School: The untold Scam

If you are born into a typical comfortable Nigerian home or family, you don’t even have a choice, school is a must. Before you know your left from your right or what is correct from wrong, it’s a must. You have no choice; you just have to go to school. We all were there, many are there right now, and many will be there soon. Perhaps it’s just a cycle of life that would go on forever. Or will it? Will the soon coming generations realize that school is not worth it, at least here in this country?

Pardon my manners for not introducing myself in my previous post, I am a student of the premier university of the most populous black nation; Nigeria. I grew up in the suburbs of the ancient city of Ibadan, not with a silver spoon, but not with a wooden one either. Many think I like book, the same way most of the fellow students who get admission into this great citadel of knowledge. Certainly not! I am not the book type; that would be my younger sister. She’s been on scholarship for 6 years now. A reincarnated Albert Einstein, only one with XX chromosomes. On my own side, I can’t say I hate book though. It is sort of a bittersweet experience. You love it sometimes and other times just seem unbearable. I remember the first time I got to know about school, better still, the time I found out what school actually was. Fifteen years ago, young me was in primary one. I had just failed a test. Nursery school had been a rollercoaster, not anymore though. It was an ordinary test! To me it was ordinary, but to the teacher, no. It was a taboo. He was above failure when he was my age, he made it seem. Eight strokes of cane he lashed my buttocks, I recall like it was yesterday. Welcome to school, the strokes landing on my backside said.

The tears that trickled down my eye lids were the assurance, to the Mr. Popoola that I won’t be a failure ever again. In primary school, perhaps junior secondary school as well, tears were a symbol of genuine remorse. In fact if you are beaten no liquid comes down your face, you’re codenamed a stubborn child. I’d have to say this though, I cried my hearts out that day, but that did not stop me from failing a further 14 more tests in primary school! Did the 8 strokes of the cane do any good? No, we all honestly know. Every time I was placed on the slaughter table (what I refer to tables on which we small children were lashed then) I’d always look at the wild man using all of his strength to inflict pain on me. How physical pain and academic intelligence were connected always confused me. It was a mere illusion. I was not the only one frequently beaten. Six year old primary one children, who should be enjoying life, were being taught how not to fail. It would have been great lessons if it was not the wrong way. Of course, I know a number of my colleagues who ended up as drug addicts in primary school. Poor little souls could not withstand the pains of failure and also being beaten for something they knew not how to prevent.

No one in school sat us down to teach us how to read. We were expected to know that from home. Those at home sent us to school to learn it. When a young boy is carted off to jail in such amusing circumstances, the whole community will hurl insults at him. Many times we won’t remember he is perhaps a product of a broken home who sought for peace in school. What was he given? Strokes of cane in abundance. People like him would only find peace on the streets and thence the journey to jail had all begun with hostility from the four-cornered classroom.

Wait, you might think school was horrific? Don’t get me wrong, we played a lot! One day we all looked forward to was the cultural day.

In other news, I think I have overstayed my welcome here, I’d continue the tragic story of my primary school life some time later.