I was a Teen Rock Star!

By AH Mohammed

Lanre Bandele finds solace in his guitar and music even though he's a lonely and unhappy teenager, flunking school and abandoned by his parents. But can dreams come true? Maybe... Then an unexpected opportunity beckons. How far will Lanre go in search of his dreams?

 

Sometimes funny, sometimes tragic, this is an exciting yet tender coming of age contemporary story about music, life and above all growing up.

 

213 pages 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bard and Ink Publishing
• Release date: Dec 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9789789915675

Book preview

Chapter One

He was standing on a stage that was covered with flowers and rainbow-coloured banners, and holding a lute. People were cheering: men, beautiful girls and happy looking children. As he plucked on the first string of the lute, an unimaginably lovely sound filled the air drawing a collective " Oooh!" from the crowd. His heart swelled physically and beat faster. He, Lanre Bandele, was producing this amazing music.

With another trembling but confident hand, he poised again to caress the string of the lute. This time he would go on allegro and staccatos and chords louder and louder until the atmosphere exploded with his music and joy and—

A different sound broke in. A voice, hoarse, coarse and age-crackled said abruptly, Ol boy, you no get house?

Lanre jumped. The daydream was shattered and sharply receded. He was sitting at his desk in a classroom littered with the day’s junk, staring at a dusty chalkboard. Peeling paint and tiny ink scrawls covered the walls. The old janitor whom everybody called Baba was leaning against the doorway with his broomsticks, mop and bucket. He glared at Lanre with a slightly contemptuous expression in his red-veined eyes.

Lanre blinked with embarrassment as if the old man could see his reverie of sweet music and maidens. He was alone in the classroom. School must have been over for a while. He stood up and grabbed his worn schoolbag. The zipper was open and some books dropped out. As he bent down to pick them up, he knocked his head against the chipped desk. Clumsy! Clumsy. He shoved the books back in and straightened up.

Oh sorry, Baba, I was just leaving.

The old man pointed a gnarly finger with its long brown fingernail towards his bag. You forget close your bag.

Oh sorry, (Later as usual he would wonder why he always said sorry). He yanked the zip across but it slid loosely without closing the bag. It was broken. He scuttled out of the classroom quickly.

The old man snorted after him, shook his head and shuffled into the classroom to begin his daily cleaning ritual.

Head bent, Lanre slouched along the grounds of Regional High school. Regional High – with its tall palm trees and tall beige buildings in need of paint was once a State Government school but had now been taken over by the Missions. Everyone said it should be a better school now. It was true that it had improved academically over the last few years, at least since Lanre had begun senior secondary school two years earlier.

The closing bell had jangled well over an hour before and most kids had vanished home. Most normal kids couldn’t wait to get home – except if they were Lanre Bandele.

No, he really didn’t want to go home. Not home. The house.

That house where his aunty Alimat (well she wasn’t really his aunt): short, stumpy and coal-black with a permanent scowl on her face and his uncle, her husband, thin and sunken chested lived. He had to help out in the general goods store they owned, attending to customers (most of whom could be so irritating), sweeping the floor and arranging items. Thank goodness he wasn’t allowed to keep accounts of what was sold. He was put in charge a couple of times, but he frequently made mistakes to the annoyance of his uncle and aunt. Then later there was housework, otherwise, there would be no lunch or supper to eat. And there were school assignments to do.

The only thing he wanted to do was lock himself in a quiet room, write lyrical poetry and play chords on his guitar.

My guitar. My music. My life.

Music was about the only thing Lanre felt he knew how to do in all his sixteen years. The only thing worth doing but nobody ever understood. They didn’t.

He couldn’t say his parents. I don’t have parents; other kids do.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true.

He had a mother. She was in Spain or maybe Italy. She was working as a cleaner or something. She had left for Europe when he was six years old after she’d left his father. She sent money to Aunty Alimat for his upkeep. That was the only reason why Aunty and her husband would tolerate him in their house. He had a father called Chief Bandele who had three wives and several children. He was retired and down on his luck now – And still calling himself a chief, Aunty Alimat sneered – and living in a cramped two-bedroom house in a slummy part of Lagos. There was no room for Lanre in his house or his life.

His aunt and uncle had other relatives of varying ages, older and younger, living with them too. Temporary squatters or some more permanent like Lanre. I am training all of them, Aunty Alimat declared to her church members and neighbours. It was a burden the Lord laid upon my heart; for if not for us they would be wasted. And yet many of them still want to be wasted. What can we do?

His teachers at school didn’t know what to do either. It had been like that since he had started secondary school six years before. But he never fitted in here. He had never.

Lanre is a very quiet boy but he needs to apply himself more.

He daydreams in class.

Mr Agbo, the nastiest teacher in school who had the bad luck to be Lanre’s class master always said, You are just plain dumb, acting like a zombie in class, and on the few occasions when anything comes out of your mouth it’s even worse.

Now in senior secondary, Lanre was studying technical drawing, further mathematics, and woodwork and he hated all of it. It was puzzling to everybody, not least himself, why he was put in the technical class. His marked papers were often littered with red ink. The blue was minimal. Everybody shook their heads.

His classmates didn’t understand him either. That weird dada kid. Why does he just sit and stare?

It was all wrong you see. School. Home.

What can we do about Lanre? Aunty Alimat said to the neighbours to whom she never failed to mention any of the ‘poor luckless children’s ways’ in detail. He is doing so badly in school. He does badly in the house as well. We had to beg them last year in school to promote him. I feel sorry for his mother, my unlucky cousin, she said, snorting.

Her husband would add, "You remember how your aunty had to beg them in school last year to promote you. It’s your sad mother I feel sorry for. You remember how disgraceful your result was last year? He permitted himself a tiny giggle then stopped. Do you want a future at all?"

And Lanre did try to improve. He tried to study harder, tried to keep his mind from wandering to guitar chords and strumming. But it was a futile struggle. His head hurt over mathematics. There seemed to be an extra sense needed to solve those maths questions. Some kids had it others didn’t. He was one of the latter he decided.

What would it take to make you work harder? his aunt and uncle snickered.

And more and more often Lanre wanted to shout, I HATE SCHOOL! I HATE EVERYTHING! WHY DON’T YOU ALL JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!"

But he never could. He just wasn’t that sort of person.

As Lanre came out of the gates onto the main street he saw three kids, students like him in final class: Benji, Dayo and Tope. Benji, who was in the arts class and had just joined Regional High that term and was already social prefect. Well, Benji’s father was a rich businessman and his mother was a state commissioner... Dayo, the only girl amongst them, was also in arts class like Benji. Petite and smiling, she was supposed to be a cool girl. The kind of girl that hung out with the boys and cracked jokes with them. She was friendly with everyone but he wouldn’t exactly say she was his friend. Sometimes he wished he was like Benji, confident and rich and able to have friends like Dayo; not that he knew anything about girls. Probably she was Benji’s sweetheart. Then Tope, in the same class as Lanre, tall and supercilious, always teasing Lanre. Mumu Lanre. Tope had already made himself friends with Benji the cool kid.

Lanre’s first thought was to turn back because of Tope, although Benji and Dayo seemed to be nice kids – sometimes – they had never spoken to him much. But they had already seen him. In fact, they were staring at him, almost as though they were waiting for him.

He inched along. Benji waved at him.

That had to be some mistake. But he lifted his shoulders slightly.

Hey, Lanre, Benji said.

That was even weirder. When had Benji ever called him by name or said hi?

Then Benji said, The artist! and winked.

Lanre stammered Excuse me? He stood rooted to the spot, visibly squirming.

Tope gave a sneering laugh.

You heard what I said, the artist, Benji said, then added. On the way home?

Lanre muttered, No. I mean yeah, sort of.

Tope laughed again, hooting like a crow. How did someone as cool as Benji have such a creepy person like that as a friend?

Benji was coming towards him now, stocky and deliberate with a jaunty smile. He winked again and patted Lanre’s shoulder and repeated. Are you going home? Where do you stay?

That was a question Lanre always hated to answer. That was one of the reasons why he stayed behind before going home. Besides he wasn’t used to chit-chatting with people like Benji. Erm not too far. He changed the subject. Are you three going somewhere?

No we aren’t, Tope said with another cawing laugh.

Hey, Tope! It was Dayo. She smiled a little slyly at Lanre.

Lanre backed away and walked a little faster. Are you in a hurry? Benji asked. There’s something we’d like to ask you, if you don’t mind?

What? Lanre said guardedly.

Why so jumpy? Do I look like a leper?

Sorry, Benji, but I have to be home early. It’s very important. The words spluttered out.

Benji sighed and said, Do you mind a lift home? My driver’s just around there with the car.

Mind a lift home. Go home and have people like Benji see his house! See Aunty Alimat and co? Of course he minded.

Never mind. He turned and started walking away quickly, almost running now. Er, thanks. Knowing his behaviour was weird made him want to leave the place faster.

I know about your guitar playing, Benji said.

Lanre almost gasped with shock.

How did he know? How?

Er, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lanre muttered. If he could blush, he would. Then he made to go, half running away, his bag half open.

Can the ground swallow me up right now, please!

He could hear Tope guffawing.

Benji called after him. I’m having a birthday party at my place in two weeks. You’re invited and can you bring your guitar?

Lanre made no answer, walking away, not seeing anything through his blur of thoughts until he found himself stumbling blindly into a small umbrella stand in the road where a woman sat frying akara.

Abeg, watch where you dey go, schoolboy, the woman said in angry irritation amidst the thick fumes.

Sorry, he gasped, finally noticing where he was. He was a fair distance from school and must have crossed several busy roads; it was a mercy he hadn’t been run over by a car or fallen into a gutter. He turned a corner and stood for a little while.

Why would he invite me to a party?

Besides, how did Benji and that awful Tope know about his guitar playing? Bringing it up in front of Dayo… and inviting him to his party? Benji inviting him. He was surprised that Benji even knew his name. He had certainly never spoken to him before today.

He had never attended, nor been invited to a party. He didn’t know what to do at one. It was embarrassing beyond description.

Sighing, Lanre walked towards home. Nobody would ever think of him as someone they would like to invite anywhere. He was small for his age and thin, shoulder bones jutting out, almost