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Unanswered Prayers and Chipped Nail Polish

a short story exploring the need for validation and acceptance

As I sit opposite Mr. Awosika, I make sure to avoid eye contact. I feel his gaze on me but I focus on the bronze nameplate on his desk. "S.B. Awosika, Head of Department, Business Administration," it reads. Seun B. Awosika. I wonder what the "B" stands for.

He sighs. "Ojochide, I have already told you running for president of the department association is not a smart choice." He leans forward, lacing his fingers together. "And I have given you enough time to withdraw from the elections or run for the post of vice president. But you have shown—"

"That's not even possible," I say looking up and shaking my head.

"What is not possible?"

"The election is tomorrow. I can't withdraw or change the position I'm running for now." The first time he told me to choose between withdrawing from the election or running for the post of vice president, I didn't think he was serious. I said I'd think about it but never got back to him. Then he started sending people to "remind me about that thing." I still ignored him. Today, he sent for me in the middle of a lecture.

I wonder why he's so bent on this. Announcing my withdrawal or change of position a day before the election was impractical.

"It's not too late," he says. "All we have to do is inform the electoral committee." I roll my eyes at that. Students from other departments conduct the election to avoid bias and make it professional. They called them the 'electoral committee.'

"We will send a message to the group chat and everyone will know like that," he snaps his fingers and there's a smile on his face like he has it all figured out.

"But you always say doing things last minute is unprofessional."

"Unprofessional?" He waves his right hand as if he's pushing what I said aside. "Ojochide, let's be realistic here. We both know Feranmi is best suited for this position."

Feranmi is the other candidate. He's nice, charismatic. I like him, everyone does. But he is definitely not the best option. He can't have a serious conversation. At the manifesto reading, he kept on making jokes. This is our third year and his third time running for a position in the department and it's obvious he's only in it for the benefits of being a member of the council–the influence, the popularity. I'm the smarter choice. And more importantly, I have a higher GPA.

Mr. Awosika is softly tapping the desk with his index finger waiting for a reply or reaction. His eyebrows are set low like they always are and I can't help wondering if he has a headache. I stare at him because there's nothing to say. I'm not changing positions or withdrawing.

I start scratching at the bright purple nail polish on my nails.The silence hangs over us, waiting for either of us to break it. Mr. Awosika does the honour. "Ojochide, it's not that I don't want you in the council. I wouldn't be giving you the option of running for vice president if I didn't. This is for your own good and there's a reason."

His finger gains speed as it taps on the desk. I can sense his impatience growing like a tree and the smart thing to do is chop it down before it gets any bigger; to avoid any trouble. But all I want to do is water it. Let it grow because none of this makes sense. "What exactly is that reason?" I ask. "Because I'm technically the president now. You've made me do so much work for the department and I have shown I am capable. I deserve this."

He stops tapping the desk, his lips are set in a straight line. "There has never been a female president in this university for any council or association. Simply because the man leads and the woman supports. That is just the way it is. It's better for you to learn now."

I never pegged him as ignorant or sexist. He looked above that. "It's unrealistic," he tells me."Unheard of." If I decide to run for vice president, I'd have his full support. If I don't, I'd regret it.

I don't understand how he plans to make me regret it but for the first time throughout my campaign, I feel doubt wrap it's hands around me because I don't know how far Mr. Awosika is willing to go to make sure his caveman beliefs are upheld. But then I remind myself how far I'm willing to go and it's farther than him.

When he's done with his rant, I check my phone and see that my lecture has ended. I stand up and flakes of the purple nail polish fall to the floor, some fall onto his polished shoes that peak out from underneath the desk. I leave with a fake smile plastered on my face.

Outside the office, Feranmi and my friend Sarah are leaning against a wall talking. They don't notice me. When I walk up to them, Feranmi sees me and smiles one of his smiles–the kind that makes you want to smile back; the kind that makes you want to vote for him.

He steps forward with his hand out. "Chide how far?"

I wonder if he's planning something with Mr. Awosika. I shake his hand briefly. "You're here to see the HOD?"

He walks to the door and nods, still smiling. "He sent for me." I wish he'd stop smiling.

The air is heavy and the sky is growing dark. It's going to rain. I remember how the weather forecast showed it would be sunny in Abuja for the whole week but it had rained almost everyday. I should stop checking it. But I know I won't.

Sarah and I walk back to our dorms on the other side of campus and I relay my conversation with the HOD to her.

"Wait, isn't that a threat?" she asks.

"That's exactly what I was thinking," I say.

"And he said the woman is meant to support?" she starts laughing. "Aren't these things people get fired for?"

"In this school?" I look around us. "Please."

She laughs then clears her throat. "Sometimes I think: all this stress for something you don't really want."

I slow my pace and turn to look at her. "What do you mean?"

She looks straight ahead." I mean the stress of campaigning, people saying they'll vote for Feranmi because a girl can't handle it and now this HOD wahala." She shrugs. "It just doesn't seem like it's worth it for something you don't really—"

"Why do you keep saying that?" I stop walking. "When did I tell you I don't really want this?"

She continues walking but slows her pace."You didn't have to tell me, Chide. This just seems like another ploy to get your father's attention."

She says this so matter of factly, I'm shocked. "Oh my God, where is this even coming from? And why is it coming now?"

She stops and turns to me. "Are you serious?" she laughs a little. "This was something I thought we both knew. You've done so many things you didn't want to for him. If you don't win what will you do now?"

I don't tell her that can't happen. I don't tell her I will definitely win.

"You're the one who said school politics is useless," she continues.

"Well, I changed my mind. I want to do something different and it has nothing to do with him." As I say this, I hope I'm convincing. I never thought I was so easy to see through. She shrugs and keeps walking. I change the subject. "What were you and Feranmi talking about?"

"Oh, he was just telling me about his big plans for the department. He's really excited." Then she goes on to tell me those big plans.

They're really big. I don't tell Sarah I don't have any big plans for the department.

I wasn't interested in the election until about a month ago when I was talking to my father on the phone and the conversation was taking an awkward turn. I was searching for something to say when I overheard a group of girls talking about department elections. One of them complained about how there had never been a female president in the entire school. So I thought: the first female president of a department in the university. That ought to impress him. And it did. He told me I should go for it. Now everytime we talk, I bring it up so we have something to talk about.

"I didn't think he was actually interested," I say to her.

"Well apparently he is," she says. "Look Chide, I'm not telling you to drop out or anything. I get that you want validation from your dad, a lot of people want that. But you're killing yourself over it. After this election just rest. It's not worth the stress. Don't you think?"

I give a small nod and look at my nails. I hate chipped nail polish like I hate the rain. They're both chaotic, unanticipated and annoying. I try peeling the remaining off when an aggressive wind starts and blows some dust into my eyes. I scratch them trying to get it out and tears start to fall. I know it's not because of the dust. When Sarah asks I pretend that it is.

I had told Sarah about how when I was younger, I prayed to be a boy. My father never blatantly showed his disappointment at my being a girl. He wasn't mean, he didn't beat me. Sometimes I wondered if that would have been better because that requires a level of attention. Instead, he was always busy and never around.

One night, he had his friends over and I overheard him telling them he had asked God for one thing–many sons. Instead, he got me. On top of that, when I came, I took my mother's life, ruining any chance of getting a boy. I was the "embodiment of unanswered prayers," he said. I didn't understand what that meant but I cried that night but I also decided becoming a boy was the only way not to be the body of unanswered prayers or whatever he said. That prayer was left unanswered too.

One day, I found an alternative to get his attention, to win his affection and approval. This was when I got the first overall position in Jss1; higher than any boy. I was mediocre in primary school so this was a shock. That day, he hugged me and told me he was proud. For the first time, he attended a school event, the prize giving ceremony. He came on stage and took a picture with me as I collected my prize. I still have that picture with me. I was smiling so hard, his arm around my shoulders and a proud smile on his face as we both looked at the camera. It's the only picture of the both of us.

Alone in my dorm room, I think of two things: Mr. Awosika's threat and Sarah saying I didn't really want this while Feranmi did.

I file my nails and spread the second coat of black nail polish on them. They look perfect. But the thoughts keep nagging.

I decide to call Praise. The pillar that my assurance of success for the election comfortably rests on.

Praise is a final year computer science student; one of the few girls there. We met during one of my campaigns. She told me her story. How she had run for president of her department too but lost because no one could stand a girl leading. She hated the way it was and wanted change.

She's the chairperson of the electoral committee and came with a proposition for me: To rig the election. This was the only way the needed change would come. The way to prove to everyone a girl could hold that position and do it well. I was skeptical at first until I saw how the odds swung in Feranmi's favour. I didn't ask how she planned to do this–she seemed confident in her abilities. A solution had come without me looking and I accepted it. I didn't tell Sarah. I could imagine the disapproving look she'd wear if she found out.

When I call Praise, I tell her about Mr. Awosika's threat and she brushes it aside saying there's not much he can do because it's a student association. "He's not even meant to be involved in this," she tells me.

I push Sarah's claim to the back of my mind and try to fall asleep.

The election starts by eight. Sarah and I are at the venue–a dimly lit theatre hall with tinted windows and a stage covered in red caperting–by seven. I see Praise with the other committee members setting up. I try to catch her eye. She sees me and gives me a soft nod. Sarah doesn't notice this exchange.

Students start filing in by nine–an hour late–and there are more people than I expected. Sarah votes early because she needs to head home to help with her mom's birthday party–her family doesn't play with parties . When she's done, she has a huge smile on, she gives me two thumbs up and walks out. I want her to stay but I'm relieved I won't have to fake my surprise to her when I win.

Feranmi goes round shaking hands and smiling. I'm not sure about this. My heart is palpitating, my stomach doing jumping squats. I lean on the wall and try to reassure myself that I need this no matter the cost.

When everyone is done, Feranmi and I go up to vote. He smiles at me. I look away. Our names are printed boldly on the ballot paper. I pick my pen up and notice the chipped nail polish on my thumb nail. It wasn't there a minute ago.

I don't know why, but I put a tick next to Feranmi's name. I swallow the confusion and anxiety, fold my paper and try to drop it in the box but my hands are shaking and it takes multiple attempts. Praise frowns at me.

When the counting begins, I try to catch Praise's eye again. To shake my head. Tell her to stop but she doesn't look up. Her eyebrows are furrowed and she's focused. There's a rumble of thunder. It's going to rain. My nails are already ruined so I start peeling of the nail polish and soon I'm surrounded by black flakes of nail polish. I don't want this.

It starts to drizzle. My phone rings and it's my dad. He hardly calls first. I stare at it for a while then pick up. Did he remember the election?

It's the first thing I ask him. But he replies with: "What election?" And those words slash through my excitement. I remind him about it but he seems distracted. He's talking to someone else.

I wait for a while before I talk again. "Hello?"

"Yes, I'm here," he replies.

"Why did you call?" I ask and at that moment, the outgoing president comes on stage, people start cheering. The results are in. I see Praise staring at me. She motions for me to come forward. I raise my index finger, telling her to give me a minute.

My dad starts talking but the noise from the hall is too loud. I close my free ear with my finger, press the phone closer to the other ear and walk towards the door to get away from the noise but the raindrops start falling hard on the zinc roof. Everything is hectic. I press harder on my ear. "Sorry, what did you say?" I ask

He sighs, irritated that he has to repeat himself. "I said I'm getting married."

"What?!"

He continues. "Remember Mitaire?"

I want to reply no, I don't know any Mitaire. But he doesn't give me the space. He's babbling now, excited.

"... God answers prayers," he says and goes on to tell me how this Mitaire woman is pregnant with his son, how they're getting married. Something in me shifts. I never understood when people said their hearts dropped into their stomach but that's what I feel. As it drops, there's an echo that resonates through my whole body and I just want to slide to the floor and cry. But I don't.

He's doesn't stop talking about how this is all he's ever wanted and I wish I could put a gun through the phone and pull the trigger, stopping him mid-sentence.

I turn and see Feranmi walking over with his hand held out. "Congratulations," he says. There's a smile on his face I've never seen it before.

Everyone is looking my way, waiting for me to come on stage. My father is still talking but I don't process the words. At that moment, like a sword cutting through the air, a myriad of thoughts run through my mind with so much speed.

I think of Mr. Awosika, what he'd do to make me regret this. Of Feranmi–whose hand is still stretched out in front of me–and how he genuinely wanted this. Of how I would take this position knowing I don't want it.

I think of my father. His never ending disappointment in me being a girl. Of how a child that hasn't even come into the world already has his acceptance and approval. Of all I've sacrificed to get that but never did. Of how to him, I'll always be an embodiment of unanswered prayers.

I look at my nails, chipped, imperfect, chaotic. Like me, like my life. I can't deal with any of this right now.

As I turn and walk into the rain, it merges with my tears.

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