A weed story..

Truth be told, I don’t recall exactly how it started.
If I think back though, it was that day at Femi’s birthday. You see, Femi has been my closest friend since we were kids in secondary school. Seat mate, best friend, wingman, refuge – when having to hide in his locker from seniors, etc. You see, our school was a boarding school and Femi’s locker was large enough to handle an El Classico match with the fans and overhead blimp.
NB: A blimp is that balloon-like air-ship hanging above stadia (plural for stadium) which is used to video the match.
Have never noted a blimp being used to video El Classico before, but who knows?
Ehen, have you guys heard this joke?

Q: Why is a stadium always so cool?
A: Because there are so many fans!

Hahahahaha! Funny right? Right? Yes? Okay.

Anyway, I and Femi were really tight(no homo), you know, friend-that-sticketh-closer-than-a-brother, that kind of thing. Though in Femi’s case, that wasn’t optional. He was an only child.

So, that day at his birthday party, which I practically threw him, being my guy and all, I perceived marijuana smoke for the very first time.
I was in 300L, College of Medicine, University of Benin and I had never seen, not to talk of percieved marijuana in my life! It is shameful! I would feel worse if, Femi who was in Faculty of Engineering, that den within which marijuana is planted, grown, cultivated, revered and worshipped by both lecturers
and students alike, knew what marijuana looked like.

Well, he didn’t. Until that day.

There is something about the scent of marijuana.
As the gray smoke courses into your nostrils, your senses are pervaded by different sensations at the same time. Especially if it’s the first time you perceive it. First, there is the sensation of sweetness. It has this sickly sweet smell, like half-rotted pineapples or a mildly suppurating sore, that just drags your attention and orders you to take a deeper breath.
NB: Suppurating sore —-» Basically means a wound with pus streaming out. Eg: The Candida-stricken female had a suppurating sore between her…okay ewwwww!
Moving on!
Secondly, you feel hunger! There is an urge to extreme hunger when the marijuana hits the neurons of the palate behind your nostrils. You just wanna eat! With this feeling comes an urge to violence, a desperate need and finally and hint of danger, and then fear.
Okay, truth be told, I can’t really tell, but these were the feelings that assailed me that evening.
The marijuana smoke was curling out the mouth of one of our friends, a fellow medical student, though older colleague (500L) who we all knew was involved in some shady business. He leaned against the wall of the Ekosodin hostel, surrounded by five obviously stoned cronies and said, “Femi, show.”
So we both went.
When I think back, maybe I should have pretended I didn’t hear, os didn’t see him, or was busy doing something else. But no, I went forward.
“Nice party here,” he grinned, pointing at two bum-short clad females. “Join us drag small.”
It was no request.
He handed the blunt to us. We dragged.

Much else of the night remains a blur, but the next morning I woke up in another hostel in Ekosodin and I felt weird.
This is how the sensations came in.
First, there was a feeling of being cramped, like my hand was held down by something. Then I opened my eyes and stared straight into Brazil. Brazilian hair covered my face. That was when I realised I wasn’t in my room. I took a brief look around. It was obviously a girls room, and the girl lying on my arm was probably the owner.
That was when I felt the second sensation. I felt sticky and clamped down there. Y’know, down there! Then I realised I had obviously slept…in vivo.

NB: in vivo ——–» (latin) meaning inside/within Eg: The bushmeat lies in vivo the Ogbolo soup

The girl was one of the bum-short girls from earlier. It was 10:52:21 AM and so, I woodened and she woke up smiling. I then went in vitro, and in vivo again. Let us just say, I had a very wonderful after party.
But that is not the issue.

In the days that were to come, I participated a little more frequently in the marijuana parties. But I had nothing on Femi. Femi was moving ahead ahead! With speed! Literally. In mere weeks, he was on speed, crack, code and SK. It was too fast. I tried to talk him to slow down, I did everything I could, but he’ll always say he was fine. That semester, Femi who is usually a very good B student, had perfect A scores and was congratulated by the Dean even.
“You see, it’s working for me bro,” he said.
I was afraid.
But in my own studies too, life had gotten a lot more colourful, MBBS was a blast, after all, in Anatomy class, the cadavers had gotten into the habit of smiling and talking with me. But I was doing better in school and more bum-short girls were strolling my way. All was well.
All was very well..
Until I came home one day and met Femi crying. He’s my roommate you know. Oh you do? Okay. Femi was crying. It was confusing. At first I thought his father or mother had died, so I dropped my bag, sat down and started crying too. I cried for so long, Femi came and started telling me sorry.
“It’s alright bro. It’s alright.”
“Why??” I wailed. “Why???”

NB: I had just smoked hale a blunt of SK before coming home. There is this place at the back of Medical complex that’s just…*sigh*…perfect.

Femi petted me, then he asked, “Why are you crying?”
“Because you were crying na,” I sobbed.
“It’s alright,” he said, seeing nothing wrong with my admission.
It was a very homo moment for us. But we were happy.

Then he told me. He was crying because he did not have money to buy SK. He wanted SK and some speed because, he had a test the next day and he needed to read.
So I stepped out to the ATM, on the way I called my guy. He met me at Staff Quarters and gave me the packets.
This wasn’t the only time.
Femi kept on crashing, and begging and crying, till I refused to borrow him any more money. His parents too started to wonder; when did K. A. Stroud start selling for N22,000?!! This was when he went and ‘borrowed’ about 15kg of SK just before exams. It was worth about N115,000! I don’t know how he managed to convince them to give him on credit, but he did.
Femi smoked the entire pack at a stretch while I was performing in vivo operations in one of my bum-short girls’ house, and passed out. When I came home, I met my closest friend sprawled out comatose on the floor with saliva drooling out his mouth and his blood pressure dangerously low. I rushed him to the hospital where he’s been since last week. His parents came yesterday, and I haven’t smoked more than one blunt of marijuana since.
This afternoon though, some guys came over.
“Who be Femi for this compound?” They asked.
One mumu girl pointed at me. I hate that girl. One mumu goody-two-shoes no-more-a-virgin bitch, always preaching at us. Femi did the..in vivo thing with her once, and was so bored by it, he never answered her calls again.
She has hated us since.
“Who be Femi for this compound?’ Their leader asked.
She pointed at me.

He brought out a gun and shot me.
Two inches above the heart, but somehow the bullet nicked my pulmonary vessels. I could see the cordite and smoke issuing from my wound as I slumped slowly to the ground. My shirt was soaked crimson.
“Next time you go pay!” the men shouted before running away.
They are rushing me to the hospital now, but is is already too late. I wish I could tell them, but blood bubbles out my mouth each time I try to speak. And this idiot is telling me to save my strength and don’t talk. What do you know? My sooted lungs are drowned in blood already. If someone here has a ball-point pen, they should pierce it through my side into my lungs to give me air and drain the blood. But they don’t know..
I have taken a bullet for my friend. All because my name is also Femi..
Goodbye cruel world!
And to think it all began at Femi’s birthday party…

*I have never, despite various temptations, and would never indulge in the partaking of hard drugs.
*This is not a true story.
*All knowledge of medical ish comes from my microbiology degree and well, numerous TV shows! Hehehe

That ‘Brazil’ reference was funny shey? Shey? I know. I’ve always wanted to be able to write something with ‘Goodbye cruel world!!’ Hehehehehe! See..2013 is a year of happy and glorious achievements!

Follow on Twitter @janus_aneni

NB: Still waiting for more entries for the position (hehehehehe) of my co-writer. Send e-mail with a sample of what you can do to christopher.aneni@yahoo.com


NB: The Federal Ministry of Health warns that smokers are liable to die young. #TrueStory

Author: Christopher Aneni

Histrionic| Creator| god.

34 thoughts on “A weed story..”

  1. weed weed weed…. dat year at dat one of “femi’s” birthday party… funny enuf i neva woke up “in vivo”.. just saying


  2. the cadavers had gotten into the habit of smiling and talking with me,hehehe.
    Still laughing at that line.
    I see toxicology is paying off. Lol,
    Stay away from drugs y’all.


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