I was only 17. Finished high school and got my mind set for the next phase – A Levels.Wanted my parents to spend less so I vowed to do a 9-month intensive study programme at home. A 2-year programme abroad would have been the wiser option. Would have been less stressful, better paced and more likely to yield outstanding results. But why spend N2m when you could spend N250,000?
Others before me had done it. Some with straight A’s and some with B’s. We’ve all got brains, I thought. If I equally studied just as hard then I could pull it off. I was going to dedicate myself 25 hrs a day, 8 days a week, I thought. I chose Economics, Business Studies and English Literature. Nothing and no one was going to distract me. My entry into a UK university was within my reach. It was that or risk spending 6years amidst strikes doing a 3year-course in Lag.
3months into the course I realize that I’m achieving only 6hrs of private study aside from lectures and lunch breaks. Some of my peers were doing 10-12 hrs and were topping the class. I got the result of my Mock exam and my heart sunk: nothing but D’s – not usually enough to make the cut. I knew what I had to do. I needed to know the secret behind keeping up late and becoming a human hardrive of study notes.
Thats when my Economics tutor introduced me to an uncontrolled substance, readily available in most supermarkets and very affordable. In my case it was already a household drug…right there under my nose the whole time. I took a small dose, and managed to stay up for longer, retain information better…i didnt have to wedge matchsticks between my eyelids anymore. I had the edge.
I was getting better with my exam writing techniques, I was analysing questions of Cambridge standard, I was getting commendations from my tutors for my rapid improvement. My family were 101% behind me and the big exam was bearly 2 months away. God and my drug would get me through this, I thought.
And then it happened. Just when I least suspected. It wasn’t a hault in the production of my drug, nor was it a depletion of the supply I kept at home. I was struck with Typhoid. I lost 5kg and along with it all my apetite, my concentration and willpower to complete my sworn task. I had no energy and for 1 month I had undergone intensive treatment. I kicked myself for ignoring my immune system. I let my guard down and my white blood cells were facing the music. It took 1 month to get back on my feet.
With only 1 month left to revise I resumed my drug intake.I stepped it up to a more concentrated level and also doubled my intake. I became a shaky leaf and I had extreme highs and suicidal lows. I was a walking zombie. No longer eye candy but an eye sore for the girls in class. My secret was out. I was desperate and I got hooked. After the exam I would never touch this substance again. I wanted my life back.
God was probably teaching me a lesson. I passed with the exact minimum no. of points to gain entry into the Business School of my choice. I walked tall with my head held up high once I arrived at Heathrow airport. As I walked through the duty free section, past Starbucks, I got a hint of the aroma that haunted me for 9 months. My heartbeat accelerated at the prospect of just getting a quick fix. I reminisced about those long nights when I’d sneak to the kitchen cabinet, set up my chemistry lab and begin to experiment with the brown crumbly substance…How the sound of the of the kettle boiling got me excited…How the feel of a teaspoon made me weak in the knees…How that first sip was no different from the warmth of a woman you couldn’t get enough of.
I reminisced long and hard until I saw a little boy smile at me as he sipped on an ice-cold Frappucino. You’re starting pretty early, I thought. Just you wait till you’re 17 and you’ll be sorry, I thought. My hands started shaking. I dipped into my pockets and felt some loose pound coins. I struggled to make a stand, to abstain and conquer my addiction. I took a deep breath and took a bold step forward…or was it back…I can’t remember…
But what I do remember is that it was the first 3pounds I’d ever spent…and I enjoyed every f***ing penny of it.
You can see her looking at you from across the room. In fact, she’s been watching you all night. She’s all by herself in that sexy, ‘Daddy-would-kill-me-if- he-saw-me-in-this’ dress. Your friends taunt you to go over and talk to her. You rub off your sweaty palms against your crotch hugging MJ pants and summon up enough courage to make your move. As you get your swagger on in your MJ loafers you notice your bounce coincides with the 
You know you don’t want to but in the words of Chris Tucker ‘She FAAAINE, men!’ You can’t afford to let some other chump acquire those ass-ets. You’ve earned it! So before you try to talk your way out of it she drags you to the dance floor anyway. Now, you tell yourself ‘I aint so bad, I was the smooth MJ hot-stepper back in the day, I’ve still got a few tricks up my socks…but how the f*** am I supposed to dance to Say My Name, Say My Name?’ Is that even scientifically possible? You don’t remember seeing Destiny’s Child do much more than strike poses for 90% of the music video. She’s looking at your ‘leg/feet’ area like she’s saying ‘Show me what you got, you stud-muffin’. Your friends are watching…HER friends are watching…There’s no turning back…This is it! It’s time to bust an MJ move!
You’re under pressure so you look to see what other people are doing but they’re just moving side to side. If you can’t beat ’em join ’em, right? But you’re in for a surprise! Your dance partner is doing the moves in the Destiny’s Child video and you’re starting to wonder if she was behind the choreography. Next up the DJ switches to ‘Dutty Wine’ and she gets into position to flip it on you – but you don’t quite expect it. It’s not your kinda song and you’d rather go sit down with her. You move closer to her to tell her this but from nowhere your face gets whooped by a pound of organic arm-length ‘shanikwa’ braids. You’re dazed but she’s too busy dutty wining to even notice the whole left-side of your face is swollen.