Dormitory Drama: Part 2 — Kunle Meets Cuba

My Secondary School had a natural talent for shaping characters. Some became angels. Some became comedians. Senior Kunle became a full-time tyrant mixed with a part-time tormentor. He was that senior every junior prayed to avoid and one who could weaponize laziness into a leadership style.

Kunle operated like a boss who never hired staff but still expected perfect service. The moment the dormitory woke up, he had a junior assigned to fetch his food. Another one fetched water from the well. Someone else washed his uniform. Another person stove-ironed it until it looked factory fresh. He even had one poor boy whose job was to hang and remove his underwear from the line. The rest of us watched and wondered which commandment he planned to obey in this life.

Kunle’s presence filled a room long before he entered it. Big body. Big voice. Big appetite. His footsteps alone announced stress. When meals were served, he automatically became the official inspector of plates. If your food looked too attractive, he collected tax. He dipped his spoon into your food and “based” without asking. Juniors lost rice, beans, garri, stew and dignity to Kunle’s bases.

Nighttime was worse. Kunle snored like a motorcycle climbing a hill. The sound bounced off the dormitory walls. It rattled bunks. It tormented dreams. The farting came in between the snoring, like musical interludes nobody requested. Every junior in our dorm developed a high tolerance for suffering because of him.

For months, Kunle reigned. He believed he was untouchable. Until the night, a quiet revolution began.

Six juniors reached their breaking point. They were tired of being punished for existing and formed a small committee of liberation. No long meetings. No debates. Just one mission: free the dorm from Kunle’s oppression. The operation needed a location that reflected the seriousness of the cause. Only one place in the school matched that energy.

Cuba.

Cuba was what we called the school toilet. It was not a toilet. It was a national crisis. A disaster zone. The scent alone could change a person’s prayer life. Human waste existed there in forms science had not yet classified. Fresh ones, old ones, ancient ones that had seen the rise and fall of semesters. You tiptoed inside like a soldier who knew one wrong step could be your last.

This was the stage chosen for the transformation of Senior Kunle.

Late one night, while Kunle snored his signature snore, the six juniors approached like a rescue team sneaking into enemy territory. They placed their hands around the edges of his bunk. On the count of three, they lifted. Kunle did not flinch. His snoring even increased, like encouragement.

Step by step, they carried him across the dormitory. One wrong movement and the whole operation would collapse. They reached the corridor. They passed the bathroom. They approached Cuba. The smell alone tried to chase them back. Still, they pressed on.

They carried the entire bunk inside the latrine. One foot wrong and someone would step on something unforgettable. They placed the bunk in the middle of Cuba. Then they ran. Fast. No one looked back.

Morning came.

The bell rang. Students stretched. Noise filled the hostel. Then suddenly the noise faded.

Kunle stepped into the quadrangle.

The man looked like a survivor. His house wear was soaked. His legs carried the evidence of his night in Cuba. His face held a mixture of shock, trauma, rediscovery and spiritual reflection. Something deep had changed inside him. No one laughed. Everybody froze and stared. It was the kind of moment that marked a generation.

Kunle didn’t shout. He didn’t chase anyone. He didn’t ask questions. He simply walked past the crowd, a humbled man. The Cuba baptism had washed away his arrogance and delivered him into a new life.

He never snored again. He never collected bases. He never sent a junior on an errand he could do himself. Kunle became gentle. Respectful. Even friendly.

Cuba had done what no human authority could achieve.

Boarding house life always had a funny way of balancing the scales. Once someone received their correction, the whole dorm felt it.

The saga continues next week, because Unity Secondary School never ran out of madness worth telling.