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Fiction
Survival
Studies
a short story by
Henry
Onyema
Do
you know what it is to be as broke as a bankrupt
broker, as penniless as a penny without a
partner? Do you know what it is to be devoid of
a single dime twenty-four hours before your
examinations?
That was my condition that Sunday evening when
temptation visited me in my miserable shack,
which I miscalled a room. I had spent my last
twenty naira on a loaf of bread and was
wondering where I could get money for a cab to
my uncle’s place in the next town. Uncle Chigere
was the only one who gave a damn whether I lived
or died since a ganja-crazed Okada sent
my parents to the land of Never-Never nine
months ago.
Temptation knocked on the door. Once, twice.
“Come in,” I replied, studiously ignoring the
invisible drummers pounding in my skull. The
bread had been eaten at lunchtime yesterday.
Italian perfume hit my nose as she entered. She
wore an expensive pair of skintight black jeans
that accentuated her curves and sent my starved
imagination rumbling. The black transparent top
she wore exposed her shoulders and uppers. Every
movement of her body jerked those ripe,
mouth-watering king-size mangoes together. It
was a toss-up whether the visible brassiere she
wore under the top was designed to flaunt or
cover her weapons of mass destruction. Her eyes
were hidden from the world by a fashionable pair
of sunshades. The lipstick and nail polish she
wore was a brilliant blood red. I. Gulped.
“Hi, Ezeakwukwo.”
That nickname had virtually cancelled out my
real name, Ezenwa, among my course mates and
other members of the Department of Political
Science at Agora State University. Funnily,
being called the king of the book did not make
me swollen-headed, even though, now in the final
semester of our third year, only a direct
intervention by Beelzebub could stop me from
graduating with a first class – something which
had not happened in the Department since Agora
was established twenty-five years ago.
“Hi, Tina. What brings you to my palace?” My
feeble attempts at humour did not hide my
feelings. Though Tina was my course mate, I was
not in the class of people she visited all
dressed up like a high-street babe out for a
wild night on Allen Avenue. My mind began to
draw pictures I’d rather not describe on paper.
Tina smiled. She knew the effect she was having
on me. This was a girl who knew men, manipulated
men and gave men what they all cherished,
despite the hypocrisy of a quite a few.
Unconfirmed rumours included the State governor,
two army generals, and a former deputy speaker
of the national House of Representatives in her
list of bed warmers.
“Won’t you offer me a seat?”
“Sorry. Do sit down.”
Tina relaxed in one of the two old plastic
chairs and crossed her legs with catlike grace,
erotic without being blatant. It took me every
ounce of will to meet her deep eyes. The message
in them was not the type for a hungry man.
“Ezeakwukwo,” she began in a low voice,
“I need your help and I’ll make it worth your
while.”
Bells began to ring in my head. That could only
mean one thing. Tina belonged to the group we
tagged ‘nonacademic students’ at Agora. The sort
who were too caught up in other sides of life to
have time for the rather drab and dreary
business of studying. Amazingly, most of the
‘nonacademic students’ got A’s and B’s in all
their courses at the end of each semester. They
had their little ways, and woe betide anyone who
belonged to the group who did not know these
survival skills. But Tina was not one of them.
The only daughter of a billionaire who had been
repeatedly returned to the Senate by his
constituency – don’t ask me how – since the last
civilian comic opera, she was a mistress of the
arts and sciences that comprised the package of
survival skills at Agora.
“What is it?”
She replied calmly, “SAS 344. I don’t have any
hope of passing it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t pretend to be naïve, Ezeakwukwo.”
Her smile radiated affection. “You know
Professor Eguero is a sadist. Those theories he
mouths! Maybe he thinks he’s still at Harvard!
This is Nigeria, and the Nigerian way is
different.”
“Did you buy his book?”
She shrugged. “More than that. I launched it for
him with a cheque of five thousand dollars.” She
threw up her hands in an unconscious move of
infinite gracefulness. “You know what? The crazy
man returned the cheque in an envelope thanking
me but regretting he could not accept. Na wa
oh!”
I sighed silently. I knew what she was going to
ask me. You don’t spend three years at Agora
without knowing about these things.
“So?”
She stared into my eyes with a disconcerting
directness.
“Strategic Studies 344 is on Thursday. I have an
authentic copy of Professor Eguero’s question
paper. Just answer the questions for me and you
get whatever you want. Anything at all.” Her
voice had a meaningful inflection. The girl was
no fool. She knew that I had been infatuated
with her since our freshman year. Don’t get me
wrong: it had nothing to do with her money or
glamour. Tina was an astonishing beauty. The
sleek grace with which she alighted from her
Japanese sports car would have put Omotola and
Genevieve Nnaji to shame. But I had sheathed my
lust; Tina was a bomb, which would cause too
much damage if it exploded on the head of any
sucker. Especially, if the sucker owned only
three pairs of second-hand jeans and could not
cough out two thousand five hundred naira
without assistance. So I kept well out of her
way. Only the gods knew how she had spotted my
feelings. I could only imagine how she had
gained access to Professor Eguero’s question
paper without his knowledge. These ‘non academic
students’ could go to very unorthodox lengths in
their bid to survive.
But only a madman or a child plays with fire,
and I was neither. How could I do this,
something I had never approved of? Suppose it
backfired? If I was not expelled my first-class
would definitely be thrown out of the window.
Tina smiled reassuringly. “Nothing will happen.
Arrangements have been made. All you have to do
is answer the questions.”
My stomach growled at that moment, reminding me
of my precarious situation.
“Who’s in charge of the arrangements?”
“You wouldn’t want to know.”
I frowned. “If I am going to stake my future for
you then I’ve a right to know who controls the
gambling table.”
There was no humour in her smile. “Honestly you
wouldn’t want to know, Ezeakwukwo.”
I shook my head. “Forget it, then.”
Tina saw that I was not kidding. She did not
hesitate. Quietly she spoke. “Ricco.”
I nearly fell off my seat. Ricco was the Capone
of the deadliest cult on campus! The Black
Vultures. God help you if the BVDs (as they
called themselves) came after you. It was only a
matter of time before you found yourself in a
coffin. Nobody knew Ricco’s identity even in a
small university like Agora. The BVDs were
rumoured to be connected to some of the
country’s heavyweights.
“Ricco?”
Tina’s eyes were reassuring. “No harm will
befall you. You have no links with Ricco. He is
just in charge of getting the exam and answer
papers to the right places. Your job’s to answer
the questions.”
And if I refuse? I asked myself. Fear struggled
with hunger in my stomach. There was no end to
this racket if I accepted. I had always kept a
low profile on campus, sufficiently chastened by
my poor background. But my academic reputation
preceded me. Besides this damned stuff was a
complete negation of all my parents had pumped
into my head for the last twenty-four years.
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