The Ilorin Shock Episode 9

Episode Nine: Unequal Strokes

By this time, pain had become familiar.

Not normal but familiar.

One evening, me and the second-to-last born were sent to fetch water from the tap inside the compound. The water was meant to fill a big blue drum, the kind that swallowed effort and returned exhaustion.

The problem was simple.

I was still small.

Carrying a full big paint rubber of water was not easy for me, so the two of us shared the work each of us carrying one container, moving slowly, carefully, doing our best.

That was when one of our teacher’s wives saw us.

She stopped and looked.

“Both of you should be carrying one one,” she said sharply.

No explanation.

No adjustment.

Just command.

We obeyed.

As I struggled with the weight, our teacher’s son began to laugh. He followed me, mocking the way I walked, the way my hands shook, the way my body leaned to one side. His laughter pierced deeper than the weight of the water.

I tried to ignore him.

But he didn’t stop.

He came closer.

He touched me.

Pushed me slightly.

Something snapped.

I was tired.

I was irritated.

I was human.

I turned and gave him a blow.

Immediately, silence.

What I didn’t know was that our teacher was inside the house with a visitor.

And someone had already seen everything.

We were called in.

It was already night.

Fear wrapped around my chest like rope.

Our teacher sat there, calm on the outside, dangerous on the inside. He didn’t ask much. He didn’t listen to explanations. He already knew what he wanted to do.

I was wearing a long anka trouser.

Nothing else.

His son was wearing boxer.

He ordered me to remove my trouser.

I froze.

I obeyed.

The room felt cold. The air felt heavy. My body felt small in a way I had never felt before. His son stood there in his boxer.

Then punishment came.

His son received five strokes.

I received fifteen.

Not because I was older.

Not because I was stronger.

But because I was not his child.

My body was still wet from fetching water. Each stroke landed with humiliation as much as pain. I stood there, counting silently, because crying would change nothing.

Afterward, no one spoke about fairness.

No one spoke about provocation.

No one spoke about how it started.

That night, I lay down quietly, staring into darkness, feeling something new grow inside me not anger alone, not sadness alone but a deep understanding.

In that place, justice had levels.

And I was always on the lower one.

There was more.

Much more.

But that story belongs to another day.

To be continued…  Episode 10