Perhaps, it is my sense organs that have always been stubborn or somewhat meddlesome or, probably, it has been the unruly stench that has always unwaveringly branched its way into my nose’s centre for smells. Being an always open gateway — unlike the mythical impregnable Walls of Owu — through which the health is perniciously punctured, my nose has perpetually got the biggest chunk of the malodour’s sickening cake. Even, the treatment which my eyes are accorded may not at all have been less of the nose’s. Undoubtedly, both my nose and eyes have, in more than an instance, been helpless victims of the health-assailing odour. This said odour, I shall shed some rays on in the subsequent.
Of course, that smell is one which, like a colonialist, has annexed the road lying right athwart the middle of Jaja Clinic and Kuti Hall. This said road, while being replete with a host of scary trees forming, at the top, a darkening cloud of jumbled leaves and dangling thick climbers almost touching the gloomy lonely road, branches to Zik Hall way, by the right and the U.I. Microfinance Bank way, by the left. If one were coming to either of Zik Hall or the Microfinance Bank or anywhere that requires one’s passing through the aforementioned road, it would not have been a eaon before one irritatedly got a clear understanding, through experiencing it, of what is been talked about: how maddeningly the site smacks of unbridled stench and how horribly the soak-away and very small gutter — closer to Kuti Hall and pitiably some corner shops on the over side of a fence that divides them — brims with dirty, slimy, stagnant sewage water.
More particularly, it is by no means non-horrendous that, ironically, this enemy of health laying in ambush for ‘stray’ passers-by are a close ally, by proximity of space, to our own Jaja Clinic, our so-believed fortress of asylum in belligerent times of health crisis. This is simply a tell-tale sign of the probable situation of having an increased rate of students entering into and going out of the clinic for the reason of seeking treatment of recurrent sickness. The most vulnerable to this eyesore (and, may I say, ‘nosesore’) are apparently the occupants of Kuti Hall, especially because it obviously is, for one who has observed it, a faithfully close neighbour of theirs. Again, the traders whose shops are just a fence away from the filthy slime, including their wares which majorly comprise edibles, are unfortunately unguarded against the insalubrious resultant effect of being close to this dirt-filled site.
To lend this discourse some bracing muscles and further show how many are easily prone, health wise, to being under attack through this eye-poking site, it is quite necessary to point out the fact that this road is usually busy with moving legs or tyres passing by one another, to and fro. And lending the antecedent sentence some thoughts, one realises quickly that it only further brings to the fore the urgent, if not exigent, need to send the filthy coloniser packing in no later time. Also to be considered is the fact that not only students but also some other persons in the school for whatever purpose — working, visitation, et cetera — are prone to becoming victims of the gradual muncher of health, that filth-inhabited site. Generally, it could be summarised that not one person, student or lecturer, is safe, if this infirmity-unearthing site is not quickly seen to and got rid of.
In essence, it will, with no peering doubt, be of a huge and unquantifiable benefit to the school as a whole entity if that site is cleared of its sores. This, partly, is largely due to its spatial nearness to the university clinic. On the other part, it is immensely necessary as a matter of its closeness to a hall and its vicinity as well. Also, what opinion(s) shall visitors to the university hold at the notice of such? Importantly, this article has got nothing in its wordy lips but to bring attention alive upon this eyesore that has annexed that position for quite long a time. Hence, its breathing filth is hoped to be asphyxiated soon.