed her favorite pair. I silently recited the "Our Father", adding that God should not allow any of it to affect me psychologically. She was my fellow catholic whom I went to church with every Sunday, lived on top of me and was most importantly, a fellow girl. So, I was going to atleast continue calling her Bunkee but would outrightly cut down on the Smallie.
It was minutes to 10 p.m when she opened our hostel door. With a shape of face lots of 18 or 19 year olds have, which makes one think they are 13 or 14 at first guesses, hair up in a bun, the kind of dresses I probably had gotten myself right after my WAEC examinations with the mindset of looking sophisticated and a pink school bag slung behind her right shoulder. Her looks were so unbelievably contrasting to the age on the Identity Card that I readily would have spent an entire hour in hell, in return for knowing if she actually ever told anyone at school about how old she really was. She turned around to close the door and I immediately shut my eyes, feigning sleep before she could look at me. I stayed that way until she had eaten, showered and climbed up for bed. Then I opened my eyes, imagining up every possible and impossible thing; Some pathetic, some not making any bit of sense and some, totally scary. I continued that way with my hungry stomach rumbling and didn't even know when I finally fell asleep.