A Wet Tomb

The swimming pool. It is the centre of attraction in any campus that is privileged enough to afford one. Most of the time, it is not swimming that goes on there. Ladies go there to watch men in briefs- same reason they attend rugby matches. Men go to scout ladies, because half the time, they will be wet and half-naked. The most honest ones go to learn the art of swimming, but before they get there, they will have displaced all the chlorine first- either from splashing it out, or from filling it in their stomachs.

Either way, I feel sorry for the pool in my campus. Especially for the way most people treat it. It hurts my feelings when I see bubbles rising from underneath because some smart one decided to pass the wind.

Usually he will look around and when he is satisfied that nobody is looking, he will let out gas and then glide off from the spot.

Sadly, most of the people who defile the swimming pool are the good swimmers. For they are the ones who can swim under water from one end to another, and empty their pressing bladders out, leaving behind a concoction of urine, chlorine and water.

This is the same blend that learning swimmers take mouthfuls of when they are learning their first stroke. I know this because of the smell they exude when they burp. It smells like a hyena’s morning breathe.

However, of all the dregs that could be found in a swimming pool, there is nothing as bad as meeting a dead decomposing human body deposited at the basement of the swimming pool. I can take the pissing, and the farting, but a post humus being, lying lifeless on the swimming pool tiles is a whole different kettle of fish.

Last week, at UoN main campus, the body of one Wasabi was exhumed from the university pool. The admin said that he drowned, but they know that the crippled excuse bore very little water. The guy was pulled out in full clothes, shirt tucked into his trousers and fastened with a belt. He had his shoes on, wrist watch and a clenched fist. Of all these, the one thing that still gnaws the minds of students was his facial expression; eyes wide and popped out, like someone was having fun squeezing the life out of him.

This was no accident. Wasabi was not going for an afternoon dip when he met his fate- he wasn’t even (un)dressed for the occasion. And now as we await the autopsy report, all I know is that the pool has now become a tomb, and on its tiles all I can see is RIP, and it kills me when people ask me for whom.

Wasabi’s death has become a chip on my shoulder, and I won’t getting into a pool for a while.

Look, guys, I know this blog has become too morbid due to the constant posts about death. I really do not intend on turning my website into an obituaries segment, but comrades are fast dying, and its getting scary. I only have like 4 weeks to the end of my 8-4-4 marathon, and many of my kind are falling like gassed flies. Its like campus is no longer a safe place live. Truth is, every time I write about death, my keyboard weeps. So think of this as a catharsis.

Stay safe people.