by AC Alegbo
Njideka was added company to those in the living room on this night and talked for a long time about how her trade was coming on; about the little occasional trouble she had from Amaka and about the friends she had made. Frequently, during her speech, Mama would underline some amazing occurrence she mentioned with an ‘Amen’ or ‘Praise God’ and as their voices were loud enough to filter into the room I was working in, I found it a little difficult to concentrate. I stopped concentrating altogether when the talkers switched positions and my name came up in my parents’ story; I listened attentively expecting to hear the worst and I was not disappointed.
‘He is just a waste to us,’ I heard Papa say with a short hiss. ‘How can I tell anyone that my son who is a man is still under my roof; a lot of people his age are already driving their own cars.’
‘Papa, please, take it easy with him,’ my sister responded. ‘Not everyone is the same and all these other people – we don’t know exactly what they do to get their money.’
‘Arinze does try a little,’ Mama chipped in, in my defence. ‘He works sometimes for Baba Jide and he gives me the money he earns from that.’
‘He is a man!’ Papa roared suddenly. ‘You should stop handling him like a child. Baba Jide has sacked him. The poor man said he couldn’t deal with him, that he acts strange at work. You talk about the others, Njideka, and how we don’t know what they do to get their money by which I’m sure, you mean crime but do you think that even crime is easy? Nothing is easy; I just want the idiot to get out there and struggle really hard like everybody else does.’
‘But he is struggling.’ It was my mother again. ‘He is constantly looking for and applying for jobs.’
‘That is rubbish. What has been the result of that? His education has become a waste; I know what I would have done with the money I spent on his university education. I don’t want him hanging around, waiting for a job to fall into his lap. Let him go out there and make a job for himself; that’s what struggling means.’
‘And now, he has told us that he no longer believes in God; I am really worried about his future. If he won’t pray to or have any regard for God at all, how can we expect any success for him?’ Mama began on a new strain.
‘O-oh,’ Papa drew. ‘I thought you had forgotten about that.’
‘What do you mean – not believe in God?’ Njideka asked.
‘The fool thinks that he is smarter than everyone else and has been telling us some rubbish about how he no longer is a Christian and that there is no reason to believe in God. Since he is that smart, let him go and make something of himself and not disturb us with his stupid intelligence and his stupid presence.’
I’d had no idea the depth of my father’s disgust for me or my situation and hearing him verbalise his thoughts sent a stabbing hurt through me. A dark sheet of acute embarrassment and deep humiliation descended on me even though I was alone in the empty room. I suddenly felt my mouth was very dry. I felt alone; whatever I had prided myself on that made me different had certainly made me a failure. My parents thought so and I couldn’t even disagree with them, therefore, I could not blame them.
What right did I have to expect anything from my parents when I was an adult? They had been generous enough already as things stood and could be running out of patience. This was going to be a matter of options – I could cut out of my own accord or have them give me a nudge which could be only a matter of time. I knew I had to get out of the house; I had to brave the outside world and take daunting risks – anything would be better than my current sham of an existence.
It didn’t help that a letter had come the other day from Banjo. He was in Kaduna, well, at the time he posted the letter, he was. He was okay, working in a small office and trying to land contracts for his boss, the letter said. How was I doing? He knew I’d be fine; I was smart enough. Could I drop him a line? It’d be lovely to catch up. That was all I needed to know and that was all the letter said. I couldn’t reciprocate in like manner not especially when I lacked even the time to write and certainly didn’t have the time I’d need to think of a suitable lie or, at least, a clever way to bend the truth of my situation far enough to make me less ashamed.
So I had ignored the letter all that time but not anymore. I decided to do something about my gnawing dissatisfaction and began to write a reply to Banjo right after I returned to my room; the letter did not carry a very cheerful tone but it didn’t moan either. I was okay it simply expressed; I could do better though, it subtly communicated. And very boldly, could he be of help? A place in a lucrative field like oil might be just what I need; did he have any connections at all? Could he put in a word on my behalf?
There was nothing to be embarrassed about, I judged as I sealed the envelope. Banjo was no stranger. I could suffer a little humiliation before him, especially the kind that granted some promise of an access to a more satisfying existence. Hopefully, he’d find a way to help and if he couldn’t, then, at least that’d be one more ground covered.
****
Primary 5 was much different from everything before it. The difference was more accentuated, perhaps, by the fact that I had not expected it; it was not like the big break we made from Primary 2 to 3 when we switched from using pencils to being allowed to use biros. I still keep fond memories of my first biro and how I had always covered the ball tip after every use with its top and placed it in my shirt pocket, tip upwards all the time. Needless to say, in a short time, the ink came pouring out and ruined my shirt. But I had provided good entertainment for everyone else in class.
‘Your biro has floated,’ Sade, a loud mouthed girl in the seat next to mine had shouted.
‘Ha, ha. You put it upside down? You have no sense.’
‘It is you who have no sense,’ I cursed back angry.
‘Take out the tube,’ another suggested. ‘Come, I’ll show you what to do.’ He brought out a piece of paper and, for the next hour, began an elaborate and complicated process of ink reclamation.
What an invention the biro was for us; I cannot remember any other time when something so simple held such a great fascination for kids in my class. From one day to another, we would have some restructuring work doing on some biro – forcing ink flow down to the ball tip, taking off, cleaning and repairing or replacing a tip, exchanging tips or simply transferring ink from one biro to another. Of course, as to be expected, we always ended up, for days afterwards, with hands and arms like we had been in casualty.
The fifth year class, however, brought more responsibilities and created some openings for us that we had not been privileged to before. We were to co-manage certain school affairs along with the pupils in Primary 6. There was the bell ringing, the band boys, boy scouts, girl guides and the debating society to which we were now invited. Mrs Deji had lost no time in letting us know the usefulness of these groups.
‘Who can tell me what the scout’s motto is?’
Hands would go up all around the classroom eager to give an answer to a subject she’d only finished on about a minute before.
‘I, ma; I, ma.’ That chant would go up so loud that it drowned out the teacher’s voice. Some children would even half rise from their seats to give their raised hands a little bit more height. No sacrifice was too much in the battle for recognition. And then, she would go and pick out the child who really wanted to be left alone.
‘Arinze!’
I’d look up horrified. I’d spell out the whole sentence to buy time. ‘The scout’s motto is em-em.’
‘What’s the scout’s motto? If you don’t know the answer, come out and kneel down.’
‘Be prepared?’
‘Sit down.’
Saved for that minute. Before long, I always had my hand towering higher than others’, shouting, ‘I, ma’ louder than the rest, trying to ensure I didn’t get picked during question time. Not always though; what happens when everyone raises their hands? She calls the bluff of the most enthusiastic and I’d be in trouble again.
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Class lessons were also a little weirder and I was awed at having to encounter words like ‘cotyledon’ in agriculture. Apparently, some were “mono” and others were “di” but I didn’t have a clue what that had to do with seeds, soil and water. Joyfully, however, a lot of things stayed the same and my group of friends did not seem to have changed in any way.
We still spilled out onto the playground attacking and diving at each other in feverish horseplay and quite recently had begun playing football in huge teams of about fifteen either side. Often, we would completely lose sight of the ball in the confusion of grappling and jostling bodies and, then, it would re-emerge at another end of the field; if one got one swipe at the ball in all of the forty minutes we had to play in, then one had had a good game.
****
Three weeks of the same drag later and Banjo’s reply came; three weeks of idling about, barely having an identity and a letter arrives with my name on it, in a personal hand.
The letter was to the point – very much like Banjo. He could help, it said, though not in the way I might consider as ideal. I’d have to come up to Kano for this one, to Alhaji Sanni’s who owned a car workshop and needed a couple of hands which meant I could bring someone else with me. He thought it was a good business opportunity until he could find me something better but he wasn’t making any promises. If I decided to come to Kano, I’d get free accommodation at the Alhaji’s boys’ quarters. What did I think?
He’d left a telephone number in the letter as he wanted a quicker reply but I didn’t care to be rushed. Going up north was going to be a big move but at the same time, it was going to mean independence. And who could I take along?
****
As we approached the second month of the year, the change that I had not been too keen on became more and more evident in Ireneh. It began in the frequent clashes he had with the girls in the seat behind and, with us to take our friend’s side and sometimes stoke the fire, things went unnoticed for very long. Ireneh began by successfully wresting away one of the lockers for his use more often than was his due. Mabel had been silenced as she tried to fight back.
‘You used Bisi locker Wednesday, Thursday and Friday last week; it is my turn today. Take your bag out!’ she cried.
‘You are mad. Did I bring my bag to school on Monday and Tuesday? Who made the locker Bisi locker? I am using the locker today. You better not touch my bag!’ Ireneh ordered in turn.
‘Take your bag out or I’ll throw it out,’ Mabel persisted.
‘Try it and I will break your hand.’
Mabel was not intimidated and began to drag Ireneh’s bag out of the locker; the boy caught her hand swiftly with one of his and with the other, deftly wrenched her own bag from her other hand and tossed it to the back of the classroom.
‘Hei!’ roared the kids from both rows either side.
‘Make sure you look where you throw things o!’
‘Don’t injure me or I will break your teeth.’
‘Ireneh, are you crazy!?’
‘Mabel, do you want to die?’
It was a right ruckus and it was a good thing Mrs Deji was not in or rather, it was due to the fact that she was not in that it happened at all.
Mabel screamed at the sight of her bag hitting the rear wall of the room, the contents flung out and scattered around the back of the class like seeds being sown. She saw red and lunged at Ireneh’s bag at which the boy furiously pushed her back, knocking her hand off so forcefully I felt it. Bisi, to the right of Ireneh, shrank back in fright as the struggling parties got more and more energetic.
Eze and I reached back to keep the peace. We joined the struggle and got the girl’s hand
off first before asking her to calm down. She was never going to win this battle anyway.
‘He wasn’t at school on Monday and Tuesday, Mabel, so maybe you should let him use the locker,’ I said.
‘I suppose you don’t want him to beat you,’ Eze contributed, ‘so leave the locker for him and you can use it tomorrow.’
‘Shut up,’ the brave girl shouted back at us. ‘You are his friend, that’s why. You are not going to tell him to stop his trouble. Let teacher come back and I will report you,’ Mabel said, this time to Ireneh and close to tears.
‘You are mad,’ Ireneh said for the second time. ‘Report me and I will report you too.’
‘What will you report me for, what did I do?’ she questioned.
‘You threw my bag away too. That’s what I will say and I will say that’s why I beat you.
I’ve not even beaten you yet,’ he corrected himself. ‘If I beat you, you’ll cry louder than this. I haven’t touched you.’
‘And I will tell Miss that that’s a lie,’ Bisi came in suddenly to back the other girl up. I had no idea where she got the courage from. A few minutes earlier, she’d looked ready to pass out and here she was wading into something that hadn’t yet affected her.
‘Try that and I will slap your head. I will catch you outside class and destroy you. And my friends in front will even support me,’ Ireneh said pointing to Eze and me. He hadn’t felt he needed to ask for our support and at that moment, given his form, it didn’t seem like we had a choice anymore.
I glanced at Eze to see if he was any more enthusiastic about being dragged into the conflict without his consent than I was. He wore a strange expression which I soon realised was surprise mixed with a dash of overawing shock. He didn’t know Ireneh like I did – and even I still got thrown by the boy’s antics. Eze kept blinking at the display of rage and contemptuous aggression by Ireneh, sniffling time and time again as he watched. I could make an educated guess what was going through his mind. If he stuck with us after this, it would be for the same reason a lot of other kids in his situation would – if you can’t beat them...
Once or twice, he jumped back and to the side as Ireneh leapt to take a swipe at Bisi who was beginning to impress me by her bold stand. The way Eze did it, he made it look like he was making way for Ireneh to have a clean strike. ‘No, I’m not afraid of you, I’m simply on your side,’ the action said. And then he would smile wanly after the attack had passed to help his pretence.
Such pretence in the face of confrontation was commonplace in those days – not that Ireneh would mind terribly if we were afraid of him I must say. But when it came to a direct face-off where one of the parties had no intention of actually fighting, then, it was important to leave your opponent in no doubt that you did want to fight while giving a good excuse why you couldn’t. Sure, such excuses could be hilarious; I’ve heard a few in my time like the one Ojo, a boy in my compound, had given when he’d been pushed around by another lad everyone had expected he could take comfortably.
‘The boy is not strong. I can beat him,’ he’d said. ‘But I didn’t want to fight that day because I was wearing my last year Christmas clothes.’
And he didn’t stop there too; he kept insisting that he was right, well, that it was a valid excuse. He claimed that if he’d found someone to hold his precious clothes, he’d have fought the lad. After all, there had been such a situation even in the bible as his uncle had told him – when Saul looked after the clothes of the men who stoned Stephen. That ensured none of those men could give the same excuse as he had. We’d all laughed the more at that, bursting our sides we were but he thought it was because we didn’t believe him. So he kept on all of that day challenging us to ask anyone else and to check his story out like the Saul story was guaranteed to win him back his respect. And how could we explain to him why we were laughing – that his explanations were simply funny. Some uncle he had, I’d thought. But nevertheless, I looked up that story in the bible.
Anyway Ireneh was still on the warpath and looked to have finished with Bisi as he looked around for anyone he might have missed. Then he found her.
‘And if you, frog, try to join them, I will pluck out your eyes,’ he added, slapping the back of the quiet Zainab who sat between us and reminding me ver
y much of Jegbe and Oscar. The girl turned around sharply and turned around again as quickly; I looked and saw that Ireneh had a very hostile look in his eyes. Even I thought that this was going a little too far.
In the weeks that followed, the girls became more and more terrified of Ireneh and although, they reported a few times to Mrs Deji and she always did try to investigate, she always ended up with too little to go on and the girls got punished some more by Ireneh in revenge. By the end of February, both girls had lost half the contents of their bags as Ireneh kept tossing their bags out the lockers, once, out the class and, on a few occasions, dragging them out of their seats by the hair. In the end, the boy had full control of one of the lockers and the girls had to share the other one.
It didn’t seem anyone could help the bullying situation. The class monitor, in the teacher’s absence, would always take down the names of those making a noise in class – noisemakers, they were called and the list - names of noisemakers. Later on, the teacher was supposed to cane or punish those on the offending list but each time there was a racket in Ireneh’s section, the girls were also labelled as part of the noisy group and flogged along with the boy.