We went to the government owned primary school on the next street; myself and my sister Chinwe. Our education was sponsored solely by our poor mother, though all she paid for was school uniforms. We had no shoes, used books and borrowed pencils. There were no chairs, tables nor windows in the classes and Mama consoled us by saying we wouldn't really learn anything in school if those luxuries were provided but in truth, we learnt nothing in their absence.
Mr. Paul, my class teacher whined over a lot of things: the economic crunch, political unrest, corruption, educational instability and various other things he heard on the news. His ideas where baseless to the other teachers. To them, he was just being over exuberant. He, too, would make the mistakes he so loathes were he in the shoes of the government.
Mr Paul was a strict wicked man. His cane was a stick with the sting of a scorpion's bite; if ever scorpions bite. He was the most celebrated cane wielder in our school; the school disciplinarian. One stroke from Mr. Paul's cane and you could forget where you live. To me, he was my father's clone.
One Friday morning, in the harmattan season, I woke up from our tattered mat to the biting morning cold. Usually, we boiled water on the firewood stove for our bath but today, we were out of firewood. Mama immediately commandeered us towards the spot in the packed compound where children had their baths and forced cold water on our naked, hungry skins. The cold water ran down my spine, chilling my nerves at about three degrees. I ran with all the speed my skinny legs could muster inside the house and threw on my threadbare school uniforms. Mama was making pap in the kitchen with the little water she could boil.
'Chinwe, come carry the akanmu go inside'. Her voice reverberated through the compound. Mama always called Chinwe when it was matters of the kitchen. To her, 'boys are not meant for the kitchen'. However, Chinwe was not in support of this idea. To her, everybody had as much right to domestic work as they did to food rations. As she walked to the kitchen, Chinwe grumbled about how some people only knew how to eat and how their mother supported them because they were 'boys'.
Mama gave her a scathing look and a serious tongue lashing on her how no man would marry a woman who grumbled over housework. Chinwe obviously didn't care what any bloody man wouldn't do, all she wanted was equal allocation of house chores. She was near furious when she accidentally upset the bowl containing the warm pap. Her attitude thereafter was remorseless. She folded her arms and made a face that was neither shocked nor relaxed.
'You dey craze?' Mama had risen from her seat. Her hands above her head, forcefully descending on Chinwe's cheek. The palm left a crease where it landed on her soft face. Hot tears poured. The hand flew up again.
'If them send you come, tell dem say you no see me'
Gboa! The slaps came in torrents. Chinwe ran blindly, mama chased, blindly. Serves her right.
The time was past nine a.m. I grabbed my polythene bag and ran off. We had an arranged football match I could not afford to miss. As I approached the broken wooden gate of the school, I noticed a long line of latecomers receiving boiling strokes on the iced behinds. I was not prepared to receive that early morning dosage of Mr. Paul's cane.
I took a narrow path beside the fallen fence of the school and walked to where it was low enough to climb through. I threw my bag over and set about hauling my bony framework over. I landed on my feet and turned to face the greatest dread of my life. Standing in front of me, my bag in his hands was none other than Mr. Paul himself...
...to be continued.