Go there and smash that shit.

"Kevin, could you recite the 36 states and their capitals?" Mama-T demanded as she reclined into her arm chair. That was about the twentieth question she had asked me that cold Saturday morning, and I was about to give her the same response I gave the preceding nineteen questions: a loud, deafening silence. I was seated opposite her, my eyes wet, streams of tears rolling down my red cheeks, catarrh flowing down my nosehole like the Niger and Benue Rivers, my trembling hands fumbling with the empty wrap of biscuits I'd tearfully eaten while Mama-T patiently tried to get me to answer those nineteen previous questions. My eyes darted from the aluminium roofing sheet above, to the unplastered brick wall made of cement and the wooden desk that accommodated four to five three-year-olds in the Nursery One classroom.

Mama-T was my class teacher. She was rightly called 'Mama' because she substituted perfectly and gracefully our mothers during the five hours we spent in school, under her care. She was loved by almost every parent and teacher in the school, and was more popular than the school headmaster. Her name was Theresa; hence the "T" in 'Mama-T'. She taught me how to read and write, and she knew I could answer perfectly all the questions she'd asked me. My mom who was seated beside me throughout the oral exams knew also. At home, she'd always brag about me to all our visitors that I knew my recitals so well. What, then, was the problem that morning? What must've possibly gone wrong? Unable to breathe out a word in response to the questions asked, I was promoted to the next class on trial simply because Mama-T knew I knew the stuff, and exams, to her, was no complete measure of knowledge. Knowing the stuff itself mattered more.

I alone knew what happened to me. I couldn't breathe a word because I was a chronic stammerer and I was scared of taking in public; taking to peering, scrutinizing faces. Oral exams was my nightmare. I could recite perfectly with my peers in class, or playfully at home, before my mother, but when faced by peering eyes, I would cower like a wet rat. 

I remember a day when mom, my siblings and I went for a program in the church. After mass, the parish priest came to greet us at the car park. He saw me and asked me my name. My name's Kevin, by the way, and calling out my name used to be a nightmare. Before the priest, my mom and my 3 siblings, I could only get myself to say: "my name-- my name-- is Kkkk--". That was all. Mom was embarrassed, my siblings too. When we got to the car, mom couldn't hide her exasperation. Even mom was ashamed of me. Why me! I hated being alive. Who could save me from this situation? Other five year-olds have got better experiences.

I was once asked to read a passage before the class. I was in primary three then, and I was 8 years old. I stood in front of the class, with my book in my hands. My peers were waiting for me to begin, but no sound could come out from my throat. I tried to breathe in and out. No sound. I signalled the teacher, he understood what I was passing through, and I went to my seat. One of my classmates who stammered also, tapped me and asked if I got stuck 'inside.' I nodded yes. He smiled and tapped my shoulder. My teacher and classmate made me feel safe that day.

I attended a boarding secondary school, boys only. It was a Catholic school, so we usually had mass everyday. My class, JSS3 (Junior Secondary School, Class 3) were the lectors, and a roaster was made so that everyone would participate. Whenever I was to read the following day, I had sleepless nights. I would toss and roll countless times on my bed, and imagine many possible bad scenarios. During the mass, when the priest said, "Let us pray" immediately before the readings, my heart would thump so hard that I always thought the student beside me could hear it. It felt like death. I once mounted the ambo to take a short reading of about seven to eight lines. I stammered so badly that it took me almost five minutes to finish. While I stuttered through the text, a buzzing murmur swept through the crowd, my embarrassed eyes surveyed the assembly of students, some students were trying as hard as possible to smoulder their laughter, some felt pity for me, others bowed their heads in shame. When I uttered "The word of the Lord", the assembly gave a heave of relief that it was all over. Going back to my seat, I begged God that that was a really good time to take my life. It wouldn't cost him much. The ground below could simply yawn and swallow me, or the ceiling could come crashing on my head. I could bear it no more.

I couldn't face my friends. How could I? I was a bright kid in and outside of the classroom. But what good is that if I cannot talk smoothly. In the midst of the shame, the self-loathe, the embarrassment, I realised that I'd hit rock bottom; I had experienced the worst possible thing that could ever happen to me. It happened, yet I was not dead. I was still alive, and I could still talk. I could still walk. I promised myself never to stop talking. I promised myself to keep on exercising the power of speech to the best of my ability. In the coming weeks and months, I was known to be a notorious noise maker. I became a bad boy in class, a distractor. Whenever the class prefect was asked to write the names of noise makers and my name wasn't there, the list was definitely incomplete. My dad often got reports that I was a 'problem-kid' and he'd scold me angrily. But I didn't give a damn. I became confident and felt in control. I still stammered, but I didn't care. I threw self-absorption to the wind. I refused to focus on the few times I stammered, but on the many times I communicated. 

I was no longer regarded as a bright kid who was a stammerer; I became an orator. I represented my class in quizes and debates. I headed societies and clubs in my final years of secondary school, and I graduated as the Best Arts Student. Now in the university, I am the president of the department of Mass Communication, and I represent the university in interviews, symposiums and dramas. I have thrown away the jitters and come to terms with my stammering.

Twenty minutes ago, I was walking down the hallway of the Central Admin Block dressed in a pair of brown trousers, a blue T-Shirt and brown sandals. There were some students, dressed in nice suits, lined up at the far end of the hallway, and I was headed towards them. They were my classmates, final year students of Mass Communications, waiting for their turn to defend their memoirs, at the end of which they'd be done with their first degree education. I'd already done mine, after which I rushed to my lodge, changed my clothes and went back to the school compound to meet the incoming president of the department for a thorough handover of documents. I reached where the lads in suits were and they chanted, "Presido!", "done and dusted!", as I passed. It felt really good. I greeted them all, some with handshakes as noisy as a thunderclap, some with a warm embrace, and wished them good luck. 

Descending the stairs by the side of the admin block, I turned back to take a glance at the lads I'd just passed and my eyes met those of a classmate of mine. From a distance I could tell they were timid, they were in pains, they were insecure. I called his name, Chris, and he came to me. I realised that his coat was unbuttoned -they didn't have buttons, and the zipper of his trouser was bad. I asked him what was wrong. He told me his tailor had failed him. His tailor promised to deliver his complete suit that morning and he didn't show up. His number was not going through, he had in fact switched it off.

" Tailors," I seethed, "those guys won't make heaven." He told me how he managed to borrow some crappy clothes from his roommate and neighbours. He looked so dejected and depressed. I stood side by side him, and measured our heights. He was just a few inches taller. Then I told him to follow me to my room. I had borrowed the clothes I'd used for my defense, but I did it well in advance. So I looked perfect. I lent him all I wore to my project (memoir) defense, which he donned on there and then. He had to sag the trouser a bit, to compensate for the few inches difference between our height. He was set, almost set. I still felt something was lacking -his confidence. He still looked scared.

"Sit down, please", I told him. He sat on the only plastic chair in my room, and I sank on the matress, covered with some nice sheets and spread on the floor. I remembered I had stashed a can of Malt I'd got from a party the night before. I never attend parties without bringing something back home. This is a tradition I learnt from my mother. Whenever she attends an event, we're sure to have a mini-party at home with the food and drinks that fitted magically into her tiny bag. I gave him the Malt. He thanked me and opened the can with a "pffft"

"Are you okay?" I asked Chris. He stared up at the ceiling, and was mouthing what seemed to be a count of the squares of the white ceiling, patched with brown watermarks caused by water leakage. He sighed heavily and said, almost in a whisper,

"I'm scared. I don't know how to face the examiner. And he is a professor. A professor! What could I possibly tell him that he doesn't already know. I'm also scared of talking in public, of talking face to face with an examiner." I told him that the professor was a human being like him. His farts might even be stinkier, and his wife must have angrily told him the night before that he wasn't good in bed. He might be a professor, but at that moment he was Chris's student. Chris, having thoroughly researched on his project for months and being well-informed about the subject is more qualified to talk about the subject in question than the external examiner. About his jitters, I told him my story. And as I did, I could see his face brighten and his eyes glow with confidence. At the end I told him,

"Go there and smash that shit. Speak out the bloody jitters. That's a sign of being human." All I'd said might've made sense or not -I didn't care. I just wanted my man to be pumped up. We left the room for the hallway of the Admin Block. I promised to wait for him, so that we would scream and curse loudly after his defense. He hugged me before going into the hall. Damn, he looked different. I brought out my phone and called the president-elect of the department, the man who is going to take over from me. 

He came five minutes ago. We are speaking now, some metres away from the defense hall, so that we wouldn't disturb the serene environment. Fidelis, the president-elect is a chubby fellow, always haggardly and a poor dresser, but who cares. He's a powerful orator and a funny dude. He was my vice-president, and his victory over his fellow contestant in the elections was flawless, more than a landslide. He is backing the defense hall, and facing me. He is speaking enthusiastically about how he successfully campaigned for the elections and how he is going to do very well, even better than I did. I am smiling, not at what Fidelis is saying about out-doing me, I would really want that. I am smiling because I'm looking past Fidelis, through the sliding-glass window of the defense hall. I can see Chris talking, gesticulating. He has been speaking for over four minutes, and Professor Donald Omenka is smiling, scribbling on a piece of paper and nodding his head. No one has ever spoken this long, ever. Chris is schooling 'The Prof'. Damn!