“I was born by the river, in a
little tent; and, just like the river, I've been running ever since. It's been
a long, long time coming.” I started school at about five years of age. I
remember that I intensely loathe the idea; because, it severely curtailed my
period of play and freedom. You must be tidy in appearance coming to school,
which meant either a complete ablution, or the washing of face and limbs to
present at least a good facade.
In my fifth out of six years of
elementary school, I had a teacher who was so much obsessed with doling out
voluminous homework to us every day, worse especially at weekends. He was
always unconcerned whether we would have homework from our other classes. Often
times, we would rock in overloaded assignments. However, in time, we nicknamed
him “ise ni oogun ise” (work is the medication for poverty), a mockery of what
he used to emphasize each time he tried to employ corporal punishment for our
failure to do our homework. In time again, we devised tactics to overcome his
punishment. We indulged the habit of “rank zerox”. We would copy ourselves like
rank zerox photocopier machine, and thence turn –in the work independently. I
must say, he was easy to manipulate this way; simply because, the classroom
method was the usual tradition of class.
Unfortunately, one day, as the wont
of saying in Nigerian adage, “monkey went to market, and didn’t return home.” I
had an ugly experience in the class. Prior this day, this teacher had given us
homework to draw the map of the world. Unfortunately, I was very poor in
drawing. So, in order to meet up the schedule, I splashed kerosene unto my
paper, in order to make it transparent, and used it to trace the map of the
world from the atlas. I did a marvelous job on the map, but alas, he discovered
my dishonesty. How did he? He perceived the odor of kerosene from my paper. He
called me out, a cane in his hand: “Agun would please come out from your sit?
Hah, hah! O ti j’elubo dudu. Bosibi, odaada (hah, hah! He’s eaten black mashed
cassava flour. Come out forward here, fool).” He asked another two heftier
students to come out, and restrained from struggling while he canes me. One
stood in front of me, held both of my hands, the other stood behind me, grabbed
hold my both legs, and I was floating facing the floor, my buttock up. He caned
me, mercilessly, twelve strokes. At each stroke interval, he would hail my name
(“Agun, Agun”), and say: “eyi i ni eje ara mi, ti mo pese sile fun idariji
ese.” (This is my blood, which I had preserved for the remission of sin). By
the time he let me loose, my buttock had become swollen and bleeding. I
couldn’t sit. The pain was hallucinating. I felt feverish, my body temperature
rose. I was seeing broken stars crashing on me, and dragons in Halloween masks.
My teacher, in due minute, became
sympathetic. Tears drooling from his eyes, as I was crying. He hugged me, and
said: “Agun omo Agun (Agun son of Agun), you know I love you so much. You are
the most brilliant in the class; but, I didn’t want for you to embark on the
train of being dishonest. I had already known you are poor in art work; and
even despite that, you are way better than your classmates. So, don’t do that
next time. Will you?” I shook my head: No, I won’t.
I was taken to the medical center
where I was given a shot and some medication. The irony of it! When I arrived
home, my parents; especially mom, approved my teacher’s punishment. Mom was no
nonsense kind of a woman. She wouldn't tolerate any of her children being dishonest
and because of this event, she made sure to sit me down with my books, and
practice drawing of maps every day before she’d allowed me interlude to go roam
the street, dancing the moonwalk to Michael Jacko music: "wanna be
startin' somethin'", in disco, with my buddies.
=DEOLA
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