The dressing room had teenage girls all giggling in anticipation for the event of the day. The expatriates had promised the winner a scholarship to any school of choice outside the shores of Nigeria. Sixteen-year-old Tilda, the school’s reigning champion, sat in a lone corner, a pack of drugs beside a bottle of water. At the call of the sports master, she threw away the drug pack, still untouched, into the trash bin and headed out, past the other girls dressed in yellow and white pants. Mildred rolled her eyes on seeing her. If she had the powers, she did wish Tilda would break a leg for once in her life.
The sound of the shotgun signal at the beginning of a race went off. Tilda smiled, as the wind sped with her. Each step she took made the crowd’s cheer grow wilder. This trophy was hers for sure, her opponents who, from the corner of her eyes, were still far would never beat her. They never had, they never will. They had twelve hurdles to jump, and she was already on the eighth.
She loved the glory that came with each win. For six years, she had been the gold medalist for the hundred meters hurdle race for Randolph High School, the most prestigious all-girls college in Benue.
The bright blue ribbon, indicating the finish line, came into sight. Tilda slowed down; the distance between herself and Mildred was still much. She had two more hurdles to jump; Mildred had four.
As she jumped the eleventh hurdle, her eyes seemed to close involuntarily. She could feel the dizziness building up inside her. With the last ounce of strength in her, she pushed on for the last lap of the race. This time, her legs melted like wax. She slumped into the waiting arms of an umpire who had noticed her reduced speed when she was at the tenth hurdle. He knew for sure she didn’t take the multivitamins. He was not just an umpire; he was her foster father too. With teary eyes, he looked at his most coveted Treasure — Tilda, with whom he had shared a secret, a secret that within minutes would become public knowledge. They both knew she had sickle cell. Both father and daughter had thought that with constant medication, her body would be able to produce more red blood cells. But Tilda was already tired of everyday drugs, which always made her cringe at the sight of them. Her dream was to be in the Olympics someday, and her foster father had vowed to make her dreams come true.
Her sprawled body lay lifeless, two feet from the finish line. Mildred stopped behind her. So did the others too. They all desired that crown, but seeing Tilda’s pale face, with a weeping gray-haired man bent over her body, made them grow cold.
The once jubilant crowd went dead. Mildred stretched forth her hand to the girl next to her; the other girls took the cue. Hands over the next individual. They dragged Tilda up, forming a cord around her as they all hopped with one foot to the finish line.
- © Wayene Mercy
- StoryVest
