Forbidden fruit

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After I was ensconced in Kanturu community, my first temptation came knocking.
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As a friend of mine said, the forbidden fruit didn’t end with Eve in the garden; it still exists today. Moreover, unlike in Eden where a serpent presented the fruit, today, human beings present this fruit to other humans. Many, perhaps, not so many people have eaten of it. I’m sure you’re wondering what I mean – hang on.

     #####

“Where are you people?” The principal said hurriedly over the phone.
“At the corpers lodge sir,” I replied. “We’d soon be in school.”
“Come right away – quickly.”
“Ok sir.”
Beep.

     #####

8th May 2013 started out as most Wednesdays do – lethargically. We had moved into the Boys quarters of the mansion and were now fully settled, Hillary and I. We hadn’t been allocated any subject to teach, so going to school was not important.

I strolled within the expansive compound and stopped at the foot of the largest cashew tree. Picking up the old steel pipe that I had converted to a fruit ‘plucker’, I aimed its far end unto stalks bearing the yellow cashews. Boop, boop – the cashews dropped easily unto the concrete ground beneath. After I had plucked about a dozen, I washed them and ate in silence.

For about three days and counting, I had been eating cashews for breakfast. The more I plucked and ate, the more they grew out of the trees.

Afterwards, I warmed the Jollof, let’s say concoction, rice that my colleague had prepared the night before. While doing all these I kept thinking: Uk, is this what you’ll be doing for the next one year?

“Make we enter school.” I told Hillary as he dressed up.
“No wahala.”
We were soon on our way to school – the school where we taught.

#####

We’re making money
We’re making money
We’re making money this year
This year
This year …

The song kept blaring from the house where the other corps members lived. Undoubtedly, I knew Corper Tony was the one playing that music. When we heard the song, we figured that the senior corps members were around, so we decided to stop and say Hi.

“Corper Favour – good  morning.” Hillary said.
“Una no go school?” I added.
“Go school do wetin – Nnakpagi O!” She replied.

Favour was my Igbo teacher and Nnakpagi  (an igbo word meaning: for your pocket) was her favourite apothegm. We entered Paul’s (remember him?) room, and a steaming pot of ‘Abacha’ on the floor in the centre of the room welcomed us. ‘Abacha’ is an Igbo delicacy in which small slices of Cassava are fried in red oil and served with roasted cow hide and skin. We quickly sat, picked up spoons, and joined in.

We ate in silence, everyone concentrating fully on the meal. It was while I was eating that the principal’s call came. I never could have guessed what was to come shortly.

#####

We arrived at the school premises, and headed for the staff room. The section of the school where the staff room was, was quiet. Some senior students, I figured, were writing a very important examination in the examination hall.

We soon took up seats in the staff room and looked ahead. I’m sure that even the wasps that flew around knew we were new staff (no pun intended). The eyes of the staff were trained on us as if something had been said about us just before we came in. It seemed, to me, that they knew why the principal called us.

“What again did you people say you studied?” He asked.
“Mechanical Engineering.” We chorused.
“We are having the maths paper of an important exam.” He added. “We need you to help the students.”

My eyes dilated on ther own accord and I could hear my heart beat.

If you were in my shoes what would you do?

Lifes issues

Disappointed

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“I’m highly disappointed at you people,” He said, “very disappointed indeed.”
“But sir – we didn’t – we’re sorry. But we didn’t know.” We replied.
“And you’re just beginning; how can you be doing this.” The taller man added with a sigh.
Looking dolefully beyond them into the near distance, I didn’t say a word.
***************
 
The junior student stopped briefly, swung his cutlass sharply in the air, laughed aloud, and continued walking. It was 8am on a Monday morning.
Standing on the balcony, in improvised pyjamas, I could see him striding confidently on the tarred road ahead. Many students were going to school: book sacks slung on their sides with weeding hoes in their hands carrying cutlasses carelessly.

Are these guys farmers or students? I thought.
We were just two days old in the community, and, though the school had promised us accommodation, we were yet to pack in. So, Hillary and I stayed the night at a corps member’s place. The day before, something funny happened when we went to check out the house that the community had offered us.

          #####

“That cream colored building is the place,” Mr. Tunde said, with a strong Yoruba accent, smiling.
Being the caretaker of the building, we had followed Him from his abode to the house that had been graciously given to us.

“Wow! It’s a big compound –” I said as I sighted it from afar, “it really nice.”
“It is. The owner just needs people who’ll live here, keep the house warm, and surroundings clean.” He added.

He unlocked the gate and we walked into the spacious compound; evidently, the owner was wealthy as the fixtures and environs were ‘state-of-the-art’.

It was fenced round, had a borehole, and was well shaded with abundant cashew trees planted in neat rows. There was a main building – much like a country home – and a detached boys quarter. While the main building was painted resplendently in cream, the boys quarters was grey, no thanks to the colour of cement. This was where I faced my first disappointment.

My mind leapt and I imagined myself and Hillary staying in a large country home with spilt unit air conditioning systems; each of us having a room and a large parlor to share replete with a television set and DSTV. (I saw a DSTV dish at the side of the house, after all.)

“The boys quarters is big enough to house both of you,” Mr Tunde said, “it also has a toilet and a kitchen.”

What! Boys quarters? I thought.

The boys quarters was unlike the main house. It had no mosquito nets, was not painted and had a plywood ceiling which made the room hot and humid. In all, I was disillusioned.
“Thank you very much Sir,” we managed to say, “it’s a nice place.”

Really, all my hopes of living ‘in’ a mansion in a rural community had been dashed – but, at least, I was living ‘around’ a mansion. I took it in good faith.
After some more looking around, we left the compound – planning to pack in the next day. It was the frustration, as well as thoughts on how we were going to clear up all the grasses there, that made me sleep late, and, ultimately, wake up by 8am on Monday.

          #####

“Uk, let’s go to work.” Hillary said to me around 11am.
I got dressed, jumped into my rugged brown moccasins, donned a black cap, and we left for school.
Since no subject had been assigned to me to teach, and considering the fact that most students went with various farm implements, I was lethargic about going – Hillary’s call was the stimulus.

As we approached the school’s staff room, we saw the Senior Secondary School principal, and the Junior Secondary School principal discussing.

“Are you people just resuming by this time?” one of them asked pointing at his wrist watch.
Silence.
“I’m highly disappointed at you people,” He said, “what kind of impression are you creating.”
“But sir – we didn’t – we’re sorry. But we didn’t know.” We replied.
“And you’re just beginning; how can you be doing this.” The taller man added with a sigh.
Looking dolefully beyond them into the near distance, I didn’t say a word.

[We were not given any introduction to the rules of the school since we resumed. We weren’t even treated as though we existed. How were we to know? If you were in our shoes, what would be your reaction?]

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Next Episode: Monday, 4th  September ‘13

Mr Teacher the newbie!

A vault was broken into; my blogger account was hacked. That explains why there wasn’t any post on Monday. All said, posting resumes as usual – enjoy!

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“Ukaymeh – Ukime – Uukme.” Were the random pickups I could hear as some students tried to pronounce my name. While still on the stage, in nanoseconds, my mind flashed back to when I was in secondary school. I remembered how –sometimes – I gave my teachers nicknames; I feared nemesis.
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“These two gentlemen here will be our new Chemistry, Mathematics and Physics teachers”

Applause.

“Yay Yay!” The students shouted rapturously.

Standing on the rostrum of the makeshift assembly hall venue, I was transfixed, overwhelmed, and wondering. Why are these students so happy? To my left was Hillary who, I thought, was thinking the same thing too.
“Young men please introduce yourselves –” The principal said to us.

“I am Corper Ukeme.”

“Ukaymeh – Ukime – Uukme.” Were the random pickups I could hear as some students tried to pronounce my name. While still on the stage, in nanoseconds, my mind flashed back to when I was in secondary school. I remembered how –sometimes – I gave my teachers nicknames. I feared nemesis.

[I guess students are always happy when they have young teachers. With a smaller age difference between the teacher and the taught, interaction flows better and understanding is deeper….or so I thought – as you’d shortly see in this series.]

Hillary soon introduced himself and the assembly was dismissed. It was the first day of school for the new term and the school premises was unkempt with shrubs and grasses. Students flew here and there with hoes and cutlasses in their hands waiting for portions to be marked out for them to cut and weed: which, by the way, was a nightmare to me while in secondary school.

Quite notably, very few teachers were present and I wondered why. I had never even dreamt of being in the shoes of a teacher; though I admire and respect them, I never felt I was up to that task. Now a strange reality had broken – I was Mr. Teacher.

Hillary and I – having no office yet – walked and sat under a Dongoyaro tree located at the very centre of the school. Surrounding us – in quadrangular fashion – was the academic block comprising all classes. While there, I just put on my observation glasses (I believe you know what I mean): below I describe some of the stuff I saw.

Scene 1:
Two senior secondary girls (I know they are senior because they wear skirts instead of the gowns the junior students wear) stand at the door of their classroom look in our direction then look away then look at us again. They whisper to one another, walk towards us, stop in their tracks and walk back. I pretend that I do not see them and keep a straight face. Soon enough, however, they muster sufficient courage and come to us.

“Please sir we have Mathematics now,” they say, “come and teach us.”
“The school has not told us specifically what we are to teach,” I reply, “besides we have just resumed and we don’t even have a scheme of work.”

“Ok sir!” They reply and run off laughing.

I can’t help but think: are these students so serious?

Scene 2:
Around eleven O’clock a food seller walks into the premises with her wares.

“Efunmi rice forty naira, ewa twenty.” I hear a young Junior secondary school boy say in yoruba – which means: “give me rice forty naira and beans twenty naira.” To which the food seller dexterously serves four little spoons of the order.

By now, a crowd had formed around the seller and orders bounce along from head to head.
The young boy carries his food, served in a small blue rubber plate a short distance away and begins to eat – standing. If I remember right, it appears he is simply swallowing the meal. By my guesstimate, the food evaporates in about ten table spoons and the inner of the plate appears washed clean. Apparently, the lad doesn’t spare even a grain. Perfection!

I can’t help but think: are these students so hungry?

Scene 3:
Two senior boys walk towards the cashew plantation and a junior boy, playing football, runs into their path unknowingly.

Slaps on his head and back.
“Sorry sir – sorry senior.” The boys begs them profusely.

[It reminds me of secondary school. When I was in SS2, I remember a day when every boy in my class slept under the bunk of a particular senior student. He slept on the lower rung of a double bunk bed and he punished us so. This senior student forced all SS2 boys to join the chapel choir – we refused – and our reward was that punishment. We all – more than twenty of us – struggled for space on the floor under his bed.

When he arrived, he started flogging all body parts not contained under the bunk’s corners – so we squeezed in even more. It was a baptism of fire. To make matters worse, after the punishment, we all had to join the choir. I can still recall the bemused look on the eyes of the junior students when we all appeared on Sunday seating at the choir section of the chapel. If not for the fear of punishment, they would have laughed us to scorn.]

The senior boys land some more slaps and walk off, shirts not tucked in with a swagger attached to their gait.

I can’t help but think: are these students so wicked?

Scene 4:
A group of  junior students, two girls and a boy fetch water from the tap. I look closely and see that they are fetching it into Peak milk cups and used Derica cups (the type rice sellers use to measure out their commodities.)

They stroll out and soon begin to drink out of their respective cups. At first I think it’s just water they are drinking but soon I notice that they drink then chew then drink then chew.

“Come here,” I call out to one of the students, “all of you – what are you drinking?”
“It’s garri sir – we are drinking garri.”
“Garri? Did you add sugar – or milk?”
“No Sir, it’s just garri and water sir.”
“You can go.”
“Thank you sir.”

I can’t help but think: is garri supposed to be a break-time snack?

All in all, that was how my first day at work went. Sitting under the shade of an old Dongoyaro tree all I did was look around and make notes in my mind. Did I hear you say boring?

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