Fleeting Feelings, Whips and Apologies

His cologne was acrid. One you could smell even when he stood meters away. It often distracted her while she was in class, but she loved it; she loved his smell. He taught her class further mathematics and was also her private tutor.

 

 

Their relationship seemed different. It wasn’t like a teacher-student relationship or an uncle-niece relationship. It was plain different. They had conversations on every subject matter and still had inside jokes. He had watched her grow from junior school until senior high.

 

 

Sometime in between senior school, she disrespected him. She talked back, and in turn, he gave her about four whips on her bottom in the presence of the entire class. She had grown so fond of him, and boundaries did not exist to her.

 

 

These whips caused a wound on her left arm, by her elbow. It bled, and she had to nurse it at the school’s sick bay. She was so hurt; it felt like she had a shattered heart and not a bruised arm.

 

 

She decided not to speak to him, participate in his classes, and skip private lessons. Sometimes, he brought up conversations when they crossed pathways or when students were assembled, waiting to be addressed by the principal. But her responses were bland, lacking enthusiasm. Didn’t he see her arm was bruised?!

 

 

She missed him. She missed him sorely. She missed the jolly moments, having lunch with him, the smell of his cologne, and his dry jokes, too– but the feeling of the whip washes it off. He shouldn’t have given her those strokes.

 

 

Her cold shoulders lasted four days until he asked a junior student to send for her.

 

She stood across his table.

 

 

“Sir, you called?” She said, with her head tilted downward. She couldn’t look at him.

 

“Yes, I did,” he responded. Her bruised elbow, covered in Crystal violet, caught his eye.

“Did I do this to you?” He asked, slightly raising her arm to take a closer look.

 

She nodded in response. Her head was still tilted.

“Look at me,” he said.

 

She raised her head and stared at him. She had missed seeing his pleasing dark face closely.

 

“I rebuked you because you were disrespectful.” He said, followed by a long pause.

 

“I love you, and I am sorry.” He continued.

 

 

Somehow, she only heard, “I love you, and I am sorry.”
She smiled–in her mind.

 

 

“Alma, I’m sorry,” he apologized once more.

 

“It’s okay sir. I’m sorry too, I shouldn’t have talked back.” She responded.

 

He smiled. “Friends again?” He asked, extending his right hand for a shake.

She smiled. “Yes.” She responded, receiving his hand.

 

 

The bell rang.

 

 

“We’d catch up later, break’s over now.” He said.

“Alright sir.” She replied, turning to walk away.

 

 

She wore a smile for the rest of the day, as she had made up with her best buddy. He also apologized and said he loved her. She loved him too; she loved him so much! Did she? No, she didn’t. Call it Infatuation.

 

 

The scar of those whips still lives by her elbow today. And her love? Her love is long gone. It just came to play.

13 thoughts on “Fleeting Feelings, Whips and Apologies”

  1. Ezekwe Victory

    Absolutely Love It, Really Didn’t Want It To End🥺 It Brought Back The Feelings Of My Favorite Book In The World “purple Hibiscus” 🥰🥰

    Well Done Boo👏👏

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