Boredom.

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The trouble began on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of afternoon that made even the flies look confused. The sun hung over Lagos like a lazy landlord refusing to move, and the electricity has disappeared—as usual—at the very moment when it was needed the most.

Chiamaka sat in her bedroom, staring at the ceiling fan, which had been immobile for three hours, looking like a failed art installation. Her phone battery was at three percent. Her siblings were all away—one at school, another visiting cousins—and her mother has taken the last bowl of cold pap and vanished into the market. The house was far too quiet; in fact, it was suffocatingly quiet.

"Is this how boredom kills people?" she muttered aloud.

The walls did not answer.

Determined to defeat the emptiness, Chiamaka decided to engage in "productive activity," so to speak. She collected an old Scrabble board from the shelf. Half the tiles were missing.

"Argh! For heaven's sake!" Chiamaka exclaimed in frustration and immediately tossed the scrabble board aside.

She tried reading a novel but realized after five pages that she had already read it twice and even remembered the ending. She tried singing, but her voice bounced back at her from the empty walls like a ghost mocking her efforts.

Then, in a burst of desperation, she declared, "If the world is actually refusing to entertain me, I shall definitely entertain myself!" she said reassuringly.

Suddenly, Chiamaka grabbed a wrapper, tied it around her head like a warrior queen, armed herself with a broomstick, and began to stage a one-woman drama in the sitting room. In her performance, she was a heroic general leading invisible soldiers into battle. She barked commands at the sofa, scolded the curtain for cowardice, and stabbed the television stand in a glorious duel.

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"Forward, men! Victory or suya!" she shouted.

It was at this precise moment that her neighbor, Mr. Ade, peeked through the window. He had come to borrow Maggi and onions, as usual. What he saw instead was Chiamaka charging at the center table like a possessed female gladiator.

"Ewo! My goodness! This girl has finally run mad," he whispered, still straining his neck to figure out exactly what Chiamaka was really doing.

However, lost in the intensity of her imaginary war, Chiamaka didn't notice him. She leapt onto the couch and began to deliver a grand speech to her "troops," so to speak: "Today! We fight courageously not for small chops! We fight not for soft drinks! But today, we stay together, as one strong country, to fight for glory!" she exclaimed.

That was when her phone, which was resting on the arm of the chair, gave one final gasp and died. The sudden silence of its black screen made her pause. The whole drama collapsed in an instant. She saw Mr. Ade's head still stuck at the window, his eyes wide with horror.

"Are you... rehearsing for a play?" he asked carefully.

Chiamaka's pride stung. She straightened her wrapper crown and replied with solemn dignity, "Of course. For a very important performance." she said enthusiastically.

"Ah," Mr. Ade nodded nervously. "I see. Please, do not forget the Maggi and Onions."

Then, immediately, he disappeared before she could answer.

When her mother returned from the market an hour later, she was met by a story already spreading through the compound like wild fire: "Chiamaka was practicing juju with a broom and wrapper," one neighbor confirmed.

"Other children gathered to point at the window; their whispering and giggling drew my attention to peek through the window, and to my surprise, I saw Chiamaka speaking to brooms and curtains," yet another neighbor reported to Chiamaka's mother.

Her mother immediately turned to Chiamaka, folded her arms backwards, and fixed her with a look that could cut granite. "What exactly were you doing in this house that made the whole compound gather outside like spectators?" she inquired in a furious voice

Chiamaka tried to explain the war, the speech, and the grand entertainment. But the more she spoke, the more ridiculous it sounded.

"Mummy, it's not what you think. I was... leading an army," Chiamaka nervously explained as she adjusted her wrapper crown.

"An army? I don't understand," the mother blinked, confused.

"Yes, yes! You see, I tied this wrapper on my head as a sign of authority, then I carried the broom as a sword. I was fighting the enemies of peace! The sofa was the enemy general, the curtains were cowardly soldiers, and the center table—ah, mummy—the center table was the battlefield itself!" Chiamaka explained convincingly.

"So, let me understand you clearly. You, my daughter, a graduate of secondary school and a future university student, were standing here shouting at furniture?" her mother asked slowly, pretending to be angry.

"Mummy, it was not just shouting; it was strategy! I even gave my soldiers a motivational speech: 'Today, we fight not for small chops; together, we fight for glory!'"

"Glory? Against a chair and a curtain?" Chiamaka's mother's eyes widened.

"Mummy, when I say it like that, it sounds very ridiculous!" Chiamaka hesitated, then suddenly burst into laughter.

"Did you say ridiculous? Chiamaka, this is madness! Chineke mooo! So boredom has reduced you to declaring war on innocent household items?" her mother asked, throwing her hands on her head.

"Mummy, I swear it was making sense in my head!" Chiamaka said, still seriously laughing.

"This girl will not kill me. Abeg, next time, if boredom is worrying you, just come and peel beans." her mother sighed deeply, shook her head and walked into the room.

And just like that, the crisis passed. The neighbors eventually forgave her, especially after she baked cupcakes to prove her sanity. However, from that Tuesday onward, whenever Chiamaka felt boredom creeping near, she resisted the urge to stage another broomstick war. She had learned that some battles are better fought inside the head, away from suspicious windows and gossip-loving neighbors.

THANKS A LOT FOR READING