(This is the unedited text from a 10-minute writing session last Friday).

There were no walls as far as the eyes could see. Not only were there no walls, there was also an absence of anything that could have served as a wall — rocks, boulders, tall grass.

I had been here for three days, and was still only getting used to the way things worked. For the first time, I wondered if physical walls actually create the walls in our hearts, for even the people I met had no walls in theirs.

Nobody lied because you gained nothing by doing so. You hid nothing because there was nothing to hide in the first place.

At first, I welcomed it, but after some time, I thought back to how it was in the world I had come from. Some things are better hidden, and walls serve to protect us, as well as to protect others from us.

I had a mission now, sadistic as it might be — to create walls, both physically, as well as in the hearts of the people of this world.

I’d like to thank everyone who commented on my previous post. As to what happened in the end, the next day I was so tired I stayed in bed all day. The day after that, I think I started telling myself it was too late to say anything, but I perhaps, much as ashamed I am to admit it, was scared.
___________________________________________-

The internet connection for the dorms has been down for close to two weeks. Absolutely nothing was wrong before the IT department came in to do upgrades. Ever since then, it’s been on and off. I looked up the gateway IP (SonicWall) and seriously considered doing a bruteforce attack by generating a lot of entries with this script just so I can have a look at the restrictions placed. Considering all the trouble I’d have to go through, including IP spoofing, and the ones I’d have to go through if I get caught, I think it’s safer just blogging from the library like this.

I ought to have posted one or two times last month (not that that’s nearly enough), but after losing a very long, witty (I wish!) post to the aforementioned problem and a Firefox crash, I just couldn’t bring myself to do any blogging.
_________________________________________________________________________

Well, this semester’s been quite busy, but I think I’m keeping up. Now if only that internet got fixed.

I was in the backroom sorting supplies/dozing off/making out/… when I heard the ding as someone walked in. I peeked out into the main store to see what kind of person had walked in.

Black/6ft 1. Suspicious. Great big coat that looked like it could fit half of what was in the store, and a backpack for what was left over.

Just to be sure, I went to the counter and leaned on it with my elbows, my eyes tracking his every move, although I grew uneasy when he walked behind the shelves where he probably knew I couldn’t see him. He would walk aimlessly between the shelves, stop, pick something, stand looking at it for a minute, then replace it. Not once did he ever look towards the counter, but he had to know I was watching him.

This guy was good. I decided that he could go on for hours, and I’d get so used to seeing him patrol that I wouldn’t notice when he did pick something — for good.

Neural adaptation — that’s what it’s called. I barely graduated from high school, but I know the word because my daughter learned about it in a college freshman Psychology course.

I called out to him when he was close enough to the counter. I called out again, then once more, and he turned to me. He took out the earphone in his right ear and said, “Did you say something?”

His accent was foreign. My suspicions increased.

“Shoplifting might be accepted back where you come from, but here it’s a crime. You look like someone who’s going to walk out with something hidden in your coat, and I don’t want you around here, because I’ll get into trouble with the manager.”

I wanted to say that, but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “I need you to leave if you’re not going to buy anything. I have some work to do in the backroom, and I’m not going to stand around watching you walk up and down my store.”

He looked me right in the eye and said calmly, “I don’t like what you’re trying to imply.”

Imply. The devil probably looked up the word right before coming to the store.

“Look,” I said, getting angrier. “You’re not buying anything, you leave. It’s as simple as that. I don’t want you walking up and down, and then…”

“Wait…” he cut in. I wasn’t going to let him.

“I don’t want you walking up and down and then taking God-knows-what. I simply don’t have the time to watch you, because I’ve got things to do in the backroom.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” he said. “Now, this isn’t the first time I’ve come into this store to buy something. All the other guys who work here know me.”

Yeah right.

“I come in here sometimes when I’m bored, walk around, and buy anything I feel like…”

“I don’t want anyone ‘bored, walking around and picking what he likes.’ If you’re not going to buy anything, I need you to leave,” I cut him short.

“I was going to buy these,” he held out two 25c combs.

“Just leave,” I took them from him and threw them beside the cash register, heading for the backroom where the greater pleasures of life awaited me.

“Hey!” he shouted. “I said I want to buy these.”

I returned to the counter and rang them up. 75c, including tax. I wanted to wallop his nose, but I dutifully made change, and handed them to him, although I made sure I didn’t put them in a paper bag, or ask him if he wanted one.

I heaved a sigh of relief when he left.

_________________________________________________________

I (Azuka) have never been more insulted in my life. I think I handled this pretty well, considering that I’m sometimes a pushover, and will either take anything thrown at me meekly, or explode in anger.

This is the corner shop where I’m one of their (I hope) esteemed customers. I get a discount on a carton of Arizona Green Tea which I can reserve up to a week in advance. Some items I’ve requested have been added to the stock because I’m likely to buy  items I request every week.

It happened this morning, but I’m still very angry at what happened. I’m going to talk to the manager tomorrow (today, actually — it’s 12:12am).

9:45 am.

I’ve just emerged from the shower and am looking for something. In one of those cases of my losing something in working memory, I keep searching, sure that when I find it — whatever it is — I’ll know it’s what I’ve been looking for.

Now, if I had my glasses, I’d have found it long ago, but no, I don’t have them on.

If I had my glasses.

If I had my glasses…

I’m looking for my glasses, and there they are, perched in the closet, which was the first place I looked in.

The first Oluchi I knew was a runny-nose crybaby in Primary One, the first Ernest a fair-skinned math teacher with huge nostrils who grinned as he strolled around you when you got a question wrong, before applying a cane to your unsuspecting back.

My first Ifeoma was a cheery, brilliant girl in my class who always had a smile on her face, my first Emmanuel a bully a class ahead of mine who seemed to derive some joy in blasting the ball into my stomach whenever I served as the goalkeeper during soccer games. My first Mustapha was one of my best friends in secondary school who was called the Professor because he explained the structure of DNA to an SS1 student while we were still in JSS1, and my first Sandra was a haughty but pretty girl who I had the misfortune to have a crush on.

I’ve noticed I can’t help it even today. Tell me about an Ifeoma and I think I want to meet her, because she’s sure to be spontaneous, cheery, etc. I was wary of one of my classmates named Ernest for a while until I decided he was ’safe.’

I’m not a fan of Oluchi the model because there’s that link between her and a runny-nose. Emmanuels are okay with me, because I’ve met quite a lot over the years and they’ve almost always been ‘good guys.’ All Mustaphas are smart — at first — and all Veras have green eyes until proved otherwise.

If I were your first Azuka, would you expect any traits in the next Azuka you meet, or would you keep the personality profile blank until you found out more about him/her?

I first purchased stuff from the Dollar Tree in 2003. It was my first time in the US, and my teammates and I — from the 2003 National Geographic World Championship — were shopping at the University Mall in Tampa, Florida. I honestly didn’t know what to buy, but the fact that I was in a store where everything went for a dollar thrilled me.

I bought a lot of junk — $50 worth of junk, or 50 junk items — and when I emerged with about a hundred shopping bags clearly marked ‘Dollar Tree’, my teammates rolled their eyes at me. They later went in. Girls.

I haven’t been in there for quite a while, but a month ago, very broke (total assets: $8) and needing some stuff, my firends S–, E– and I walked into the Dollar Tree next to Walmart. I have very oily skin, excluding my hands and feet which turn white even in summer. Nothing I’ve used has helped, but I decided to try some $1 moisturizer, as well as some liquid bath soap.

“Are you sure you should be getting those?” E– looked very skeptical. “That stuff’ll probably burn holes in you.”

I’ve never been one of those who believe you get what you pay for. Cheap rules, or so I thought.

Two days after using my wonder moisturizer and soap, I started to notice lesions on my hands. My skin peeled off in places, and there was even some raw flesh on my palm. Okay, that’s not true.

They had the opposite effect. I got whiter hands and feet, and the soap even dried off my face (in winter I used to walk around with a shiny face). I convinced myself I just wasn’t using enough, and when it worsened, had to admit to myself that I’d been wrong. Not that E–’ll ever know. .

So here I am broke again, and I think I know not to buy some things even if they’re just a dollar, but do I really?