I AM PREGNANT FOR MY LECTURER

In the hallowed halls of academia, a dark secret lurked, threatening to destroy the very fabric of my education. I, Favour Ottia, a 400-level student of English and Literary Studies, had stumbled into the dark abyss of exploitation. A sinister game of cat and mouse unfolded, threatening to shatter my very existence.

A lecturer, entrusted with nurturing my mind, had transformed into a ruthless predator, hell-bent on devouring my happiness. The unthinkable happened, leaving me shattered, scarred, and forever changed. As I navigate the treacherous landscape of my own despair, I invite you to join me on a journey into the heart of darkness, where the pursuit of knowledge became a deadly obsession.”

POL 221, a course I had carried over since my second semester in 200 level, became a constant reminder of my helplessness. Despite my diligent efforts I still see red marks of the carryover course POL 221. Mr. Nidibusi, an old grey headed man, old enough to be a grandfather was a lecturer in the faculty of political science,a borrowed course compulsory for all English and literary students. This wicked and malevolent man with yellow teeth and an evil smile had been consistently failing me, his actions a stark contrast to his supposed role as a mentor. His office, once a sanctuary of knowledge, became a chamber of horrors, where he revealed his true intentions: “600k or one night with me.” The demand echoed in my mind like a cruel joke, taunting me with its impossibility.

As I sat in Mr. Nidibusi’s office, his sinister grin seemed to grow wider, his yellow teeth gleaming with malevolence. He casually mentioned that he had slept with three of my light-skinned classmates. I was taken aback by his brazen admission, my shock only seeming to amuse him further. “Don’t be scared, you’re not the first, and you won’t be the last,” he said with a smirk, his nonchalance infuriating me. 

As I emerged from Mr. Nduibisi’s office, a deep sorrow etched on my face, my heart heavy with tears. The secretary, a diminutive dark-skinned man of about 5’2,gazed at me with concern and asked, “Are you okay, English student?” I forced a faint smile, a futile attempt to conceal my anguish.

I boarded a bus and headed straight to my hostel, my shoes still intact, my eyes streaming with tears. My roommate, a compassionate soul, tried to console me, but her words of comfort were lost on me. My other roommate, a caramel-skinned beauty of about 5’6″, was too entrenched in her own pursuits of sex for grades to bother with my plight.

I spent the night crying, my eyes swollen, my face puffy. The next morning, I woke up feeling drained, my eyes still red from the previous night’s tears. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, the ice-cold water and pure water still sitting in a cup, untouched. The garri and beans my roommate had prepared lay cold and uneaten on the table, a stark reminder of my loss of appetite. There was no way i could even think about food right now?.

As I stepped outside, Athena, my closest roommate , approached me with a concerned expression. “Favvy, howfa the last thing Mr. Nduibisi said?” she asked, her tone laced with empathy. “make you check am,babe?”

Those words – “you’re not the first, and you won’t be the last”  what Mr Nidibusi said- echoed in my mind, shackling me with a sense of determination. I became resolute, deciding to uncover the truth behind his sinister claim.

With my detective instincts on high alert, I embarked on a mission to expose the reality. I visited the result board, meticulously combing through the names of students who had consistently failed POL 221 for more than three semesters. I combined the boards of the Political Science and English faculties, my eyes scanning the lists with a keen sense of purpose. With a jotter in hand, I carefully noted down the names of the affected students.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I exclaimed, “Here’s my answer!” The puzzle pieces had fallen into place, and I had found the key to my helplessness. I identified several female students who had been struggling with POL 221, tracing their names to their current levels. I sought them out, obtaining their contact information from their course representatives. With a sense of resolve, I decided to meet them one by one, determined to uncover the truth behind Mr. Nidibusi’s sinister words. 

Kiera Eze, a tall, light-skinned girl with a figure-eight physique,the kind people say “she package die”in admiration ,, was one of the students I spoke to. Her advice was stark: “My sister, there’s nothing you can do. If you report to the university, they won’t believe you. The system is corrupt. Just do it and get it over with.” Her words hung in the air like a challenge, daring me to confront the darkness that had consumed us all.

As I sat with the other girls who had fallen prey to Mr. Nidibusi’s exploitation, their stories wove a heartbreaking tapestry of despair. Each one warned me that speaking out would be futile, and that I would suffer the consequences. The weight of their words crushed me, and I couldn’t shake off the thought of being intimate with Mr. Nidibusi’s wrinkled body.

With a heavy heart, I sent him a WhatsApp message, agreeing to his demands but begging for secrecy. His response, 45 minutes later, was laced with condescension: “Meet me at 8 pm on the 26th at Elite Lounge. Be a smart girl, baby.” I seethed at his audacity, but my mind rationalized it as a necessary evil.

On the 26th night, I arrived at Elite Lounge, and Mr. Nidibusi paid for our drinks and accommodation. After a few glasses of wine, I fell into a deep sleep, only to wake up to the horror of my body entwined with his. I rushed to the bathroom, rinsing away the shame and disgust. Without a word, I left him, gathered my clothes and underwear quickly and fled into the night.

The aftermath was a constant reminder of my shame. A notification from my period tracking app read: “You missed your period. 3 weeks due.” My heart sank. Could I be pregnant? A trip to the school pharmacy, where I quietly bought one of those pregnancy strips cofirmed my worst nightmares. This revelation sent me spiraling into despair, torn between suicide and abortion.

Mr. Nidibusi’s parting words haunted me: “You better, not tell anyone unless you’re dead.” His words, spoken in his office the next day, echoed in my mind like a death sentence. I felt trapped, consumed by the weight of my secret, and the silence was deafening. What would I tell my parents? Who will help me? 

I’M PREGNANT FOR MY LECTURER WHAT SHOULD I DO ?

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