LAST JUNIOR (A Short Story)
“Egwavon Jude, the health prefect is dead.”
Those words sent the assembly ground into pandemonium. The principal had just confirmed the rumors going around the school for the last few days.
“Silence!” thundered Principal Maxwell, but the assembly was over. The senior girls could not contain themselves as they burst into a crying frenzy for their dead colleague. I should have suspected something was afoot when police officers kept showing up on the school premises yesterday.
Two days ago, parents were pouring into the school in droves, threatening to sue the school and withdraw their wards because three days ago, the senior boys had been rushed out to the hospital in the middle of the night.
They all came down with a serious case of food poisoning and were throwing up their guts, fainting, and hallucinating.
Everyone remembers the chaos of the last four days, but nobody remembers what happened five days ago. Last Saturday, when this same set of senior rascals barged into the junior hostel — my hostel, to bully and ransack us off our provisions. In their normal fashion, they forced everyone to give taxes to Caesar.
“Last Junior…!”, a deep voice shouted as they bounced in.
Last Junior. The phrase that spelled doom for the last junior to disembark from their bunk beds and stand in an orderly fashion before their checkered uniform tax masters.
Senior Egwavon, the tall and imposing health prefect, was the chief tax collector for their tyrannous administration and nurses a well reciprocated hatred for me. He has repeatedly subjected me to punishments, and beatings and even shortened my food ration because I refused to give him Corn flakes.
However, I was ready for him last Saturday. Little did he know that the 1kg container of Peak milk he forcefully collected from me had been mixed with ample amounts of rat poison. Lord knows I was done giving to Caesar. This time Caesar had to bow to me. Next time they would think twice before they come to strip young boys of their nutrition. Next time, they would…
“The Police would be investigating the source of this sad occurrence…”, The principal’s words cut into my thoughts.
“We have also replaced the kitchen staff until we can ascertain what is responsible for this.” he continued.
The Police? Did this fat old man just say the police? What is there to investigate?
A gang of bullies got what they deserved. Case closed!
Good luck with your ‘investigation’.
In a boarding school like this, where everyone eats from everyone. Where everyone begs for a bite of your food, a spoon of cereal, and one base of garri, who knows how many people have tasted my creamy concoction?
Who knows how many people may still die?
And who’s going to catch me?
Is it you?
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