Chapter 1: Fire for Fire

After I left the psychiatric hospital, I become teacher for one rehabilitation centre wey dey collect stubborn pikin dem.

Before I even resume well, the air for that centre heavy with wahala, like thunder wey never fall. My own heart dey beat join, but I no let anybody see am. The staff dey look me with side-eye, as if dem dey wonder if I fit last for this kind place.

Old NEPA pole bend for one side, wire dey dangle like snake. The walls rough, paint don peel, and the gate man dey always sleep for afternoon. The smell of disinfectant and old sweat dey everywhere, mix with that kain fried akara wey the cooks dey hustle for back. Sometimes the akara dey burn, so the air get that bitter oil smell wey remind person of Lagos roadside. Even the way the sun dey shine for the compound, e be like e dey try expose everybody secret.

The oga for the place look me well, ask, "The students we get here na either small criminals, violent mad people, or children wey get mind wey no dey here at all. You fit handle am?"

He just size me up with that kain look wey say, 'You sure say you wan do this work?' The man no even blink. His native cloth neat, but im shoe dirty with red Ibadan sand. The way he talk, e get as e be. You go know say the wahala wey dey here pass normal school wahala. He no dey hide am at all. Even the secretary wey dey jot for corner just dey eye me, dey wait for me to talk.

I just smile, rub my chin like old man wey don see plenty for life. Sometimes, na poison dey cure poison best.

I think for my mind say, dem never see real wahala. Na person wey don see finish go sabi how to handle children wey the world don throw away. As I smile, my mind dey far, dey remember the kain pain wey I carry for body and soul. For this country, if wahala meet wahala, na who strong pass go survive.