The matches eventually ended entirely, with Jesse's team going on a commanding and unsurprising unbeaten streak. Everyone on the team heaped praise on him for his performance in the games, but Jesse was far too petrified — thinking about what his mother would do to him when he got home — to feel smug about any of their compliments.
The cheers and backslaps from his teammates felt almost distant, as though they were happening to someone else entirely, and not to him.
His mind was already at home, replaying the inevitable confrontation with his mother over and over again like a broken record.
After all, his mother was certainly not one to spare the rod.
She was a woman of few words but many actions, and her actions were very disciplinary.
The walk home was long, but today, it seemed even longer than usual.
Jesse was glad for that.
Trying to occupy his mind with calmer thoughts, Jesse breathed in the air. It was thick with the scent of roasted plantain and mouthwatering suya from the roadside vendors.
If Jesse had any cash on him, he would have stopped to buy a stick or two right away, but unfortunately, he could not afford it.
His friend, Emeka, ever the chatterbox, prattled on about the game a few steps ahead of him. He was the type to talk on and on for hours on end. His energy was as boundless as his enthusiasm was infectious, and today was no different.
The only difference was that today, Jesse wasn't catching any of that "social flu" from him.
Emeka giggled as he spoke, "I loved nothing more than the look on Senior Michael's face when you nutmegged him. Omo, I wish I could have taken a photo of that! I would have framed and hung it in my bedroom so it would be the first thing I wake up to see every morning. Hahaha! I always hated that guy! Good job, good job!" Emeka cackled, slapping Jesse on the back.
When Jesse didn't react, however, Emeka finally noticed his friend's pallor.
Emeka frowned, his laughter fading as he studied Jesse's expression. "Jersey, are you alright?" he asked, falling into step beside Jesse. "Um... Mr Balogun didn't give you any extra homework or anything, right?"
Jesse didn't even turn to acknowledge him. Instead, with slumped shoulders, he simply nodded mechanically, his blank gaze fixed on the dirt road lifelessly.
Jesse sighed eventually.
There was no use stressing about it now considering there was nothing he could do to change it, or the coming outcome, for that matter.
He would cross that bridge when he got there. He had had his fun, and when he got home to his mother, it would be time for him to face the beat of the music. There was nothing he could do about it.
So, finally, he looked up, trying to clear his mind.
Jesse noticed their friend, Segun, a distance up ahead, putting the moves on a girl from another school — one who was presently giggling, smiling, and hanging on to his every word.
'Hah... that crazy brostitute.'
The poor soul had fallen for his flattery hook, line, and sinker.
Their school wasn't co-ed — it was boys only, so the only time they could get to talk to schoolgirls their age was when they came across girls from other schools on their way home.
So, the a-hole always turned Casanova after school's closing hours, and even though his philandering nature couldn't be any more obvious than writing the word "womaniser" on his forehead in block letters, the girls still fell for him regardless every single time.
Why did girls always fall head over heels for the bad guys, anyway?
Jesse really couldn't understand it.
Well... he could.
Good guys like him, after all, didn't have the spine to talk to girls with such ease — not without sweating enough to fill buckets.
Jesse had no clue how guys like Segun did it and made it look so easy.
From his perspective, it appeared like wizardry.
Everytime Segun talked to a girl, he looked like a magician reciting the incantations of a powerful magic spell — one that never failed to enchant its unfortunate targets.
If it really was magic, Jesse didn't have a single clue what magic words to say, or actions to perform.
He could still remember the one and only time he tried to approach a girl — how she fixed him with those cold, steely dark eyes of hers, and raised an eyebrow in mock scorn as he approached her direction.
The tiny thread of confidence he had was severed cleanly in two in that moment. His heart couldn't take any more. It was more than traumatizing enough already; he didn't need her to open her mouth and deliver the final blow.
No. He didn't think he would be able to survive the fatality.
As far as he was concerned, there was nothing in this world that could hurt more than a Yoruba girl insulting you.
Nothing!
So instead, with sweaty palms and shaky legs, he simply pretended as though she was never his destination and walked past her as though he had business elsewhere, making sure to avoid eye contact at all costs.
The memory still gave him PTSD to this day, so he never approached any girls romantically.
Well, even if he wanted to right now, he was in no state to — considering he looked like he had just taken a mud bath.
'A... mud... bath...'
Jesse facepalmed himself and sighed once again with that thought.
Eventually, he separated from his two closest friends and bade them farewell for the day. Their houses were in entirely different directions from his, so he made the rest of the journey home alone.
Going the rest of the journey alone, the road stretched out before him, lined with tall palm trees and the occasional cluster of makeshift stalls selling everything from roasted corn, to spices, and to second-hand clothes.
And it wasn't long before he turned the corner onto his street. The familiar sight of his house came into view in the distance, causing his heart to race frantically, and a little bit of urine to trickle down his thigh.