ELSEWHERE

The asphalt beneath my worn running shoes was completely unforgiving, sending a dull, rhythmic ache straight up through my shins and ankles. I reached instinctively toward my ears, my fingers brushing against cold, empty skin.

I groaned out loud, the sound lost to the early morning air.

Shit.

I had left my AirPods resting on the cluttered desk back in my hostel room.

Working out without music is its own special brand of torture. Without a playlist pounding into your eardrums, every ragged breath sounds twice as loud, every footstep feels twice as heavy, and there is absolutely nothing to distract your lungs from the fact that they are fighting for their lives.

But the physical exhaustion wasn’t even the worst part.

It was the silence.

Without a heavy bassline or loud lyrics to drown out the atmosphere, it was just me alone with my thoughts. And my thoughts have never been a particularly safe place to wander into. Left completely unmonitored, my mind inevitably digs up the precise things I try hardest to leave buried.

So, naturally, as my sneakers kept up their grueling rhythm against the ground, my mind drifted straight back to secondary school.

I was in JSS 2 then, barely twelve years old and trapped in that awkward, uncomfortable phase where everyone’s body seemed to be changing, except mine was evolving in ways I wasn’t at all prepared for. My breasts were growing, my hips were broadening, and suddenly I became painfully, acutely aware of how much space my body was beginning to occupy.

I hated it.

I felt too visible. Too round. Too exposed under the harsh sunlight.

So, I found a cloak.

It was a heavy, deep green school cardigan. It was already faded and frayed when the term started, and over time, I made it exponentially worse. The cuffs were unraveling, the hem was stretched out, and several noticeable tears had opened up along the seams. By all reasonable standards, I should have been utterly embarrassed to be seen in it.

I was embarrassed by the cardigan. I just happened to be far more terrified of my own body.

Besides, it wasn’t like I had a choice. We couldn’t afford a replacement, and that frayed piece of wool was the only cardigan I owned.

So, I wore it everywhere. It became my armor.

Even when the oppressive Lagos heat was practically roasting me alive inside the classroom, I refused to take it off. I would sit at my wooden desk, legs crammed awkwardly beneath the frame, sweat trickling down the back of my neck, quietly tugging the thick knit closer around my chest whenever I felt someone’s gaze lingering too long. It wasn’t stylish. It wasn’t neat. It certainly wasn’t decent looking anymore.

But it covered me. And at twelve, being hidden felt like survival.

Unfortunately, my English teacher seemed to view my cardigan as a personal insult to her lesson plan.

“Look at this girl,” she would say, pausing mid sentence during a lecture. Her gaze would slide slowly from my face down to the frayed sleeves of my sweater, her head shaking in exaggerated disappointment. “Look at what you are wearing to school. You are literally wearing a rag.”

I would stare fixedly at my notebook, pretending the comment hadn’t drawn blood, while quietly pulling the cardigan tighter around my twelve year old frame.

Then came a suffocating Tuesday afternoon near the end of the term.

The class had been rowdy for hours while our English teacher sat at the front desk, aggressively marking essay scripts with her red pen. She had warned us three separate times to lower our voices, but as usual, nobody took the threat seriously.

Eventually, the sharp thud of her pen landing on the wooden desk cut through the noise.

The classroom fell instantly silent. That kind of quiet was never a good sign.

“You people want to kill me in this school, eh?” she began, her sharp eyes scanning the rows of wooden desks. “Every day, noise. Every day, useless talking. Is this how you people intend to pass your promotional examinations?”

Nobody dared to answer. She let the silence linger for a few agonizing seconds before her eyes finally locked onto me near the middle row.

“And you!”

My stomach dropped. I forced myself to look up.

“Even you have joined them to disturb the peace of this class?”

I sat up a little straighter, trying to project innocence.

Then, she delivered the line.

“The Mama of the class has also joined the noise makers.”

A beat of silence hung in the room. Then, the entire class erupted.

“Mama!”

“Mama of the class!”

The nickname caught fire instantly. Someone shouted it from the back row, and within seconds, waves of roaring laughter bounced off the concrete walls.

I don’t remember who started pointing. I don’t remember what specific jokes followed. I just remember looking around the room, feeling completely isolated. The classmates I usually hung around with, mostly boys I thought were my friends, were laughing just as hard as the rest. I stared at them, searching their faces, waiting for just one of them to notice that I wasn’t laughing.

None of them did.

I dropped my head and stared down at the scratches carved into my desk. My face was burning hot. I could feel the damp, heavy yarn of the green cardigan clinging to my arms, and suddenly every tear and loose thread on it felt magnified, like a giant sign pointing at everything I was trying to hide.

Mama.

It was meant as a harmless tease about my size, a casual joke thrown out by a tired teacher. But I went home that afternoon and let that single word echo in my head for weeks.

A sharp, violent cramp suddenly flared in my right calf, pulling me instantly out of the memory.

“Ouch!”

I stumbled, my foot catching the edge of the pavement before I managed to slow my pace and grab the back of my leg. I pulled my foot back to stretch the knot in my muscle, wincing as the pain slowly dulled down.

I stood there on the walkway for a few moments, breathing heavily, sweat dripping off my chin.

The sprawling university grounds around me suddenly snapped back into focus. The paved paths, the tall trees, and students already trickling out of their halls. It was a complete contrast to the dusty secondary school classroom I’d been replaying in my head. I looked down at my legs, glistening with sweat, strong enough to carry me through a five kilometer run. I wasn’t that helpless kid trapped in a desk anymore.

I hadn’t even realized how far I’d jogged while lost in thought. Reminiscing, it turned out, was a surprisingly effective way to distract yourself from physical exhaustion.

I eased into a slow, cool down walk before resuming a gentle jog toward my hostel.

A lot had changed since that twelve year old girl in the ragged green cardigan. Not everything, because the self doubt still lingered like a stubborn shadow, but enough to make me a different person.

Now, I was here, navigating the intense pressure of a nine month university foundation program, praying my final grades would grant me entry into the one department I actually cared about: Theatre Arts.

Acting. Storytelling. Stepping into a completely different skin for a few hours.

Maybe that was why the stage pulled me so strongly. I’d spent enough years wishing I could be anyone other than who I was.

By the way, my name is Tayja.

Yes, I know it’s unusual. My mother had been dead set on naming me Taylor. My father was equally stubborn about Jadesola. Neither of them was willing to compromise, so somewhere between parental stubbornness and reluctant negotiation, they sliced both names in half and stitched them together.

Tay. Ja. Tayja.

By the time I reached the concrete steps of my hostel, my clothes were thoroughly soaked with sweat, and my calf was still throbbing slightly from the cramp.

I began climbing the stairs toward my floor, already looking forward to a cold shower. But as I reached my door, pulled out my keys, and unlocked it, one specific word echoed softly in the quiet corridor.

Mama.

It turns out some names don’t fade, no matter how many years you try to run away from them.