Guys, yesterday was one of those days that remind me that I truly have a weird gift of an incredibly retentive memory, believe me. This is what happened…
From childhood…
I started my schooling at a very popular but degenerated school. It was one of the schools that the government seized form the missioners: St. Dominic’s Catholic School, and St. Patrick’s School. They are both within the premises of the very popular St. Dominic’s Catholic Church at Yaba. I schooled there between 1985 and 1987 from Pry 1 to Pry 3 1/3. I left in the middle of the 1st term that year.
This school was full of my kind; ghetto kids receiving paid attempts by teachers, or so they were called, and coming from a very good background of determined but partly educated parents, I (with my 2 brothers: one elder, one younger) was always seen as special cases. “Special” here meant more flogging and stuff for small time offences. But I am grateful because it has paid off for the better. Anyway, I remember clearly that I never saw myself as one of them and was very excited when my mom informed us (me and my brothers) that she was moving us to another school: the University of Lagos Staff School! It was generally called Staff School.
I have a lot of small-time memories about the school but my all-time favourite one was when my mom told us that the children we were going to be meeting spoke only “English” in the new school therefore, we should start speaking good English. I never had a problem with reading when I was younger so my subconscious English was good. In the school we spoke only two languages: Pidgin and Yoruba, both of which I still speak, read and write with competence. The problem then became who to speak good English with. My brothers and I had been banned from speaking either of our school languages at home so we were confined to Igbo, our native tongue (which we were completely competent at) and sign language as none of us was sure of our ‘good English.’ Anyway, my parents noticed the unusual silence and loud Igbo dependence at home and started insisting that we spoke good English. I remember my brother lamenting: “Ke udi nsogbu bu nk’a. Ha anaghi akuzi anyi English na school! Soso Yoruba ka ha n’akuzi anyi, unu we si k’anyi na-asu English. Mnshew! (What kind of trouble is this. They don’t teach us English in school. It’s only Yoruba they teach us and you (my parents) want us to speak English. *Hiss!)
As time dragged on, we got closer to resuming at Staff School and ‘good English’ was not forthcoming. My parents now told us we were going to remain at our current school if we did not speak English, and having mouthed to those who cared to listen that we were leaving, I did not want to remain there and become the butt of all jokes. Besides, in my mind, I had resumed at Staff School! See small pickin mind. Anyway, on this fateful day, after school, we were trekking home; a roughly estimated 3km distance stretching through a very busy road that had seen me get knocked high off the ground in 1986. I was walking really fast and had my brothers well behind me. As a matter of upbringing, we never stray from each other. So, I turned and in a bit to hurry them to join me, something pricked me to speak ‘good English’. I had the liberty to choose from the banned languages (as my parents were not here) and the native one but I was determined to obey my instinct so I uttered the words: “Hurry up, now!” My brothers had come close enough to hear me clearly, and in utter disbelief, my elder one asked me to repeat myself. So I did. We ran through the rest of the 3km journey home just to announce that we had qualified to go to the new school. I had finally spoken good English and salvaged the pack! From then on, good English flowed on around the house to the point where it was discouraged for Igbo. But the banned languages were never liberated. We now speak them as grown ups after many fights.
At Staff School, everything was totally different! Here, local languages were not taught therefore we could not boast of speaking better Yoruba or Igbo than them. And good English was so well spoken here. In fact, it was the first time I saw a herd of people speaking good English in my entire life, which seriously intimidated me. But as was the case at home when Yoruba and Pidgin were banned, sign language and silence came to my rescue. I still don’t know how my brother managed in his class. He was ahead of me by one year so, we only met during breaks and after school. I remember he beat the hell out of a boy once, Akinola, for laughing at him. He never really explained why he beat him that badly but I can guess today that good English must have contributed its quota.
My most memorable days in that school were in Pry 2, Pry 4 and Pry 6 but Pry 4 is still my best. Most of my friends from primary school that I still keep in touch with were from that class. I remember the first time I voluntarily answered a question in class. We were asked to make a sentence with the word cat. I had just finished one of those Janet and John books (not necessarily Janet and John) and in the story a cat ate from a plate but by the picture in the book the cat was licking the plate. So I raised my hand almost confidently. The teacher looked at my direction and called my name. “The cat is licking the plate,” I said. I don’t know why or how but it sort of took the class by storm as they all responded in unison, “Hun?” At this time, I prayed for the ground to open and swallow me. In retrospect, if the ground did open, then I would have fallen into the class below, my Pry 2 class. Anyway, the teacher made me repeat myself twice more before they all got a hang of what I had been saying. Afterwards, my class took about 5 minutes laughing and falling off their seats after I had dramatised what I was trying to say by pretending to be licking my right hand back and forth. Even my teacher, about the best I’ve ever had, did not spare me. They all laughed so hard that I never answered any question till we all got promoted. To date, I am not sure I have answered up to 10 questions in class, even if I was dead sure I knew the answer.
Going to what happened yesterday…
I walked into my CTO’s office for something I had asked him when I saw this familiar face. I left and returned shortly to ask if the name of the lady he had just spoken to is “K?” “Yes,” he replied. “Is there a problem?” I said there was not and asked if he knew where she had gone and he informed me that she’s the sister of one of the guys on IT with us. I actually thought he was pulling my legs: at the office we call it, “yanking one’s crank.” I ran to the IT guy’s office and asked him if they were blood and he confirmed it to me. I still thought he was trying to yank my crank then I asked him what primary school he attended and he said Staff School. At this, I jumped off my skin. His sister was one of my best friends in Pry 4 at Staff School! ‘K…’
She was such a very queer babe with a mind of her own. At that tender age, she had known to do what ever she wanted without fear or favour. I would never forget the day she came to class with Ijebu garri with peanuts and cold water from her water bottle. She set the delicacy proudly on her desk during break and chewed away at all the “oohs” and “aahs” we were throwing. She said she usually did it at home and had no problem doing it in school. She was so serious with her lunch that she finished and went out to rinse the bowl she had used. The following week, another classmate brought eba with egusi soup. When we tried to mock him, he quickly referred to K and told us to keep quiet but he broke when we persisted. As soon as K returned after break, she was told about it and suddenly swung into action against the class.
This was in Pry 4. We were in Pry 6 together in the same class but this was the experience that burned into my memory. It’s 19 years later and I can still remember everything as if it had just happened yesterday. We chatted for sometime and I asked her if her mom was still finer than herself. I always thought her mother was totally beautiful because she was warm, friendly and very slim. I love them slim. She laughed and said she was still fine but not necessarily finer than herself. When I asked her about the light green 504 she used to pick us all up, she smiled shyly and said you have an unimaginable memory.
