On the Wings of Dreams

2

The students of C.A. Secondary school arrange themselves in six different lines according to their classes. The staff members stand on the corridor of the building overlooking the field—the corridor being a sort of pedestal.

The principal, a thin, wiry man with hair that needs the careful grooming of a comb, stands with his usual companion, Mr. Brown, wielded tightly in his palms.

The day you introduced yourself to the Principal as the Corper posted to the school, he asked, without looking up from what he was writing, if you were the only one. You said yes. Then he said you would teach the final year students Government and Maths. Then he signaled you out of his office.

You did not leave; you told him you were very bad at Maths. He looked up, the vein on his forehead pulsating, and then he gave you a long and deprecating lecture on why a graduate must be knowledgeable in Maths. Then he said Government was okay, and asked for your name. You told him. He looked bewildered.

“But you can call me Corper,” you quickly added.

“No. I will call you ‘Bo. Ye. Ga’. Didn’t I get it right?”

The intonation was off, the strong ‘Gb’ was missing, but you didn’t want to find out whether a man who could flip at you for not knowing Maths would do the same for telling him he pronounced your name wrongly.

“Yes sir, you’re right.”

And that was when he warned you against coming late to school and chasing the women of Geffeichak.

Now, the armpits of his shirt are ringed with sweat. He paces back and forth. You could not see the veins throbbing on his forehead. But you are sure of one thing as you stand at the school gate: you are late again.

You should have been here before the start of the morning assembly. The plan had been to soothe your early morning headache with a quick nap until 7a.m, then by 7:30a.m be out of the house, and before 8a.m, you would be here. But life happens, and you found yourself waking up by 8a.m. At this point, you miss your phone’s alarm.

You check your watch. By now, the morning assembly should have been over, the students dispersing to their classes, singing their mischievous version of ‘Oh my home.’

As you draw closer to the corridor, and mount it, you see why the morning assembly is still on.

Four students are kneeling on the corridor: three males and one female. The female student has a short skirt on, ending at her upper thighs. Her face buried in makeup. As for the males, they have their collars lifted up, their faces plastered with hardened expressions, and their trousers pulled beneath their waists.

“I will use these students as examples. My school will not condone such nonsense!” His chest rises and falls as he utters each word, his neck straining with veins. You finally see the throbbing vein on his forehead. You hope he does not notice your late coming. More precisely, you hope he does not vent his anger at you for coming late.

He raises Mr. Brown in the air, and sends it down with a powerful force. It cracks against the back of one of the male students. The student’s expression remains the same, hard like concrete.

Behind that door, she is squealing again. There is that familiar lashing sound against the skin in quick succession. Every lash makes you tremble with fear. The lashing stops. The man says something. A tiny whimper responds. You peep through the key hole, but it is all shadows. The lashing starts again. You still tremble, but this time, you tremble with rage. You know this has to stop today. You take three deep breaths, and wrap your hands in a fist, poised to rap against the door.

“Ahhhh! I’m sorry sir! I’m sorry sir!” The female student is running in circles. The principal is intent on flogging her; he chases her round with Mr. Brown raised high. He slips. The students laugh and disrupt their lines. You cannot watch. Your hands tremble again, as you struggle to push back that memory. You search for Blessing, certain she will not be among those laughing. She is usually at the front of the line with her smooth oblong face, and her large eyes, like they are ready to absorb the world. The girl whose name starts with an ‘E’ is there—she is also laughing, her hands over her mouth; seeing you, she smiles and unbuttons the first buttons of her blouse, and winks—but Blessing is nowhere around her. Maybe the scattered lines have hidden her from view. Maybe she is late. But despite your uncertainties regarding her presence, you are certain she will not miss your test.

“And as for you Corper, if you ever come late to this school again, I will make sure you are not cleared for your next month’s allawee!” The Principal says after flogging the students, whipping Mr. Brown at the air around you. You flinch, your hands shielding your face.

Your students laugh, it stings your skin. You straighten yourself, and decide to make your test also sting.

 

Approaching your class, the noise of your students gets rowdier and more indistinctive. As you enter, someone chuckles, then they greet you with the customary, “Good morning sir, we are happy to see you sir. God…” You cause them to swallow the rest of their greetings by dictating the test questions. The students scurry for papers. Your tests are famous for not having the answers in the notes. Therefore, you do not bother telling them to keep their books off the table.

While dictating, someone calls your attention from the back. You locate the person. “Please sir, spell burucratic?” You know the face. He is one of the students who laughed after the principal’s warning. You respond with an, “As old as you are, you cannot spell bureaucratic? Blessing show this old fool how to spell bureaucratic.” There are few guffaws. Then silence. No response. You repeat your instructions again. Still no response.

Then you see her seat, empty, like a cavity among rows of rotten teeth. You look at the whole class: necks craning, trying to peep from another; teeth biting the tops of pens; heads staring at the ceiling, willing the answers to appear; hands scribbling, what you believe is, nonsense. You can bet on the last sachets of pure water left in your room that everyone here will fail this test. Then you tell them the test has been postponed. Some fling their papers in the air, their faces flushed with relief.

The rest of the day will be a jumble of activities. Most of the time, you will worry about Blessing’s unusual absence. At least she will come on Monday, will be your conclusion.