Filthy fingers

Then I was new. And so was everything happening around me. My first shock was the sight of a female remedial student who boldly pulled a male colleague student to herself, locking him in a tight embrace while imitating an ongoing sexual intercourse. In broad daylight!

Nobody on the premises seemed bothered by the sight.

Took a while for me to acclimatize, and make a few friends. Females my preference, though I had no ulterior motives. I first met the leader of the gang of ladies I later became friends with, and she led me to the rest of the pack.

Initially, she seemed bossy and wild, and I wondered if she knew who I was, and what gave her the guts to speak with such boldness, although she didn’t appear rude. She was Muslim, and you could see she was the principled type.

But soon we became friends, and I saw the soft side of her. One of the very few close friends I have had so much respect for over the years.

We had a place we usually met to study together. Somehow, she managed to draw to herself other females in lower classes. They were from the northern part of the country, one or two were from the south. I’m guessing that she must have felt, being a northerner herself, and a prefect in the school, she could use her influence to create a protective umbrella for other girls from the north who had come to the south to school.

It was on one of those nights it happened. Someone came to call her. That one girl was in tears. Girls were noted for weeping over nothing, so I wasn’t particularly bothered by the news. Moreover, the girl in question wasn’t from the north, or part of our clique.

One by one, everyone around me was leaving.

Curious, I closed my books and went out to find out what was happening. But none of them were in sight. So, I headed to their hostel.

“Sherifa! What’s happening ?“ I asked, when my friend finally came out of the hostel.

“It’s Kenza. She said Gunu raped her.” she told me.

For a moment, my mind was fixed on the fact that she didn’t say “Sir Gunu”, but Sherifa was used to calling even the director of the school by his first name, without “Mister or Sir”.

Then my mind shifted to Sir Gunu who was always in the boys dormitory enforcing discipline. I couldn’t connect that image with this new one.

A few days ago, a woman and her sister were in the headmaster’s office, issuing threats to one house master, saying she would call the police. The director’s relative had to intervene. I overheard some of their conversations. And piecing them together, I guessed it was a sexual assault case. That housemaster was a dog, so I didn’t have doubts about the allegation.

But Sir Gunu. Never heard any allegation leveled against him, or rumors about some scandal he was involved in.

Sherifa then went on to lecture me on Sir Gunu’s past, long before I came to the school.

Why couldn’t the girl call her parents and report the incident ? That was the part I couldn’t understand. Perhaps because they were young, they had no idea how to handle these incidents.

As I walked back to our usual study room, I looked up at the place where the incident happened, according to Sherifa. It was the staff common room. And the lights were still on.

My mind couldn’t let go, without replaying the incident, though I hadn’t witnessed it.

I imagined that he sent someone to call her during prep time, which was when it all happened. And the poor girl must have thought he needed a textbook to make some references or ask about an incident that happened earlier in the day in order to met out the proper punishment to the culprits. He must have heard her footsteps approaching, and to ensure the door was locked, he must have stood behind the door and opened it for her, making it all look like a coincidence.

Then in the course of banging the door, locked it as well so the girl wouldn’t find everything fishy.

Probably started off with the usual conversations around studying hard and not being distracted by boys, and slowly inching towards her, brushing off a stroke of hair, or touching a sensitive part of her as if by accident. She must have recoiled, giving him a stern look to see if she’ll spot some remorse.

But his filthy fingers must have continued their unwelcomed combing in her dress, locking her into a position she could not free herself, and only God knows how he manged to rape her in a staff room where many teachers would usually be found during prep hours, a room directly opposite where all the boys prepped at that hour.

What made him think he could get away with it if he wasn’t inspired by his superiors and the shady deals they were involved in, all in the name of “promoting the school”?

Till date, nothing ever happened to the rapist, and the perpetrators in other silent stories we never heard in that school.