her son to Mr. Ndu, against the youngster’s wish, to protest the severity of the strokes that gave her child a bruise on the head had to leave his office in haste because Mr. Ndu threatened to flog her too. Until the student in question passed out from that elementary school he was made fun of by his classmates because of the speed with which his mother hurried out of Mr. Ndu’s office to avoid being flogged too. When the story reached the village those who heard it thought the woman showed no common sense by protesting to a teacher who disciplined her child. She should rather be thankful to the teacher.
On every school day, once morning assembly was in progress, Mr. Ndu would close the school’s big gate, and every latecomer would kneel outside the gate waiting for no less than six strong strokes of his cane on the buttocks. If the pupil did not scream loud enough because of the pain inflicted, he would be called back for two additional strokes, sometimes on the pupil’s back, head, calf, or anywhere else Mr. Ndu determined the pain would be more severely felt.
But students soon devised ways to cope with the harsh strokes of Mr. Ndu’s canes. Some students who knew they would be late for school or who committed an infraction would take time to pad their buttocks with layers of dried banana leaves or rags in readiness for him; others wore two or more khaki shorts. The young boys looked odd with raised buttocks, obviously disproportionate to their small bodies. It seemed, though, that Mr. Ndu knew their trick, because suddenly he began to raise his hand higher in the air, and the strokes came down harder on their backsides. Each latecomer would step up to him and receive his strokes. Brave students would step forward faster, while the chicken-hearted would move behind others as if to shield themselves until the inevitable encounter with Mr. Ndu’s cane. Jamike stepped up this morning and the sound on his stuffed buttocks went “tu-wai, tu-wai,” six times. He ran in with the expected scream to fool Mr. Ndu, grabbing his raffia school bag on the run, with laughter in his heart.
Jamike was not in class for more than ten minutes this particular morning when his teacher, Mr. Ekweariri, sent him away for not having his school levy. He went outside and stood by the window trying to peep at the blackboard where the teacher had set the new arithmetic for the day. What pained the boy most were not the strokes he received for lateness to school. It was the new arithmetic that students would learn that day. Jamike wished he could stay but he would go home to help his mother prepare palm oil.
On a day like this Monday morning when he was sent home, as soon as Jamike stepped into the compound, his raffia bag slung across his left shoulder, Uridiya would move up to him and ask,
“My child, what did they say you did today? You may have to leave this schooling alone.” She knew the only reason for which her son could be sent home from school.
“They said I did not bring the money I told you about when you came back from the market the other day.”
Uridiya sighed and continued to stir the pot full of palm nuts cooking in the open on a dry season day. A goat came close to her feet to eat peelings of the cocoyam she would cook with the nuts. Uridiya hit the goat on the waist with a clenched fist. She examined her fingers and cursed the goat for making her hurt her knuckles. Jamike wondered why his mother would worry about a goat trying to eat cocoyam peelings that would be trashed later.
“The cocoyam peelings will become manure for crop when they are spread on the farm. Why should the goat be allowed to eat them?” Uridiya chastised the goat and responded as if she’d read her son’s mind.
Uridiya walked away from the hearth, cleaning her sweaty forehead with the back of her palm. She asked Jamike to add firewood to the decreasing flame burning outside the periphery of the big pot. Jamike added firewood and pushed back wood burning away from the pot. He went down on his knees and lowered his head toward the smoldering firewood to blow air into the fire. After drawing in air and blowing rhythmically for some seconds, the dry firewood logs ignited and flames rushed from under the pot, causing Jamike to move his face away quickly and rose. A woman whom Uridiya asked for help arrived late because her child was still breast-feeding. She apologized. On seeing Jamike she asked why he was not in school.
“I was sent back.” She inquired no further.
After a short while, Uridiya behaved as if she was just hearing what Jamike said for the first time.
“Jamike, what is the reason you said they sent you away from school today?”
“It is because of the money.”
“Which money is it, now? Did you say you told Uridiya about it?”
“If you bring an oath I will swear I told you. Maybe you forgot.”
“You will swear no oath, my son,” the visitor chimed in.
“This time, Jamike, you are going to swear that oath for me, because you always claim to tell me these things.” Uridiya did not mean it.
“Bring the oath. I will swear it.”
“You see, this is the reason why people do not go to this thing you call school.” She stirred the pot filled with palm nuts while standing, with steam enveloping her. She pulled her face, sneezed, and continued, “Everyday there is one kind of money or the other to pay. Do these teachers ever spend the money given to them before they ask for more?”
“Mama, you talk as if I am the only student asked to bring money.” Jamike was irritated.
“No, my son, you are not the only one. That is the way those teachers are,” Uridiya’s helper added.
“Well, I cannot get money by magic or through the movement of my bowel. The palm oil I am making is for sale.”
“I am still waiting for the oath.”
“You are not swearing any oath for Uridiya.”
“Jamike, find something to do. Two of us can handle the palm nuts; do not stay idle. No living person stays idle. See if the goat has something to eat. Do we have drinking water in that pot? Do we have enough firewood? You can visit the farm near the market square and see what mischief has been done to the yam stems. Jamike, I tell you this all the time, and I will not tire of saying it. You are the husband I have today. You are not a child anymore. Remember what the elders say, that no matter how young a male child is when his father dies, he starts from that point to stay awake at night. It is a true statement, and I hope you understand it.”
“So when others are asleep I would be awake. What would I be doing?”
“When the time comes, son, you will understand the meaning of what I am saying. I will not be the one to remind you to stay awake at night while children whose fathers are living would be sleeping. An orphan learns these facts fast. You are an orphan on your father’s side. Do not forget it. That’s what I am talking about.”
Some days, like Saturdays or during the holidays when Jamike was not at school, he would busy himself constructing mousetraps for sale. He hunted lizards, rabbits, or squirrels with some of the adults in the kindred. He usually held their hunting bag for them. At the end of the day, they gave him a share of their kill. On one occasion when he hunted by himself, Jamike gave a squirrel a long chase, the animal dribbling him around. He tripped twice before the animal hopped onto the nearest tree and sat on a very high branch. From there, the squirrel viewed Jamike with disdain. Anger and desperation filled Jamike as he stood arms akimbo, looking at the prey that got away. Said he,
“Since you are a runner, why did you not continue with me on the ground? If you are not a coward, why do you sit where I cannot reach you?” Jamike shook his fist at the animal.
He
