It was one night, as always, nights when I surf the internet looking for opportunities locked in somewhere. I wouldn’t say I knew what I was looking for but at least I had an idea. If it wasn’t a scholarship option to leave the shores of this land, it was an opening to submit my works and at least make money even if it was crumbs. On those nights, if I didn’t reach a dead end, it was either I got carried away by the ever succumbing hands of sleep or worse, the exhaustion of my Internet subscription.
It was that night I met Kobiowu, or so he called himself. I had found a website where my qualifications were required. I had applied and I had received an email instantly. Thinking it was an acceptable email, I practically jumped to my email inbox. Now that I think about it, it felt more of a dubious approach. He called himself Kobiowu, writer, editor, publisher, blah blah. My joy knew no bounds, I had met a well-connected and high-placed creative, what more could I need? Kobiowu became a close ally, gifted me writing tips, advice, and nuggets. He sent goodwill emails and our friendship graduated from the mailbox to my message box and finally, my call logs.
Nights henceforth became an avenue to exchange lengthy conversations with my Kobiowu, I had abandoned searching for those opportunities. Who needed unforeseeable opportunities when a golden bag full of experiences was my friend? Days ran into weeks and unfortunately not into months, Kobiowu must have grown rather impatient. Kobiowu asked for money. Money? From a poor, still-struggling writer like me. I lied to my mother about gaining entrance into a writing program. That poor woman had happily sought for the money for her efiko, future Wole Soyinka. Like a little child running after a bouncing ball, I gave Kobiowu my mother’s sweat. Kobiowu became a black drum that made no response even when beaten countless upon. Kobiowu vanished. Kobiowu became nothing but a speck of my imagination.
On nights like this, I sit and wonder if I ever met Kobiowu or I felt like I did. On nights like this, I no longer scramble around looking for crumbs of opportunity. On nights like this, I sharpen my pencil and scribble words of hate about Kobiowu, using these words to massacre him. On nights like this, I search endlessly for the day I’ll see Kobiowu and rip apart what was left of him.

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