a bizarre experience, you will not regret reading my witty story

I had been warned severally not to visit epi-gospel. “it is a hostel full of cultists and all sorts of depraved,” my friends in Aladinma would warn; their fingers crossed around their jaws as though considering to visit that hostel was not only an act of sheer fool-hardiness, but also a recipe for massive disaster. I bore this in mind on the day hardy borrowed my textbook, so that was why I never went to his hostel to retrieve it. I waited for Hardy to return my book to no avail, so, on the third day, I steeled my mind for the worst and went to Epi-gospel.

                Before I got to the gate of the one storey building that seemed to sit lonely, surrounded by mangled walls and the ricochet of shrieking birds, I had already felt my heart thudding fearfully and disturbingly in my chest, like troubled waters. I pushed the black coated gates slightly and I was almost shocked when it creaked open, but I never went inside immediately. I waited outside momentarily, casually observing the black seemingly imposing mass of steel, its rusting dark color of a loamy soil, and I was filled with foreboding. When I stared into the hostel, I decided that nothing terrible could emit from the small hostel, with the mottled pitch and pink colors of a setting sun. I walked into the hostel and I felt oddly invigorated.

                I greeted a young man beside the gate, CSO, he called himself; with a note of importance, as though he was announcing the presence of a prominent celebrity. However, I did not miss the note of parochial accent lodged in his voice, his red eyes that looked scary and almost soulful, as though he had just finished crying and was going on revenge. I was still startled. I was beginning to believe, according to my friends, that the hostel was not the best place to visit.

                When I asked him of hardy’s room, he pointed to the left hand corner of the hostel. I thanked him and left. I waltzed past the compound of the hostel where blades of grasses dangled softly in the impact of a soft breeze, a narrow pathway that reminded me of Hardy’s slim features and a backyard where a small tap peeked out of the wall, as though it was welcoming me. The blare of television sounds welcomed me to the entrance of hardy’s room. Then I became apprehensive, again. I wondered the caliber of boys who lived there. I wondered if they were going to rob or obtain me, as the students called it. A name that makes armed robbery takes on a sweet melody to the ears, as though it had become a mainstream way of living; a way associated with posh people.

                When I knocked on the hard, iron bars of the room’s gate, a deep, groaning voice answered. The voice could have said come in or anything else, but I did not move. I wanted to be certain that I was welcome. I also knew that the voice did not belong to Hardy. I knew his voice well enough, his thin shrill voice that reminded me of the sharp sound of the school bell when I was in the primary school.

                “Come in,” shouted the guttural voice again, and I moved into the room with speed as though the force of the voice had pushed me from the back.

                When I entered the room, I stood wordless for a while. I saw two boys: one, the complexion of nightfall and the other, the color of dried leaves. But all of them were not too bad as the image they portrayed, but it was all safe as I got my mission accomplished. I left and nothing eventful as I thought occurred.