Modou sat on his bed, his elbows on his laps and his palms supported his bony cheeks. He was swimming in a river of worry at the same time annoyed with himself. He replayed his conversation with Aminata and figured out where he'd messed-up. Why didn't he just say the truth? He thought about this but knew that it wouldn't have spared him of Aminata's anger. But why did he lie? He belittled himself for this. Perhaps it wouldn't have been severe if he were honest. He got up from his bed and absentmindedly strolled on his sheep skin carpet. The apartment was as silent as a graveyard; all his flat mates went to school. He was the only one at home, without any genuine reason for his absence. He thought about it and acknowledged that he got it entirely wrong. A fresh wave of remorse hit him hard again, making him pound his table in frustration. Some of his books and papers fell on the carpet. He left them scattered and sat down again on his bed, his index finger in his mouth. With his tiny incisors he'd bitten it until it nearly bled.
It was 16pm and he knew that Aminata had returned home. He took his phone and thought of sending her a message. He held it in his hands and gave it a second thought. What would he tell her? He knew how boring his evening and the rest of the night were going to be without her. He typed a “Hi’’ and sent it without a second thought.
Aminata was in a different world. She came back from school, exhausted and angry. Her phone was charging while she was busy preparing what to eat. She left the kitchen with her plate of noodles and poached eggs. She sat on her also sheep skin carpet, which she bought the same day with Modou’s, eating while checking her messages. She had a lot of messages, but Modou’s was the first she’d opened. She read it and thought of teaching him a lesson, deciding not to send him a reply instantly.
Modou was constantly checking his WhatsApp, impatiently waiting for a reply. Different thoughts rained in his mind as he waited for a reply from his bestie love, the girl he loved unconditionally. A discouraging thought came with the idea that Aminata refused to read his message. Another one brought positiveness; that perhaps she was busy or charging her phone. He decided to trust the latter. He checked again and saw the two blue ticks beside his message, which was read 5 minutes ago. His frustration increased. He angrily plunged on his bed. His teeth biting one another, making an unusual sound. That was what he normally does whenever he was sad or angry. He pondered about this for so long: Why should Aminata refuse to reply to him after all what had happened between them and the time they’d spent together. He thought about how they’d struggle to have the Moroccan scholarship. How they’d done so many things together since their arrival in the Kingdom. He opened his iPhone 8’s gallery and started watching photos that dated 7 years back. He viewed their graduation pictures in Nusrat, and the pictures on the euphoric day they went to collect their results. They both had outstanding results, each bagged 6 As. He stumbled on the pictures at Higher Education, too-- when they were applying for the scholarship. He was carried away by the memories behind the pictures. He was staring at their airport pictures in The Gambia and when they arrived at the Mohammed 5 Airport and were hit by Morocco’s cold winter breeze. They sat beside each other in the bus from Casablanca to Rabat and took beautiful snap videos, showing Morocco’s insane infrastructure. He scrolled down to the pictures during their French year, they were still young, and he remembered how they spoke French anyhow.
When they were given their courses, they attended different schools; Aminata was studying Economics at the Faculte d’Economie de Gestion and Modou was going to Ecole Nationale de Commerce et Gestion ENCG, where he would do a straight MSc program. He watched when she graduated in FEG and sat for an entrance exam to join him in his school, where they currently study, to pursue her MSc program in Digital Marketing.
He felt a sense of resentment, that Aminata should not ignore him no matter what happened. He couldn’t do anything but stayed in doors for the rest of the evening.
Aminata was in her apartment watching her favorite Senegalese series, Adja. Her mind was on Modou even though she chose not to reply to his message. She finally thought of texting back.
“Hello Mo”
Modou’s phone vibrated on his comforter blanket, and he quickly checked the message. He smiled after knowing it was Aminata.
“Yes, How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s good. What are you up to?’’
“Nothing much. Just watching something.’’ She kept her replies as short as possible, showing less interest in the conversation.
‘’ That’s awesome.’’
“Sure.”
“How was school?” Modou asked again.
“Not bad.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah.’’
At this point, Modou didn’t see the importance of texting her. Something was wrong, for they only had this kind of boring convo when they were at loggerheads. His frustration showed no sign of reducing. He replied no more. What was the essence of texting someone who wasn’t interested in conversing with him? He angrily distanced his phone from him.
Aminata was guilty when she’d not seen Modou’s message after 10 minutes. She knew that Modou was going to be affected by their recent conflict, even herself. She thought of texting back, but her ego could not permit her. She had to act as if she felt nothing, but the pain was mutual. They missed each other so much.
They remained that way for 2 days. At school, after checking Aminata’s timetable, Modou would aimlessly roam around her block, trying to see her. Aminata acted as if she didn’t want to reconcile but that was what she wanted deep inside her. Modou didn’t understand this, and he also did not want to be the first to approach her. They’d had conflicts but they never lasted like this one. He became completely lost; he couldn’t eat much neither concentrate in class nor do anything meaningful at home.
Modou and Aminata did not talk to each other for the rest of the week. And Modou’s case started turning into a health disorder. He initially started doing some insensible things like boiling water for no reason. He evolved into cooking cucumbers with spaghetti while breaking raw eggs inside. He would speak and laugh like no man’s business. It didn’t stop there; he was affected by constipation and later diarrhea. Things got worse when he developed a chest pain, leaving him unable to go to school. His flat mates would hear him talk as if someone was in his house. He’d changed completely. One night, after taking shower and dressing up, he started yelling, speaking different languages including ones that his flat mates did not understand. Perhaps it was an invented language. Omar heard this rushed to his Ghanaian flat mate, Ebenezer’s room.
“Knock, Knock. Ebenezer, Ebeh.” Omar called him with a voice that showed emergency.
“Why are you so in a haste? What do you want?” Ebeh spoke jokingly.
Omar was not in that mood. He guessed Ebeh didn’t have an idea of all what was happening. His facial expression showed seriousness and worry.
“Have you been observing Modou’s actions lately?” He asked.
“Not really. We hardly meet since he’d tuned to be a house pikin and my room is somewhat far from his.’’
“I believe he’s not ok. He must have some mental problems. I kept hearing him call Aminata’s name more than ten times in just 30 minutes and she is not here.”
“Really, you are right. I equally met him adding vegetable oil into a pot of boiling water. He added an abnormal quantity of salt, and when I asked, he said he was cooking Teja during, that your Gambian dish. Is it Duringohh? He asked to confirm.”
“Yes, yes Tiya Durang.” He continued, ‘’Modou is not ok. We need to check on him.’’
The walked to Modou’s room. It was not locked, they entered without knocking. They met him speaking to himself and kept pronouncing Aminata’s name.
“Modou,’’ Ebeh called him.
“He made a huge raw laughter and said, ‘’Ebenezer, the great Somalian from Ghana.’’
This was enough for Ebeh to conclude that Modou had some mental health issues. His eyes met Omar’s and it was as if they agreed to cry together. Tears ran down their cheeks and Modou was surprised. A mentally disabled person always feels mentally ok from within.
“Why are you guys crying?” He asked with sheer concern.
“Nothing, can you accompany us to the clinic?” Omar asked. He wanted him to be consulted by a doctor.
“Who is sick?’’ Modou asked.
“It’s Ebeh, he’s having a stomach problem.”
Modou thought about it for a while and ask about Aminata. “Will Aminata go with us?”
“No, she won’t,” Omar replied.
“Then I’m not going.’’
They tried so hard to take him to the Clinic, but to no avail. They had to call Aminata to explain the entire scenario to her. She was so sad that she continuously wept, knowing adequately that she was behind everything that happened to her best friend, whom she loved so much.
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