Have the old scars in your life fully healed? Still healing, or far from healing? Do you look annoyed when the thought of a particular incident rears its hateful head?

The truth is, unless you take action, there will always be a negative or positive reaction. Many times, it is therapeutic to dig into your life archives and excavate one or more torturous experiences with the purpose of re-examining and closing them for good. Which is why, after more than 34 years, I go back to my high school days to open an amazing can of stinky worms.

In the fourth grade (high school), I was the treasurer of my school’s Literary and Debating Society. Our annual party was held on a Saturday and was a great success. I was scheduled to meet with the president, vice president, and secretary of the Literary and Debating Society the following Sunday to discuss finances and other matters. It was supposed to be a short meeting. A popular student, GE, was the president. Most likely, AA was the vice president, or the third, whose name and face I don’t remember. They were all male seniors.

The following Sunday, around 8:00 pm, I went upstairs to his Upper Six classroom. Little did I know that I was getting on an event that would change my life. There were students reading in the classroom, and one guy in particular sat behind the teacher’s desk with his eyes and ears supposedly buried in his books. In the corner of the classroom, a few feet from the teacher’s desk, there was a small storage room called a cubbyhole. It existed in certain classrooms of the school. This particular one was transformed into a reading oasis with two desks and chairs. It was here that one of the officials ushered me into our meeting so that I wouldn’t distract those who were reading. I sat in a chair by the door. The boys sat behind the desks. Our meeting was over in less than 20 minutes. I showed them the financial record, we discussed a few things and it was time for me to head back to my hostel before lights out. I walked out of the cubicle into the classroom and caught the shifty eyes of that same student behind the teacher’s desk. I discarded his gaze and continued on my way.

Five days later, on a beautiful Friday morning, some students warned me that my name was appearing in a very damaging headline on the Press Club bulletin board. (Back then, the Press Club was a group of faceless students who wrote about messy students. They backed up their stories with despicable cartoons and stories on their subject. Sometimes, they used their dastardly pens to fabricate and settle personal vendettas against other students. No. ‘t ‘t report to a higher authority, hence the occasional abuse of your freedom of written expression.)

I was wondering what they were talking about until I stood face to face with the bulletin board and saw in bold letters: “Is that Oyairo?” [my maiden name] taste the forbidden fruit? Please check full details Monday morning.” I was frozen in shock. What? How? Who? Why? Is this a bad dream? What’s going on? “Forbidden Fruit?” These questions kept ringing in my mind. I was dizzy. with confusion. Tears began to flow uncontrollably. I knew my life at school would never be the same again. Throughout that weekend, I begged the ground to be opened and swallowed me. He declined. At the same time, I kept looking for someone who knew at least one of the anonymous members of the Press Club. My efforts proved useless.

On Monday morning, the item came out as promised. It was full of gory details accompanied by vulgar caricatures that still send chills to this day. My good name was submerged and sullied with cruel lies written by a faceless monster. I wondered why. Who did this to me? WHO?

The article detailed how GE, AA, the other guy and I had consensual sex in the cubicle. They all took turns with me, and the writer could hear me go, “I’m tired, I’m tired,” but GE kept saying, “Just one more round, just one more round.” The writer talked about how, when they were done with me, I dressed like nothing happened and walked out of the classroom like a peacock.

I could not believe what I was watching. I kept pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Can you imagine what he was going through, considering how painfully shy he was back then? The principal, Mr. Udofia, called me into his office and told me that I would be expelled from the school if the article was true. I remember the terror in my eyes as I tearfully told him, “Sir, I’ve never been with a guy before and I’m ready to go to any hospital for a virginity test.” I was fighting for my life. He said that he had already spoken to the boys in question, and they disputed the article. He promised to ask the Press Club to investigate and remove it. The sad thing is that, although he never called me back at his office, he did not order them to take down the story.

In fact, it stayed on the bulletin board for over a week. I wondered then and still wonder what was fueling this mischief. Out of pity, two members of the Press Club broke their code of silence and revealed some of their confidential conversations, as well as the mastermind behind the article.

Remember the guy sitting behind the teacher’s desk in the Upper Six classroom pretending to be buried in his books? Yes, it was him, Judge Jonusa. A tall, skinny, dark guy with a weird haircut, a disturbing cough, and a very weird aura. I still can’t understand why Justice slapped me so unfairly by inventing something out of nothing.

ACCUSED BY IMAGINARY INDULGENCE

My reputation was in tatters. Some junior students and classmates whispered “Forbidden Fruit” to me. Life at school became unbearable. I withdrew into a very traumatic shell and at the same time became a shell of my old self. My academic performance also suffered. It seemed like no one cared. The director failed me! The members of the Press Club failed me! The system failed me! I couldn’t even tell my parents what was happening. Where would I start? Second, I was 261 miles away at a boarding school.

This stigma followed me until I left for university a year later. He was only too happy to start a new life free of false accusations. In my sophomore year, I went back to my high school for an event. Guess what? Someone in the boys’ hostel yelled at the top of their lungs: “Forbidden fruit.” I kept walking as if I hadn’t heard him, but my heart skipped a beat and showers of shame washed over me.

I think it was during the second semester of my sophomore year in college that I started taking a shortcut after classes through the teaching hospital. From the window facing the narrow path, he could see the patients admitted to a private ward in the hospital. He always looked at the patients whenever he passed. Most of them seemed lost in space. One day my eye caught the eye of a new patient whose bed was right next to the window. I stopped in disbelief. My heart started racing. Our eyes met briefly, and then I ran as fast as I could. Guess who he was? Jonusa Justice! I didn’t know it then, but that room was called B1. It was for psychiatric patients. Jonusa was mentally ill.

The next day I looked at it correctly. He was lying on the bed staring into space. His eyes were blank. He was in another realm. Frankly speaking, she had no compassion for him. How could he not? He was angry, very angry! The arrows that his malicious act lodged in my heart resurrected and began to prick me mercilessly. If he had had the courage, he would have opened the door of my mouth and many “forbidden” words would have rained down on him. Luckily, I settled for a look that I hoped would say a lot.

I kept seeing Jonusa most of the times I took the shortcut. Our eyes met on a few occasions followed by a prickly silence until I passed. One day, I noticed that her bed was empty. The next three times, he was still empty. I wondered if he had recovered or been transferred. Later I learned the sad truth: Jonusa was dead.

As strange as it sounds, my heart was full of sympathy this time. The disdain melted almost immediately. I realized that Jonusa was a victim like me. As his pen declared Armageddon to me, he was fighting a mental monster in his personal life. Nobody recognized him. Like me, the director failed him. The Press Club failed him. The system failed him big time.

It is only recently that I began to marvel at this story. Who would have thought that he would end up in the same university as Jonusa? Why when I decided to take a shortcut, did I notice it in the psych ward? What about silent encounters? Did you want to tell me something? Should I have extended at least one olive branch with a smile? How come I saw his last days? How and why? Only God knows. May his soul rest in perfect peace.

I thank God for healing me from this bad experience. Who knows, maybe Jonusa was hearing voices and just hallucinating back then in high school. Be that as it may, I thank God that it’s over and life goes on. May all who suffer from mental illness get the necessary help and healing, in the name of Jesus.

I urge those who care for one wound or another to look at their pain from another angle. What if the perpetrator has unimaginable problems? After all, hurt people hurt others. Good? As painful as it may seem, forgiveness is the best option. Free one from the cell of bitterness, anger and hate. Is not easy. Once a decision is made and implemented, relief is golden. I pray by the grace of God that we find it in our hearts to truly forgive those who have caused us pain.