Seventy times seven times

A sudden coldness hit me at the core as a heavy feeling settled in my stomach. 

In a shaky voice I responded, "Thank you, ma'am." I put up a smile for the Deputy Head and I was on my way home clutching my A levels statement of results as if the pressure from my hand would rearrange the lines and curves that formed my symbols. The alphabetic arrangement of the subjects put my worst performance in the lead on full display, making it all the more worse. I replayed the scene at the school office. Mrs Wagoner, the mother of the school in the absence of the Headteacher, gave me the saddest smile. This wasn't my best performance, though still good, and she knew it.

Trudging to the house, I thought about how much effort I had put in my studies and how difficult the papers were anyway. It's like the Cambridge examiners had hard hearts and purposely wanted the class of November 2016 to suffer. I didn't blame them. The key was in my hands. I just should have studied harder. Despite all that, I was happy with the symbols I got. They were not excellent but at least they didn't come close to my worst nightmares prior to the day of the results. But I knew one person who would be disappointed. 

His favourite colour had always been white. Not because he was neater than the word neat or a cat - which he was- but because it seemed to show how much of an angel he was. He was a kind, charming, lovable person for twelve years of my life and I still sit somewhere to appreciate all the love he gave me. Though hidden.

From the frying pan to the fire, is how I described my adversity. Upon hearing about my results, his mood changed from angry to angrier. Every horrible word under the sun spewed out as he ate the food I had set before him. I couldn't move as he talked till he finished the meal. Breathing out in relief, way too early, thinking that was the final worst for the day, I washed the dishes and prepared to run to my room. 

"Young lady. Come here," he commanded, stopping me in my tracks. "Girl" showed he was in a good mood. "Katia" was just normal, "Madam" when he was annoyed and "Young lady" when a horrible thing was coming my way. "Young lady" was last used when he chased me away from home because I forgot to sweep the yard and he called me irresponsible before last Christmas. I knew what was going to happen as I joined him in the dinning room and stood opposite him. I dared not sit down, let alone look him in the eyes. I had to show respect as my daddy gave me the blow of my life. 

"You have up to May in this house to get an admission letter into university. Come end of May and you don't have that, don't wait for me to even come home. Pack your things and go. I don't want to have anything to do with that C you got. I'm washing my hands off." Silence. The ultimatum hung heavy in the air. 

ABC in A levels was just enough to get me into medicine in a few universities but they required application fees. I never had the pleasure of getting pocket money and there I was as hopeless as a sand castle at high tide. 

The next day found me, early, determined to find a university without application fees. Since there was no internet in the house and daddy was most definitely not going to allow me near the office, my only option was making use of the free wireless at the national library. From morning to midday I searched and searched until University of Bangor popped up in front of my tired eyes. I could not believe it but I quickly started and finished my application, uploading every school record I had scanned and stored on my phone. There was hope after all. 

Back home, it was the silent treatment. Like the one after I mistakenly chose the accelerator over the brakes. The one after I was banned for life from driving dad or any of the cars. My driver's license was only put to use once. Only that day. That calamity led to my addiction with the view from my bedroom window every weekday at 5pm. I watched Tiffany, my age mate and neighbour, drive out and fulfilling what my heart longed to do for my father. I bet her mother was proud. And I coped. 

I broke a glass and my heart stilled for a moment. I was holding it well but it just slipped into the sink. Kerosene to the fire. More words from dad and an even louder silent treatment afterwards. My heart broke into a million pieces, not even of glimmer and dust. My day was fruitful but I went to bed to wet my pillow. And I survived the day. 

Unconditional offer of admission to Bangor University... That's how the next week started for me back in the library. My email inbox was glittering and my heart smiled. I got home and screamed yes. One good thing to celebrate. Daddy returned home from work to a happy being and a surprise, I guess. I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life on the streets but the next few years I was going to be in UK continuing my studies. 

February, March, April then May came. Plans were still in place. Daddy was back on board. The house was lively. I couldn't be anymore happier. Nothing to cry about. No tricky situations. That's what I thought. The Pounds Sterling was too much for daddy. We were not doing very well anyway so we couldn't make the deposit. The least he could do was pay the application fees for Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology (KNUST) back home in Ghana. Being a Ghanaian, everything would be far more reasonable and easier. We had someone on the inside doing everything for us. All we had to was send money. First application fees then small tips there and there, what anyone would call bribing. It was getting difficult for us to get food to eat. I was crying again but waking up bright and hopeful everyday but business still went downhill until we were on daddy's last reserve. 

KNUST called me for oral assessment - interview- in August. I was thrilled. Cloud nine was nothing. I was the only one drunk in happiness. 

Daddy looked at me, "Girl, I'm sorry. The money is just not there. I can't buy a ticket."