On the Wings of Dreams

5

The morning is yet to shrug off the effects of yesterday’s rain. The blades of grass glisten with wetness. Millipedes, slugs, and snails take their places on the walls and ground. Treading carefully on the ground, you avoid the puddles etched along the way. You are undeterred, a man on a mission.

The Staff room has a desk and a chair for each of the fourteen teachers and seems to have space for almost nothing else. Five ceiling fans spin tirelessly above but they do very little to make the room less stuffy. At the end of the room is a green door with the label ‘Principal’ on it. You gingerly pick your steps on the red rug notorious for its dustiness. The teachers suddenly fall silent, staring at you like their eyes are beholding a strange apparition. They know you hardly come in here before the morning assembly.

You greet them all, measuring the appropriate amount of smile for each handshake. You plead with them to gather, stressing its urgency.

They do.

You start with how the school has been and will continue to be a blessing to the community. How it has prevented idleness among the youths and brought them in line with current trends, not to mention job opportunities for teachers.

They nod their head.

“But it is so sad that irrespective of the teachers’ efforts, the school is yet to boast of any University graduate.” You wait for the look of disappointment on their faces to settle before you add, “But that is all about to change.”

Their faces brighten.

You say there is an exceptional student, who would advance to university level, even on scholarship.

“Would you like to be a part of this landmark achievement?” you ask. They pause for a moment. You quickly add, “At no monetary cost.”

They smile. Whispers of affirmation arise.

“But this achievement for our school cannot occur.” You wait for it to sink in again, pausing longer than usual. Someone finally asks why.

“Because that student’s name is Blessing.” Diverse waves of reaction spread over them.

Time for the kill, you tell yourself.

“My fellow teachers, do not be dismayed, there is a way we can still make that dream come true.” You take your long pause, waiting for an impatient ‘how?’ A ‘how’ implies interest, which can be nurtured into commitment. Instead what comes next is:

“Boyega, to my office. Now.”

“Mr. Bamgboye Gboyega,” the principal says, fingers interlaced on his desk. It comes out as, Bomboyee Boyega. “First of all, forgive me for scolding you that day in front of the students. Sometimes my emotions get the better part of me.”

“No problem sir.”

“Good. So, where was I? Yes. I enjoyed the speech, you gave out there. It was—inspiring.”

“Thank you sir, thank your sir. I’m really interested—”

“As I was saying I like your idea—the teachers uniting to make a stand for education, and all. But you are forgetting one thing.”

You wait for what you are forgetting.

“Apart from the fact that her parents are in support—”

“Shouldn’t she have a say in her life?”

“If you’re looking at it from the legal angle, she is less than eighteen.”

“You truly think Blessing is not up to eighteen?”

“Do you have a birth certificate to prove otherwise?”

“What of. What of that bone test stuff?”

“Look Boyega, to what end? Even if they say she is eighteen or above. What good would that do here? It is only in foreign countries that all those eighteen and above thing works.”

“She can speak her mind, and I will be more than ready to take her in.”

“I love your spirit Boyega, it reminds me of my young self, floating on the wings of dreams, until reality brought me crashing. My plan was to be a professor of sociology by now. But look at me, at this age still heading a village secondary school.”

“It is still not too late sir.”

“That is by the way. Let us focus on the important issue here. First, let me ask you. What is the name of the Chief that wants to marry Blessing?”

“Clement Alex.”

“What is the name of this school?”

“C.A Secondary—”

“I mean the full name.”

“Clement Alex Secon—” and then you stop, immediately getting his point.

“Have you seen what I am trying to say? Do you think it was the government that built this school? Or it is from the meagre school fees that teachers get paid?”

“But sir it is just the right—”

“What is right? What is wrong? Save Blessing at the expense of the whole school? Is that your idea of what is right?”

“Sir, we cannot close our eyes and fold our arms, and let one of the best brains of this school get shackled by marriage.”

“In fact that is what we will do. And we will see it as an investment into ensuring the longevity of the school, not as closing our eyes, and letting someone get shackled. If you had been attending our meetings, you will know we, as a school, will be giving our support to the marriage. By sending a gift.”

“But sir, what if it is your daughter?”

“If I had one, it would have been a no. But hers said yes, and that’s the end of this matter. Either you join the teachers in getting a gift. Or stay at the sidelines and watch.”

Before you could say any more, the clanging of the school bell—an old tyre rim tied to an iron pole—shatters the air. “It is time for morning assembly,” a student shouts.

*

You walk into your class. They start with the customary greeting, saying it half-heartedly, certain you will not respond. You do not disappoint. For days now, this has been part of your new attitude in class. Others are: mechanically speaking like a poorly trained actor; anger at the slightest provocation; not answering any question asked, whether relevant or not.

You begin the day’s lecture with Military regimes in Nigeria. You do not give an introduction. You jump straight into the facts. How they take over, claiming to be the surgeons of an ailing country, only to almost kill the patient in the process; the first coup and the counter coup, forming the basis for the bloodiest war in the history of Africa. You say even though it is called the ‘Civil War’ that there was nothing civil about it. You scheme across subsequent coups the country had experienced. You get to the armed-to-the-teeth military having phobia for books. How they killed the literary culture in the country. Many literary icons fleeing the country to escape death. How even a famed author had to dress like a woman to escape from the most ruthless dictator the country had ever seen. Till now the country is still trying to awaken its literary fervour.

At this point, you pause. Your mind replaces the dictator with the Chief, and you become the famed author. But this time you are not escaping the country alone. By your side is a young girl, slim with an oblong face, running towards a rising sun. Free from Chief, free from early marriage, and all other shackles preventing her from soaring.

As for the students, who are blind to the workings of your mind, all they see is you talking then suddenly falling quiet for some seconds only to awake from your quietness and resuming your teaching with more vigour and life than they have ever seen.