SWEET MEMORIES!

One Saturday, in high school boarding house, I’d felt repulsive by what our meals would be (bread with tea-the prisoners type, for breakfast; beans for lunch; rice for dinner); hence had sneaked out of the campus to go to town, and meet with my uncle-(Messrs. Olaniyi Motors Co.).

Soon as I arrived in the motor park area in Ilepa, and was looking for my uncle’s car, I saw the garage boys running helter-skelter; and as I’d attempted to see what their commotion was really about, lo, a “Sheru” masquerade was standing behind me with whip and cutlass in hand. In some guttural Ikare language of the “oro” (cult), he asked me for money. “Sheru, I don’t have money on me, please.” I begged him. Fiam! Fiam!! He whipped me twice. I fled in a 200 meter hurdle acceleration. He sprinted after me, as onlookers garage boys were yelling: “Sheru ma pa omo Ola” (Sheru, don’t kill Ola’s kid).

I was going in full speed like a Peugeot 505 on 5speed. Sheru, too, was trailing behind. He didn’t give up. Soon afterward, I crashed into some luggage of rice and beans in “Sabo” district of Ilepa. The owner of the bagged rice and beans, a mullah, came running at me, and calling: “Yaro, minini? (son, what’s wrong?). I pointed to standing yonder: “he wants to kill me.” I said in Hausa language. The mullah gave me a small dagger: Yaro, take this dagger, any bansah (rubbish) Sheru that beats you, shred him to pieces with the dagger.” “Sai, nah godeh!” I thanked him. I walk up brandishing my wepon to Sheru, but he back up. I returned to the campus.

Monday, the following week, in our leisure period, I was sitting on the field, reading. Suddenly, three of my classmates (Yekinni, Ganiyu, and Embryo) walk up to me. They asked: “Henry, what did you do to warrant Sheru flogging you last Saturday?” “He asked for money, but I didn’t have.” I replied. As the four of us were yet reeling in laughter, Ganiyu said: “Henry, Henry! Everyone knows you’re hard-headed. I outsmarted you in your game. I, Ganiyu, was the man in the Sheru. So, from now on, you gotta be calling me kin...” He’d wanted to say “king.” I didn’t let him finish. I’ve tolerated the shit enough. I sprang to my feet, drew out my dagger. “Ok, the ants would be happy to lick ya blood.” I told him. He sprinted, and I chased after him, and as I was about to catch up with him, we bumped onto the senior house master (Mr. Oladunni-de Ejo).

“Gani, Agun, what’s wrong?” Ejo asked. “Henry wants to dagger me, sir.” Gani said. “Where’s the dagger, Agun?” Ejo asked me. “Sir, I ain’t gotten any dagger.” I lied. The instant we bumped onto the teacher, I had discretely dropped my dagger into the bushy grasses. “Ok, then, what do you want to do chasing Gani breathing hard and crying for help?” Sir, I intend to mangle him.” I replied. “Why do you want to mangle him?” The teacher queried. Sir, he’d masqueraded, and beaten me silly in town last Saturday. “How did you know he was the one in mask?” Sir, he’s just bare the confession to me couple of minutes ago. The teacher reeled in laughter, and called on Mr. Rotimi-de Epon-e-fo, who was passing bye to hear our tale.

“Ok, Gani, say sorry to Henry, and Henry, forgive Gani. If I ever should hear you sneak out of the campus to go to town, I’ll drag you to the school tribunal before the principal-the judge. “Yes sir, but I want for Gani to not only say sorry. He’s gotta also say: hail king Henry!” At that, Mr. Rotimi yelled: “Shut up, omo Prof. Agun, olori konko (shut up, son of Prof. Agun, hard-head).” “Ok, Gani, say you’re sorry.” Mr. Ejo commanded. Gani said, Henry, I’m sorry. “Good, but still, who’s Henry?” He replied: “Henry is the King.” The two teacher, ecstatically, fell on their knees reeling in laughter: “eyin omo ijanduku yi, e o ni fi wahala yin pawa (you these hooligan kids, you won’t kill us with ya troublesomeness). =DEOLA.