He was our literature tutor for our upcoming JAMB examinations but to me, he was different, he didn't seem like every other teacher we had ever had. He smelt like lavender on rainy mornings and smiled like sunset on those crooked rocky mountains along rural pathways in the clandestine city of ilorin. I loved watching him talk, even though his words on figures of Speech and selected east African texts made no sense to me. His voice had a surreal touch to my haywire imaginations and they painted my dreams in bright shades of arrogant lust, it was rich and boisterous and very soothing, which was a sharp contrast to his lithe figure. A figure made for dancing and peace and not for teaching or yelling.
His face looked soft. Like a teardrop. I could see his brown eyes through his medicated glasses. There was just a little stub of hair on his chin and one acting as a moustache over full sensual lips. He seemed a lot younger than 25 or maybe it was just my emotions playing the wayside artist again.
Whenever he walked in, I could feel my 16 year old heart skip a beat. Sometimes I wondered if I was the only one who felt that way, the other girls in the class didn't seem to notice his striking handsomeness because they listened attentively to his lectures while I drifted away on the feathery wings of a love that smelt like forever and looked like always. Sir Ernest didn't notice me or even speak to me - well, maybe once, when he asked me to explain the synoptic relevance of Woke soyinka's "Death and the king's horsemen" - and all I got rewarded with was a faint smile of approval after my rather extensive explanation and even the round of applause I got from my classmates did nothing to quell the disappointment I felt after Sir Ernest resumed teaching like I hadn't even said anything at all.
I was 16 but I was already hopelessly in love with a 25 year old corper who had been drafted to my school to lecture us on English and literature. He would never even notice me and my infatuation would have probably faded away in agonizing silence if I hadn't confided in Chioma. Chioma was my best friend and was notorious for having unrequited crushes with men or boys twice her age. It was chioma who told me to write a letter. She claimed she had seen Sir Ernest kissing a female corper close to the school gate after school hours just before the WAEC candidates began their extra mural classes. This meant he wasn't made of stone and was capable of loving a woman. I wasn't a woman yet, I was only a teenager who was moonstruck with a shooting star that was destined to fade away.
Nonetheless, I wrote the letter. A letter filled with saturating goodness and rose coloured words of passion and romance. I was exceptionally good in poetry and my skills helped adorn the letter with innuendos and metaphorical dazzle that soon after dropping the letter at his desk with my name typed out in the most fanciful writing I could muster, I began to be weighed down with a sudden unexplained regret.
Sir Ernest became different from that day. He would carefully avoid eye contact or any form of contact with me in class and made sure I remained passive in his class. He ignored me actively and related with me like the soles did with the soil - brief and done.
Once, I caught him staring at me from across the hallway and my body flushed with a rush of emotions, I nearly passed out. I was glad he didn't tell anyone about the letter but I was also concerned he hadn't said a word about it to me.
Every thing would change when on one fateful Thursday evening, sir Ernest invited me to his office. It was past 5pm and everyone had gone home. Few WAEC candidates had begun to show up but not enough to disturb the peace of the entire premises.
It was all quiet and empty when I walked into the staff room he was sitted in. He wa staring at me and now, thinking about it, I realise that, that was the most intense look I had ever gotten from any man in my entire life.
At that moment I knew I should leave. I knew my relationship with him was never going to be the same ever again. It ?idnt matter if he scolded me or kissed me, something in me was sure going to die that fateful evening.
