STORY TIME

–OnebyOne–

by Rose Ugoalah

Lashes upon lashes upon lashes upon lashes spare nothing spoil all tears pour down upon my lashes forty boys to a dorm separated by four-foot-high timber cubicles no bathroom on the floor those dreaded stairs I will not go down lest I be taken in the night I hold it in. The piss the pain all of it.

I keep a cup nearby and empty it in the morning.

Lights out say my prayers rest my head sleep with one eye open Lord shine a light on me but not the light that shines from the rooms of the priests with their doors ajar the lurid sounds from their televisions like a sirens call inviting innocents to watch the match a sour invitation I know what nefarious acts go on between the shadows and the light.

Here against my will previously suspended from the Christian Brothers for fighting a fight with a boy —the heir to throne of a mini funfair. Fights all the time you had to land your best punch and hope he wouldn’t come back fights last one minute this one lasted ten the uniformed boys cheer on us Catholic gladiators blood all over the giant tennis court Mr. Murphy steps into the arena to pull us apart.

Removed from familiar comforts its not what happened to me its what I witnessed.

A Catholic boarding school in the early ‘90s a stream of young boys aged 11 to 17 mostly the children of farmers harvested and sent away watched over by eight priests, four teachers and a brainwashed prefect he does what he has to do to survive I don’t blame him for I was once a first year student fresh and weak preyed on by boys several years ahead the cycle spins the victims become the vicious I would have remained cloaked in innocence had it not been for this foul education the seed is a precious thing left untended and too-soon exposed to the elements its bound to perish.

My memory still triggered by the stench of urine off a kid named Eoin he’d piss himself with the fear taken to the top of the staircase to sick bay ran by the nuns who did the cooking generous portions of dread on offer sick bay adjacent to the priest’s room welcomed by a party first week was brilliant balls loped back and forth across the tennis table adjusting the dial on the Yoko transistor radio late night revelry ends with several boys escorted to sick bay long after the nuns had been discharged. Angels sigh broken boys emerge insult upon injury bullied by their peers for their perceived weakness bullied again by the teachers who’d scorn them for their lack of attention ignorant to their nighttime plights.

Pins and needles and pangs always cold always hungry heavy boots on hardwood floors the priest enters the room lights switch on and off and on and off. Light from a torch scatters the room we all hide under covers “I heard you talking! —Come with me to say a few Our Fathers” away they go to sick bay.

Caleb tried to escape but was brought right back. Decades later so many are still trying to get away. Petrol hash booze coke and a few pills help but I doubt anything can block out the recall of those sights, sounds and smells. Despite knowledge of my powerlessness I self-reproach for the screams can still be heard amongst the prayers amongst the play amongst the melodies of singing priests.

Through the second-floor window of this black granite block beyond the beauty and beyond the pale all I can see are dead pigeons in the courtyard the walls close in inch by inch —My fingers dig into the cushion.

Photo by: Rose Ugoalah