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.
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