MEMOIRS OF A LANGUAGE TUTOR
(Based on True Life Experiences)
CHAPTER 2
Bomb in a Bag
I strutted into the class looking peng in my faux leather pumps, freshly-made weaves and perfect figure, the ideal image of 2face Idibia's African queen.
"This woman is not a teacher!" I heard Tafida whisper to Micheal Monday, a petite boy in Grade Seven A.
"Ah, I will tell her you said so!" His friend retorted and as he made to stand, my sonorous voice shushed the pupils while my teeth sparkled from the reflection of the sun seeping through the louvered window. Micheal Monday looked like he was mesmerised, just staring rather than report his friend. He must be thinking I have the most beautiful set of white teeth.
"Monday Micheal!" I jolted the Efik boy out of his reverie.
"It's Michael Monday."
"Why don't you call it 'Alice in Wonderland'?
"Not a bad nickname, Miss Oriola." He murmured but I heard him.
"Go face the wall, Monday. Everyone else can sit. " What a silly boy! I thought.
“Monday is my Father’s name, Ma’am.” He was still saying as he left to face the wall.
“Micheal!!!” I almost hit the rolled up chart in my hand on his behind. The school had warned every teacher to avoid using corporal punishment, not that, the rolled up chart could hurt him anyway but I didn’t want to take any chances. Michael lived with his foster parents and he must have had a fair share of the rigours of life.
Walking to my wooden chair, I thought of how possible it was to add some weight. I always had my food flask by my side, but the daily routine of managing my class and coordinating the Press and Music Club could never make me add an ounce.
“Just go to your seat!” I said to the impetuous boy in resignation.
The Grade Seven pupils of Sunrise International School are obviously the most agitated of all the students. They could pass for an angry mob of freedom fighters. Their dopamine is definitely from Mercury.
I gulped down some water from my bottle as my throat had become suddenly dry and my palms, sweaty. What drama awaits Grade Seven A today? I thought deeply but decided to be hopeful. The stolen phone drama yesterday had taught me to be more careful with the pupils.
Then Míriam walked in, her long silky hair plaited in two ponytails and hanging down both shoulders. Míriam is a pretty Nigerian girl of Arabian descent. They were actually Guineans but they claimed to be Nigerians from the North. You could tell from her looks and that of the others Guinean students that they weren’t fully Nigerians but no one cared where they came from.
Many of her classmates believed that she was Fulani but she always said she was Nigerian. I cared less about her nationality. I try to love all my students equally.
Now, there have been reports of bombing in Northern Nigeria. Some of the cases were of students who carried the bombs in their bags and walking into a classroom. Míriam had the habit of carrying her bag behind her back always. Her classmates had played many pranks to make her drop her bag but she never did. She took it to the toilet, cafeteria and everywhere you could find her. If a snail ever leaves its shell, Míriam never drops her bag. So her classmates talked about it behind her back and raised concerns about it to me.
“Míriam , you're late again!” I scolded her as she entered the class. I was explaining the intricacies of the diphthong sounds to the class when she walked in, hands on the two dangling belt attachments of her bag and lunch box on her shoulder.
She smiled.
She never stops smiling.
And she never drops her bag where others dropped theirs.
“Why don't you drop your bag where others drop theirs or do you have a bomb in it? I decided to turn her classmates’ concerns to a joke. The fair girl simply made for her seat which was close to the front window and hanged her lunch bag by the edge of the seat. She had stopped smiling and a strange look appeared on her face.
Did my words strike a wrong cord?
“I just don't want my bag to get my bag dirty like the others”, she started to explain.
“Oh, ok. But you need to follow the class rules of keeping your things orderly. Your bag might be disturbing your seat partner. ” I waved my hand directing her to her seat beside Chels, the class prefect. Chels liked to have her space and she was a very orderly child.
Míriam must have reported the incident to her mum later at home because the following day, the School Head summoned me and strictly warned me to be discreet with my words citing Míriam ’s case.
I felt bad for Míriam and how she was hurt by my statement. I apologised to her later while embracing her in a tight hug. I explained why I had to clarify her actions before the class and reprimanded her for making a scene in front of her mum. That day, she wasn't carrying her bag like she used to but kept it carefully at the corner of her seat. It was the end of the first term.
After that term, she never resumed the school again and I wondered if it was because of my statement. Tafida, her distant relative could not tell me the reason too. Well, everyone moved on but Míriam’s story reminds me daily to be mindful of the words I use with my students.
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Chapter 3
ACCIDENTAL COMPETITION
We experienced the best weather today at Sunrise High School. It was not a typical morning though. The heavens knew it and blessed us with the best of weathers. No sunlight, no rain, no chillness, just a cool cloudless, not-so-sunny-morning. Senior students in skirts and trousers scurried to their classes as Oracle, the principal chased them from peeping behind the rocky walls to watch some few selected students prep for a TV debate. Many of them wished to be selected among the spectators who will accompany the debaters to the TV station.
The selected few were the fiery and outspoken ones. Chekube fired her points like bullets from one of Sylvester Stallion’s machine guns. Her smooth faced freckled with puberty pimples and her thin lips released the debate points so sharply you would wonder if she was a voice recorder on play mode. I smiled, hypnotized by her confidence and oratory skills.
“Resolved: Day students have better chances of excelling than boarders” She started on a firm note and rattled on before Abimbola, the supporting speaker picked up from where she left off. I was awed and expressed my exhilaration while pointing out few things they needed to adjust.
As the English teacher in charge of outings like this, I had carefully selected my coffee brown jumpsuit and a matching blazer. Our first impressions should rub on the judges and other debaters at the media house we were visiting. I had carefully instructed all the debaters and student spectators on their dress code and hairstyle. When lined up for inspection, they all shone from teeth to shoe except Adaobi.
Oracle disliked her appearance and asked her to return to her class. I pleaded on her behalf and took her to the female toilet to help her redress. She came out looking better and Oracle just shrugged as he permitted her to join the school bus.
So, we set on our journey to the great event of the year.
“Remember who we are and don’t forget you are going out there to represent yourself, your school, and your family.” I recited my regular lines when we had to go for outdoor events. When dealing with children, repetition of instructions is needed because hearing it all the time makes a lasting imprint in their subconscious.
I sat at the front seat beside the driver as I was the only adult in the bus apart from the driver. I had a strong influence on the pupils and the principal could trust me with them. On the way, we prayed, we sang and the Holy Spirit must have come down on us because we won the opposing side with wide margin and returned back, singing dancing and relating all the events that happened at the centre. I was so proud of my students especially because of their composure and poise. I allowed them to loosen up on our return trip so that they could ease up after the tension everyone felt during the debate.
“You need to see the look on our opponents’ faces when we passed by them, carrying the TV screen we won.” Jadesola chipped in with her American accent. Everyone laughed before Rilwan suddenly came up with an idea.
“Mrs Oriola, let’s play a prank on, Oracle!” he said with a mischievous look on his cute face.
He had barely finished his sentence when the sudden screeching of tyres was heard and everyone shrieked while the young bus driver tried to swerve the bus to the right.
What just happened? I went brain-blank for a split of a second.
Everything happened like a flash. What jolted me to the presents were the noises from within the bus and the ones outside. A small crowd had gathered around something or was it someone. I couldn’t see anything from where I was seated. The driver looked scared out of his wits and a lighted from the bus. He was a young guy and looked inexperienced too.
“ Calm down, everyone.” My motherly instinct intimated my senses to coordinate my students first.
I tried to recall how all the events had played out. I remember seeing a little girl of about 6 to 7years running across a four lane road as we arrived at a T-junction at Ikeja. The girl wore a school uniform but it was still school hours. She was coming close and the driver who didn't notice her on time tried to avoid hitting her and the next thing I remembered was that a large crowd was gathering round to check if the little girl was alive.
But I was so sure the bus did not hit the little girl. The girl must have fainted out of shock or hunger. She looked like she hadn't tasted good food in years. But as angry as the mob was, the more I was conrused on my next li ẹ of action. I told the students to comport themselves as many had already started crying.
“Things will pan out!” I repeated my usual line but even I was in doubt if things truly will. My few minutes in the crowd made me realise that truly, the saying was right that “ a dull person's IQ is higher than an angry mob put together. “ The story of the incident had taken new, dangerous dimensions that put the lives of the children at risk.
“Who is the driver of the bus? He was driving carelessly.” One angry Yoruba man said to the others.
“No, he wasn't. The girl was the one who missed her way.” I intercepted.
All curious eyes turned on me. Who is this one? Their eyes seem to be saying. I quickly explained who I was and advised that the girl be taken to the hospital. Many were looking for who the driver was but only I knew he was there among the crowd looking lost and scared to admit his identity probably because he knew they would lynch him.
Quickly, I introduced myself as a teacher who was in the bus and volunteered to go with a good samaritan who wanted to take the girl to the hospital. I gave an eye contact to the driver to look after my students. My brain was thinking fast if I had done the right thing.
All I knew was to choose the safety of a life first. Little did I know that my decision would put the life of almost 15 children at risk.
There I was with indecisiveness nugdging at my heart. Am I to stay with my students whom I have warned not to alight from the bus no matter the circumstance or am I to go with the girl who happened to have fainted from the brush of the bus. I was certain of one thing though. The bus did not hit her hard. She could have survived the hit. She probably fainted from shock and lack of adequate nutrition. While ruminating on so many things at once, I made my decision. I told the head girl to look after the others and signaled to the driver to find a way to take the students back to school.
“The bus will not go anywhere. They want to escape.” One lout who's only job seemed to be lynching was ready to cause a fracas.
“ I am a teacher from the school. “ I said calmly. “Let the driver take the students back. I'll stand in for the girl. “
So I sat at the front seat beside the good samaritan who had offered to drive her to the hospital while someone placed the girl gently on the back seat. She looked lean and ill-nurtured. Her cheeks were sunken and her face whitish.
What was an eight-year old school girl doing on a four-lane road on a Monday morning? That was strange. I had overheard some bystanders say the same thing. She seem to have come from the public primary school across the road. I looked back to see her quiet form in green and red uniform and fear engolfed me.
“God, please, don't let this little girl die”, I prayed with all my heart. Please for the sake of her parents, keep her alive for us.”
The first hospital we arrived at refused to admit her and directed us to the General Hospital at Ikeja. We arrived there and the poor girl was quickly admitted to the ICU. Then it started raining heavily. The Good Samaritan decided to take his leave. I thanked him profusely before he left. On getting back to the ICU department, I saw Oracle and the proprietress of Sunrise School already at the hospital discussing with the Head mistress of the victim's school and another teacher from the school.
“How can a teacher send an eight year old out of the school to buy something for her?” Oracle was saying.
What! I found it too outrageous to believe. So that was why the girl was crossing a four-lane Road.
A lot of things were just not in place. The rain beat me mercilessly as I move from one section of the hospital to another, paying bills and sorting paper work. When all was done, the principal relieved me of my job of caring for the pupil whom her relatives called Mary.
I had done my best and it was time to go care for myself. My hair looked unkempt and I was very hungry. I looked at the bed where the little girl laid. I looked at the worries on everybody's face. Mary was now conscious and was crying as if hungry. All the events happened in seconds and a lot of truth covering was happening.
I thought in silence as I walked to the bus station. One thought that prevailed in my head was that of a need for more NGO’s to keep children off the street and to agitate that school ethics should be strictly followed.
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Chapter 4
One of the first lessons I learnt about marriage as a mother, is never to leave my marital home in a fit of anger and leave my children behind. It could be a costly mistake.
Such was Dara's Case.
Dara was one of the new intakes admitted to Grade Seven A that particular. He was admitted with his brother and they were both lovable and reserved kids. Dara was more reserved. His brother, Lugard, in Grade 10 was more expressive and made friends easily. Dara did not make any friends in his first three weeks at Sunrise International.
I get to know my students better from their essays and Dara was not an exception. When children are troubled, they often find solace in someone or something to whom or which they can pour out their souls. Many of my students pour their souls into their essays and my role as a language teacher affords me the opportunity to read their pain and struggles.
“This is a nice essay, wow! “ I told Dara one Monday afternoon. “Where did you get your ideas from? They look so real and touching.”
“They are real.” He said quietly.
“Oh really? “
I was in shock but I didn't ask for details. I really wanted to know but we were taught not to pressurise our students to talk about their private lives at home except in a case where abuse or molestation is suspected. Dara didn't look like he was abused. He looked and acted like a well-mannered kid and he was very respectful and he always got the highest in his essays.
“Such a glorious student!”
“What are you doing here? “, I questioned the
10 year old boy one late morning after I just finish taking a class and was looking forward to the the pepper soup I had in my food flask. His face was long and heavy like rain clouds.
“I wish to call my mummy. “ Dare told me amidst with a teary voice. Well, it wasn't a new thing for my students to want to speak to their parents over the phone but I knew something was wrong with Dara.
“Are you ok? “ I asked before ransacking my bag for my mobile phone.
He did not answer. I told him to calm down and call his mother's number for me to dial. Soon Mother and son were talking and I excused myself to give some privacy. Whatever it is they both had to say, I did not bother to listen or eavesdrop.
“My mum doesn't live with us. “ Dara finally opened up one day. It made more sense to me now.
“Really? “ I said knowing it was time to give him the audience to speak up. The child had been bottling up so many emotions he wanted to express but had not found the courage or encouragement to do so.
“Why? “
“She’s separated from my Dad. She left without us. “ Dara said pathetically. What a mother, I thought!
Which good mother would leave her children and walk away? Putting a hold to my judgments, I decide to ask why Dara’s mum left home. The little boy began his pathetic story of how he was only dive years old when his mother and father had a serious fight. He said his mother packed her things and left to live wirh her parents.
Soon she decided to come back but Dara’s dad refused. He used the opportunity to contact his lawyer and prepare a divorce case against her.
The reason he gave for his divorce sounded cogent. According Dara, he accused her of negligence and of abandoning her children. This story was an eye opener for me. All that Dara’s Dad needed to proof his wife’s negligence was evidence and he provided it.
Now the court ruled the case in favour of Dara’s dad. They also placed a restraining order that prevented her from seeing her children. Dara’s father saw to it that the children stayed far from their mother. I thought about Dara’s story and confirmed it with his brother. Their mother started calling me so she could get in touch with her children.
Again, pity for the kids brought me close to them and I showered every little thing I had to make sure that their stay in the school was comfortable. When Dara told me their dad already had a live in fiancée, I knew there was fire on the moutain.
Dara was the one who felt the weight of the divorce most since he was just a kid when the incident happened so he desired motherly attention which his Father’s girlfriend was probably not giving. Allowing the kids to talk to their mother was a risky move for me and soon the father found out that she was communicating with the kids and I got a warning from the school management not to interfere. Dara’s father also warned his kids to avoid reaching out to their mother and communicating with me.
I felt so bad for the boys but I had to withdraw. I explained to the mother when she called next and she sounded like she wanted to cry. I was lost between the two parties but my confusion did not last long as Dara’s Father soon changed his kids ‘ school again.
