Interminable by Blessing S. John-Abhulimen
Synopsis
At fourteen, Omejele had nothing but a brilliant mind, a fierce pride, and a crushing poverty that threatened to drag him out of his Uromi village school forever. Then there was Ese—beautiful, graceful, and utterly out of reach. Driven by a quiet, desperate devotion, Omejele vows to conquer the world, build a fortune, and finally become a man worthy of her hand.
But life is a shifting target. Every time Omejele reaches a milestone he thinks will finally impress her, he finds Ese has already levelled up, moving the finish line further into the stratosphere.
What he doesn’t know is the secret Ese has kept for over fifteen years.
She never cared about the money or the status. From the very beginning, she admired his courage, his brilliant mind, and his quiet character. For a decade and a half, she has waited in the shadows, praying for the moment he would finally step forward and ask her out. Yet, every single time he edges close to vulnerability, he pulls back—ruined by his own imposter syndrome.
As the years slip away and the distance between their worlds widens, they remain locked in a agonizing dance of near-misses. Will Omejele realize that the door to her heart was unlocked all along, or will his obsession with being “perfect” cost him the only woman he ever wanted?
1
The year was 1997, the school was Uromi Grammer School and in Uromi, the afternoon sun had a relentless wrath about business. The SS1 classroom was thick with the scent of red dust and an underlying sniff of sweaty underarms.
Omejele sat at a scarred wooden desk near the front. He was a boy of sharp angles and even sharper focus. While others doodled in the margins of their notebooks or whispered about the inter-house sports competition, Omejele’s eyes were locked on Mr. Okosun, who was sketching a map of Nigeria on the chalkboard with a screeching piece of chalk.
“Now,” Mr. Okosun barked, tapping the board. “Who can tell me the primary export of the Niger Delta region during the colonial era before the oil boom?”
Before the teacher’s hand had even left the board, Omejele’s arm was up. It was steady, certain.
“Palm oil, sir,” Omejele said, his voice quiet but carrying a weight of confidence that belied his small frame. “It was known as the ‘Oil Rivers’ Protectorate because the trade was so dominant.”
Mr. Okosun nodded, a rare smile cracking his stern face. “Correct. Excellent, Omejele.”
The View from the Back
Ese sat three rows behind him, her chin resting in the palm of her hand. She wasn’t looking at the map. She was looking at the back of Omejele’s head, and then, lower, at the collar of his shirt.
She noticed things the other girls missed. While they mocked the orphan boy for his grandmother’s poverty, Ese saw the discipline in his details. His white school shirt was thin, so thin she could almost see the tension of his shoulder blades through the fabric, and the sleeves were clearly too short, ending an inch above his wrists.
But it was blindingly white.
In a village where water had to be hauled from the stream and soap was a luxury, Omejele’s uniform was a miracle of labour. It was starched stiff and ironed with such precision that the creases on his sleeves looked like they could cut paper. He looked like a prince wearing the rags of a beggar, carrying himself with a dignity that suggested he was only visiting this life of lack, not staying in it.
As the bell rang, signalling the end of the period, the classroom erupted into the usual chaos of scraping chairs and shouting. Omejele didn’t move immediately. He carefully wiped his pen, placed it in his breast pocket, and tucked his worn textbook into a plastic bag to protect it from the dust.
Ese stood up, smoothing her own pristine skirt. She took a breath, intending to walk past his desk and perhaps mention how well he’d answered the question. But she won’t.
At break time, the sun was at its zenith, baking the red earth until it shimmered. Omejele sat on a patch of stubborn, dry grass with his back against the trunk of a whistling pine, his legs tucked in so no one would accidentally scuff his polished shoes. Beside him, three of his friends, Osas, Eromose, and Chuka, were boisterous, their eyes following the chaotic flight of a half-deflated football being kicked around by the others.
But the conversation wasn’t about the game. It had drifted, as it always did at fourteen, to the girls of SS1.
“Me, I’m telling you,” Osas said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Ese is on a different level. Did you see her hair today? The weaving is so neat, it’s like a machine did it.”
Chuka laughed, nudging Osas with his elbow. “Look at this one. It’s not just the hair, oh. It’s the way she carries herself. She walks like she’s stepping on eggs but doesn’t want to break them. She’s the finest girl in this school, finish.”
“Her father is a big man in the local government, what do you expect.” Eromose added, his voice dropping as if sharing a state secret. “If a girl like that smiles at you, your destiny has changed automatically.”
Omejele remained silent, his fingers tracing the spine of his English textbook. He felt a strange, tight knot in his chest. Every word they said felt like a pebble being dropped into a well he had claimed as his own. He wanted to tell them that he noticed more than her hair or her father’s status. He noticed the way she leaned in when she was interested in a lesson, and the way she never joined the other girls in mocking the village students.
“Omejele, you’re too quiet,” Chuka teased, shoving his shoulder. “Or you don’t like fine things? Tell us, who is your own crush? Or is it only Mr. Ehiaghe’s Maths that you love?”
The other boys laughed. Omejele looked up, his gaze drifting toward the shade of the mango trees where Ese sat with her friends. She was laughing at something, her teeth white against her radiant skin.
“She’s okay,” Omejele said softly, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Just okay?” Osas cried out. “Abeg, see this one! Omejele, if Ese says she likes you today, you will go and bring your grandmother’s best goat to thank God in church.”
Omejele didn’t join in their laughter. He looked down at his hands, the hands of a boy who spent his mornings fetching water and his evenings weeding a small farm.
If she says she likes me today, he thought bitterly, what will I give her? A story? A well-ironed shirt?
He realized then that being the most brilliant boy in SS1 wasn’t enough. To stand beside a girl like Ese, to be worthy of the way she lit up a room, he couldn’t just be a village boy with a clean uniform. He had to be a giant.
Across the field, as if feeling the weight of his stare, Ese turned her head. For a heartbeat, her eyes locked with Omejele’s. She didn’t look away. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Omejele immediately looked back at his book, his face flushing hot. “I really like her,” he said more to himself.
The boys began to laugh.
The laughter of the other boys felt like a sudden downpour of cold rain.
“You?” Osas choked out, slapping his thigh. “Omejele, boy, you have heart, oh! But look at your knicker. The thread is tired of holding that seam together. Two years and that uniform is still struggling to cover you.”
“Ese’s father works in the Local Government Council,” Chuka added, his tone shifting from teasing to a blunt, cruel sort of honesty. “He drives a Peugeot 504. He’s not looking for a son-in-law who spends his Saturdays weeding for extra kobo. A girl like that… she is for people who have already arrived. Not for people still looking for the road.”
Omejele didn’t argue. He didn’t have the words to defend a bank account that didn’t exist. He simply looked down at the grass, his jaw tightening until it ached. The boys’ voices began to fade into a background hum as they started debating which of them, boys with fathers who owned cocoa farms or worked in the civil service, stood a better chance.
In that silence, Omejele was brooding. He was 15, but his mind began to map out a decade of his life like a military campaign.
The shame of his tight uniform and his grandmother’s leaking roof didn’t break him, it hardened him into a singular, sharp point. He looked at the school building, then at the road that led out of Uromi, toward the city.
Dominate every subject. Not just Geography. Math, English, Economics. He would be the standard by which others were graded.
The University of Benin. It was the only way. He would study something heavy, Engineering or Law. Something that commanded a salary and a title.
The First Class. He couldn’t afford to be average. Average was for boys with Peugeot-driving fathers. He had to be undeniable.
He would get Government Job. He imagined himself in a crisp white shirt, brand new, not handed down, stepping out of a car in front of Ese’s father’s house. He would be the man who had arrived.
As the bell rang to end the break, Omejele stood up. He brushed the red dust from his trousers with a slow, deliberate motion. He didn’t look at his friends. He looked toward the corridor where Ese was walking back to class.
He didn’t want to ask her out today. He didn’t even want to speak to her. To him, talking to her now felt like a debt he couldn’t pay. He would wait. He would build himself into a monument, and only then would he ask her to look at him.
Omejele heard someone yell what sounded like his surname. He looked back. Mr. Ehiaghe their Math teacher was approaching.
“Emoagbon!” He yelled again, “You are wanted in the Principal’s office.”
Omejele’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in his chest. In Uromi Grammar School, a summons to the Principal’s office was rarely a herald of good news. For a boy like Omejele, whose life was a fragile house of cards held together by his grandmother’s prayers and his own sheer will, the Office felt like the place where dreams went to be dismantled.
He stood up, his movements stiff. The laughter of his friends died down, replaced by curious, pitying glances.
“O Boy, I hope it’s not the school fees issue again,” Chuka whispered, his earlier mockery replaced by a sudden, sober realization of the stakes.
Omejele didn’t answer. He walked toward the administrative block, his pulse drumming in his ears. Every step felt like he was walking through thick mud. He passed the SS1 block, and for a fleeting second, he saw Ese standing by the railing of the corridor. She saw him, too, her brow furrowing in a question she didn’t voice. He looked away quickly, the shame of being summoned burning hotter than the midday sun.
The hallway of the admin block was dark. He stopped in front of the heavy wooden door with the peeling gold lettering: PRINCIPAL.
He knocked. Three soft, precise raps.
“Come in,” a gravelly voice barked.
Omejele pushed the door open. Mr. Akhigbe, a man whose reputation for discipline was legendary across Edo State, sat behind a desk piled high with ledger books. He didn’t look up immediately. He was peering through thick spectacles at a narrow strip of paper.
The office was quiet, save for the ticking of a wall clock that seemed to be counting down Omejele’s future. Omejele stood at attention, his hands clasped behind his back, his tight uniform feeling smaller by the second.
“Omejele,” the Principal finally said, dropping the paper. He leaned back, the springs of his chair groaning. “I have been looking at the bursar’s list. And I have been looking at your mid-term results.”
Omejele’s throat went dry. The two things were on opposite ends of the universe. One was a record of his brilliance; the other was a record of his grandmother’s empty purse.
“Your grandmother was here this morning,” Mr. Akhigbe continued, his voice unreadable. “She brought two crates of eggs and a bag of garri. She said it is all she has until the next harvest. She was begging, Omejele. Begging me not to send you home for the remaining two terms’ arrears.”
Omejele felt a hot sting behind his eyes. The image of his aged grandmother, her knees creaking, her hands calloused, bowing before this man to trade food for his education felt like a physical blow.
“She is a proud woman,” the Principal said softly, his tone shifting. “But she was crying.”
The Principal sighed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across the floor. He didn’t look like a disciplinarian anymore; he looked like a man trapped by a system larger than himself.
“I gave her my word, Omejele,” Mr. Akhigbe said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “I told her as long as I was Principal, a brain like yours wouldn’t be wasted because of a few Naira. But the Ministry in Benin… they have sent an auditor. They’ve given a direct order. Any student owing a full year’s fees must be sent home immediately. No exceptions. My hands are tied.”
Omejele felt the floor tilt. The map of his life, Uniben, the first-class degree, the government job, tore in half.
“I am sorry,” the Principal added, but Omejele was already moving. He didn’t wait for a dismissal. He turned and walked out of the office, his movements mechanical, his mind a white-hot blank.
The walk from the administrative block to the SS1 classroom felt like a mile. Omejele kept his gaze fixed on the concrete walkway, avoiding the eyes of the juniors playing by the water tank.
Inside the classroom, the teacher hadn’t arrived for the next period. The room was noisy, but as Omejele walked to his desk and began packing his few belongings, a strange, suffocating silence rippled through the rows. He didn’t have a school bag; he had a tattered green plastic folder and a few loose notebooks. He tucked his pen into his pocket and gathered his things with trembling hands.
He didn’t look at Osas, Chuka, or Eromose. He could feel them watching him from across the room, their faces frozen in that awkward, teenage middle ground between pity and relief that it wasn’t them.
Then, he felt a gaze different from the rest.
Ese was sitting at her desk, her hands folded neatly. Her eyes were wide, tracking his every move. She looked like she wanted to stand up, like she wanted to say something, anything, to stop the momentum of his exit. But the invisible wall of their different worlds held her back. To her, this was a tragedy she didn’t know how to touch. To him, this was the ultimate confirmation of what his friends had said on the field: You are not one of us.
The school gate was a rusted iron structure that usually felt like the entrance to a future. Today, as Omejele pushed through the pedestrian side-gap, it felt like a cage door closing.
He stood on the red-dirt road outside, his tight uniform blindingly white against the dusty green of the bushes. He was alone. The road to his grandmother’s house was long, and Omejele didn’t have an answer for the question of what came next.
The afternoon sun was a heavy, physical weight as Omejele reached the small plot of land his grandmother called a farm. He found her bent double, a rusted hoe in her hand, hacking at the stubborn weeds that threatened their meagre crop of yams.
He didn’t say a word. He simply dropped his green folder under a mango tree, rolled up his sleeves, and took the spare hoe. They worked in a rhythmic, agonizing silence for an hour, the only sound the thud-thud of metal hitting earth, before the truth finally spilled out.
When he told her, she didn’t cry. She just leaned on her hoe, her breath coming in shallow, ragged puffs, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the forest met the sky.
“One thousand, two hundred and fifty Naira,” Omejele whispered, the number feeling like a mountain. “To the Principal, it is a receipt.”
He looked at his grandmother. Her skin was like parched leather, and her knuckles were swollen from years of labour. He couldn’t bear the sight of her working another minute.
“Mama, I have a plan,” he said, his voice hardening. “I will not go back tomorrow. I will go to the big farms near the bypass. They need strong boys for the harvest. If I work every day, including Saturdays, for a month, I can raise the money. I am young. My body can take it.”
“No,” she snapped, the word sharp enough to stop his breath. “You are not a laborer, Omejele. You are a scholar. If you step into those farms and taste the sweat of daily wages, your mind will leave your books. You will start to see yourself as a beast of burden. I will not allow it.”
“Then what?” he cried, his frustration finally breaking through. “We cannot pray the money out of the dirt!”
“I will go to Agbor,” she said firmly. “My old friend, Beatrice, has a stall in the main market. She has been asking me to come and help her sort and sell garri. She will pay me daily. It is a long journey, yes, but the road is paved most of the way.”
Omejele shook his head violently. Agbor was miles away. To get there, she would have to wake up at 4:00 AM, trek to the junction, and cram into a dusty, speeding-along car. Then she would spend twelve hours in the noise and heat of the market before coming back in the dark.
“You are too old for the Agbor road, Mama,” Omejele said, his voice trembling. “The dust will choke you. The lifting will break your bones. If you fall ill, who will care for you? The medicine will cost more than the school fees. It will make things worse.”
“And if you stay out of school for a month,” she countered, pointing a trembling finger at him, “you will fall behind. You will see your classmates passing you by. That is a sickness of the spirit, Omejele. It is harder to cure than a fever.”
They stood in the middle of the field, two generations of pride clashing under the sun.
Neither would budge. To Omejele, his grandmother’s body was the price he wasn’t willing to pay for his success. To the grandmother, Omejele’s future was the only thing that made her present worth enduring.
In 1997, 1250 Naira was enough to buy a few bags of cement or a very good pair of shoes. For Omejele, it was the price of his dignity in front of Ese.
