Mind The Blinds

Book summary

Mind The Blinds follows seventeen-year-old Elyas, who struggles to understand emotions and dreams of escaping his abusive home. But when classmates he fought end up dead, he finds himself caught in a web of violence and suspicion. As Detective Afizere hunts a serial killer, Elyas must confront his dark past or risk losing himself entirely in a battle between innocence and guilt.

Excerpt from Mind The Blinds

Chapter One: Elyas

I have read a lot of books, watched a lot of movies and one thing that struck me most was the fact that adults don’t think teenagers can behave like adults. I disagree—don’t blame me, I disagree with almost everyone and everything because ideologies have to be challenged. Some teenagers (like me) become adults early because we have no choice.

As a seventeen-year-old boy, I learnt how to cook when I was around five, learnt how to wash my clothes, iron my uniforms, and do my assignments (alone) when I was seven. Even as a full-time secondary student, I still managed to get a job as a sales assistant in one of my neighbour’s shops. So, I earn my money and pay my school fees (which is quite cheap) because my parents are all too busy fighting each other five times a week. But then, who am I to complain? It’s best to live your life and take your opportunities however they come.

This morning, a heated argument ensued while I was busy preparing my lunch for school. They argue most times, and keep malice with each other for months. I never had a normal relationship with them. I am also not sure they had a normal relationship between themselves. It’s been 20 years since they got married and you would still think they were strangers.

My father started an argument about the soup in the pot being smaller than it was supposed to be, claiming that he always gave her enough money to take care of the household but maybe she was spending it on another man? He was a pathetic liar and a vagabond, doing nothing all day long. Sometimes, he would steal money from my mother’s purse, step out (as if going to work), and come back drunk in the night, reeking of cigarettes and guess what? Another quarrel would start.

I sighed, picking up my flask and placing it in my bag. It was 10 minutes to 7am and my little brother—four years old, was still in his school uniform, looking for someone to help him tie his shoelaces while watching my mother concentrate on other things out of anger. I looked at my watch again and stepped into the parlour to help him tie those laces.

“Amam na gi na nwoke ozo dina,” my father spat out in our Igbo dialect, “You cannot deceive me. I will find that man and kill him myself.” That was his default speech whenever he wasn’t winning any argument.

I shook my head, took my brother’s bag and helped him down from the chair. I walked him into the kitchen and scooped out some fried yam and egg from my food flask, dropping it into his before I closed it. “Put it inside your lunch bag,” I said to him, turning on the tap while it flowed into his water bottle. The filled bottle also went into his lunch bag and I zipped it for him.

Just as we were about to leave the house, I heard a slap. And another one. And another one. My brother didn’t seem to know what was happening, so I told him to stay put in the corridor while I went into the parlour to see what was happening. This world be damned. My father was beating up my mother—for the second time this month. It happened more often than you would imagine. I wanted to feel some kind of anger, and hatred enough to actually push my father away from her but none of these emotions emerged. When I was ten, I was diagnosed with Alexithymia which means I was emotionally blind. It was said to be associated with my antisocial personality disorder.

I tried to go near, but found myself stepping back. The wicked beatings graduated to a scuffle when my mother decided to fight back. It had always amazed me to see people in pain—because I didn’t know what it felt like, but this was different. My mother was getting hurt. There was something I knew I could do—however, this was her problem to solve. Calling the police was useless, so why bother? They’ll simply say it is a family issue and none of their business.

My little brother was waiting for me in the corridor when I met him. Taking his tiny hand, I led him out of the house. It was already 7am. His school was near, so that was an advantage. Mine was 30 minutes away on foot and getting there late would result in 10 strokes of the cane. It was easy for me to endure yet it could be a tad-bit annoying at times.

I successfully dropped my brother off at a nursery school and walked my way to school. In a country like Nigeria, it was easy to endure a few strokes if you wanted to save money. If a teacher punished you, that’s fine. Their teaching period will be over and then you will be forgiven when another one comes in. Prices were shooting up into the sky, so boarding a tricycle or a motorcycle taxi was the easiest way to be cheated because the riders will tell you how costly it is to get a gallon of fuel.

At exactly 7:51am, I arrived at school. The gate man let me in but the disciplinarian was not forgiving. There were about three more students on their knees while the middle-aged man struck their palms ten times. It got to my turn and he wasted no time in giving me my share of the cane. In fact, he struck my palms twelve times—as always. More punishment for the stubborn boy who came late once or twice a year. I didn’t mind the hatred—hell, I couldn’t even see it because I didn’t care.

I stood up on my feet and walked to my class, bag on my back. Outside, the school was rather quiet because lessons had begun, but if you went near the classes, noises were inevitable. The school only had three blocks—blocks meaning a set of classrooms. For example, one block, or a separate building, had about 10-15 classes. One block was for the science students, the second was for the social science students, and the third for the art students. In each of those blocks, there was at least one staff office. For instance, the science block had a maths department office with teachers in it and a physics department office. The lab was in another building dedicated to laboratories.

As a science student, I entered the science block and stepped into my class, which was Class C2. We were SS3 students, about to sit our final exams that would decide our entry into university. WAEC was always a big deal for senior students who were planning to get into a university of their choice. As for me, it was the biggest of deals—meaning that I had only one chance to sit this exam and pass it well; if not, there would be no university or career for me. I would be a sales assistant until I earned enough money to pay for another chance to take the WAEC exams. After the WAEC exams comes the qualifying exam for getting into a good university, which is called JAMB. I’m sure you understand when I say that I need to get this right, once and for all.

I sat down on my chair, the third bench on the first row to the right. Also, I wasn’t sitting alone. The bench could accommodate three people, but there were two of us on the seat. A fellow student named Cayle Ilaorun. He was the extroverted type—so exhausting. Being extroverted didn’t mean he wasn’t intelligent. He was ranked second in position for the best students in the whole science department last year. Guess my rank—the third. Yeah, I can’t believe it. He doesn’t know, but I always get jealous of him whenever he gets ahead of me like that.

Just when I settled on my seat, the chemistry teacher, Miss Jenny, walked in. A middle-aged woman who obviously wasn’t married. You would expect her to have that ring on her hand by now after being so skilful with flogging the hell out of her students with canes, but she didn’t. We all stood up to greet her before she permitted us to sit. Luckily, I was close to the window, so if the lessons ever got boring, I could simply look out and feel the freedom that comes with the air and noise.

“Elyas,” Cayle whispered my name, “I called you yesterday, but you didn’t pick up.” He looked at me as if I were some kind of strange bird. I frowned, taking a pen from my bag. Thankfully, I hadn’t forgotten to bring my chemistry notebook to class.

“I forgot to call back,” I said, watching the teacher as she tested the new marker on the board.

“That’s always your excuse.”

I sighed and looked at where I had stopped in the chemistry notes during the last class. To be honest, I wasn’t in the mood to talk—well, I’m never in the mood to talk, but especially not today.

“Can I see your notes?” said a female voice from behind. I forgot to tell you about Linda. The girl who finds it hard to complete her notes in class but finds it easy to borrow from others, even if their writing is shit—sorry. Wrong language. But that’s the truth. Fortunately, she was talking to Cayle, and he lent his notes to her.

“Your WAEC exam is in the next two months. Did you know?” Miss Jenny announced, turning to us with wide eyes. There was no answer, so she continued, “You’d better be ready and stop joking around like those junior students. You’re all seniors. Behave like it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” everyone chorused. I rolled my eyes and averted my gaze to the world outside the window. Teachers had a peculiar way of scaring students when it came to final exams. It doesn’t faze me, but it might scare some students.

Miss Jenny turned with a book and began writing on the board while the rest of us copied it into our notebooks. Linda returned Cayle’s notes and began writing furiously to catch up.

“Have you seen Gaby yet?” Cayle asked.

My first response was, “Who’s Gab—” before I remembered who she was. The girl who was awarded first position last year. She topped every student in the whole SS3 science department. I always thought females never did well in science, and Gaby proved me wrong to the core. “No, I haven’t. Why do you ask?”

“She and Frank are now a thing.”

“Frank?” I asked. I didn’t know who Frank was, at all.

“Yeah. That rich guy in C4. He was the fourth in position after you,” Cayle replied, and I shot a mean look at him. What was he implying? That I was as dull as that other rich, clueless guy?

“So? Why are you telling me about her?”

“You and Gaby used to be close. What happened?”

I shook my head faintly, following an exhale, “We were study partners, and nothing else. Mind your business, Cayle.”

“Oh, I will. But seriously, you need to get a girl. Maybe Hanah or Charlotte.”

“Shit, Cayle. What are you on about?” I dropped my pen, now glaring at him. He was being ridiculous.

“I’m sorry,” he raised his hands in surrender and resumed writing.

I glared at him one more time and stood up, excusing myself from the class. Finally, a wave of fresh air. I tucked my hands in my pockets, heading to the toilet meant for science students. It was a little farther away from the science block, which was okay by me. A little freedom, away from people who suffocate me so badly.