Amidst the vibrant chatter in the schoolyard, her demeanor remained subdued. An invisible veil of solitude overshadowed her physical presence, starkly contrasting the bustling energy around her. Laraba was often called an unwanted number of names: lifeless, empty, dreamer as she was ever drifting, her mind always afar, in some distant imaginary land. It was the dawn of 2010, marking the start of a new decade. Everyone was driven to set resolutions and aspirations. Famous musical artists like P-Square and Yemi Alade were thrilling the African youth with Afro-pop. Still, there was Laraba, sitting on the pavement just outside the lecture hall, her feet covered in white socks, partly buried in the soft embrace of the sand. Her fingers digging her palms, her head bent low. Despite her obvious distress, no one cared to ask about her well-being; there was only silence and hushed voices when she walked around.
As a deeply introverted person, social interactions were always a challenge. I was fortunate to experience the benefits of solitude early on, and it became an addicting source of satisfaction. This time, I mustered the courage to approach her. “Hi,” I offered with a timid smile. Her response was a fleeting glance. Her eyes appeared distant and gazeless. Her facial features flickered between smiles and shadows. She returned her gaze downwards and started drawing in the sand. I couldn’t make up what it was. What are you drawing? I asked, pointing at the patterns taking shape beneath her fingertips. The response still was silence, heavy with unspoken words. Given her situation, she was dressed quite differently from what one would expect. Her hair was styled in a neat braid, forming a raised hump at the top of her head, reminiscent of the famous African ‘Shuku’ hairstyle. Her green skirt, like the Nigerian flag, matched her white socks and blouse, which hung on her frame like they’d been freshly starched. The crispness of her entire clothing suggested recent ironing. Curious onlookers began to gather. She recoiled immediately. I had breached her sanctuary and left the door open for the unwanted. The intrusion was uncomfortable for her. I walked away immediately. The voices around me began to whisper.
“That is how that girl is.”
“She no like anybody.”
“She’s acting like an Ogbanje, they said, “referring to a child of the spirits in Nigerian folklore’’.
I nodded as I heard various expressions, but I trusted my instincts. Whatever was happening wasn’t related to traditional practices, genetics, or religion. I was certain of that. “Sometimes, she talks — that’s just how it goes, the voices persisted”.
The following day, in the schoolyard, I heard someone greet me with a distinct Hausa accent. I turned around and saw Miss Oddity. We exchanged pleasantries with smiles. Our interactions improved in the following days, as did her mood. Sometimes, we found comfort in silence and exchanged only a few words after each encounter; being there to fill the void was just enough.
One day, she surprised me with a conversation. As sad as the story was, it offered a sign of progress.
“I was a victim of human trafficking.”
Her words picked me up and threw me to the floor. My lips remained apart as she created scenes of her ordeal, like a masterful filmmaker, each frame reflecting how life turns the most unexpected corners. Beneath her anti-social behavior lies a story of pain, resilience, and strength. From that day, our interactions were filled with mutual respect and admiration.
“And they said she’s Ogbanje,” I painfully muttered as I left her that day.
