The Short Straw.

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From the moment they drew straws, Emeka knew he was doomed.

It was supposed to be a simple class project —visit a village, collect data on local farming methods, and write a boring report. But Professor Adigun, never wanting to keep things boring, instead added a twist: he announced, "Each group must camp overnight in the village. 'Full immersion' for everyone," he called it. Chuckling.

Four students (Amina, Chuka, Gbenga, and Emeka) were in the group. One night. One tiny tent. Definitely, One person had to sleep outside.

Therefore, they decided to draw straws.

Emeka, a civil engineering student, lover of electricity, sworn indoor guy, and part-time TikTok sensation, dragged hard, intending to draw a longer straw. Instead, he drew the shortest straw. Immediately, his face dimmed faster than a village bulb during a power surge. He was convinced he had dragged well enough to actually get a longer straw. Definitely, something had gone wrong. He thought.

"I demand a redraw!" he exclaimed, frowning and holding up the offending straw as if it had personally insulted his mother.

"No chance! The straw has been drawn; there is no going back," said Amina, smirking.

"Guy, just cool down. You'll be fine, Emeka. Just pretend you are on a reality show: Survivor—Oyo State Edition," Chuka snorted.

The setting was the quiet farming village of Ilukoko—a beautiful place, really. Lush greenery, narrow red earth paths, and leaves of the plant were basically at almost the same height as the city students, literally kissing their cheeks to "welcome" them as they walk through the narrow path. The village cows were more confidence than Lagos danfo drivers. The villagers were very friendly, laughing and murmuring playfully at the city students, especially as they indulged in the kissing plants while walking through the narrow path. They were mildly amused by the city students and their excessive use of hand sanitizer.

By sunset, their tiny borrowed tent was already up beside the community hall in the bushy area but a bit farther from the friendly villagers. Emeka had claimed a suspicious-looking bench outside, armed with a wrapper, a brown mat, and the kind of dignity you pack when you know you're going to lose it.

"Don't worry," Amina said sweetly from inside the tent. "if a goat attacks you, just scream twice." she chuckled.

"I'd rather take a goat than share a tent with Chuka's snoring," Emeka muttered, trying to comfort himself.

As darkness fell, Emeka lay under the stars, trying hard not to think about all the documentaries he had previously watched about bush snakes and surprised scorpions. A cricket chirped ominously. A distant owl hooted like it knew secrets. Emeka suddenly stood up from the bench, sat up in fear, and looked back, forward, sideways, and backward again to see if anything of any kind was coming towards him. When he had confirmed everything was calm, he decided to move down to his precious mat to lie down, having the stars to protect him.

Then he heard it: a rustle.

Followed by a grunt.

Then... moo.

He sat up sharply on his mat.

A cow, large, unimpressed, and very much alive, had wandered into the bushy area where he was and was now standing approximately three inches from his face, chewing slowly, its eyes locked in each other's gaze. The cow was so bold that Emeka, shaking in fear, immediately flew like superman ready to rescue a child.

"Ah!" Emeka exclaimed, jumping to his feet, fear in his eyes. "Madam, abeg, respect yourself!" He was talking to the cow as if it were human while drifting slowing away from the cow in a backward position, his hands positioned as if he were about to fight taekwondo.

The cow blinked, its gaze still fixed on Emeka.

Inside the tent, Chuka snored on.

"Shoo! Shoo! Get away! You don't know me!" Emeka waved the wrapper like a madman. The cow blinked again, looking away unworried. Then it calmly sat down...right on his precious mat.

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"God of mercy!" Emeka exclaimed quietly. "Has it come to this?" he muttered and ran farther away from the cow. He was so confused and frightened that he ran past their tent but later realized he had gone too far and ran back to the tent, the cow still sitting comfortably on Emeka's precious mat.

Getting to the tent, Emeka eyed it like it was heaven's gate. He knocked. "Guys! Guys, open up! I am under attack," he called out gently.

Amina's voice was muffled. "Is it the goat?"

"It's a cow! A whole cow! It's hijacked my bed!" Emeka whispered, still feeling angry but scared.

"Then lie down beside it; perhaps it was lonely and cold," Chika called out sleepily.

"Maybe it just needed company," Gbenga added jokingly.

That was when it began to rain.

Not the gentle, cinematic kind. No—this was biblical, the kind that slapped rooftops and a person's sense of purpose at the same time.

Emeka stood in the downpour, shivering and furious, watching the cow get progressively more comfortable on his precious mat. His dignity drowned somewhere near his ankles.

Suddenly, the door of the community hall creaked open. An elderly woman stepped out, holding a torch and sighted the cow.

"Ah-ahn! My cow has found a boyfriend," she said, laughing heartily.

"Ma, please, respectfully, this is not love. It is harassment." Emeka replied bluntly.

She chuckled and called the cow gently. "Come, Sisi. Leave the poor boy alone."

The cow, Sisi, rose with majestic reluctance and trotted towards the elderly woman, and the both of them went inside, leaving Emeka staring at the muddy remains of his night.

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By morning, the sun returned as if nothing had happened. The village air was crisp, the birds cheerful, and the others emerged from the tent looking smug and well-rested.

"How was the great outdoors?" Gbenga asked, stretching.

"And did you make up with the goat and the cow? Amina chuckled.

"Well, I'm alive; however, I will never trust straw-based decisions again." Emeka said bluntly.

Chuka pointed at the mud-caked mat. "Is that... a hoof print on your chest?"

"Yes, yes, it is," Emeka said solemnly.

They all burst into laughter.

Later that morning, just before the students could leave for the city, the village chief gifted Emeka a carved wooden cow as a 'souvenir of spiritual connection' so to speak.

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From that day on, anytime someone suggested drawing straw, Emeka would quietly excuse himself, pretending to get an urgent call.

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