“Ebube!!

“Ebubechukwu!

My mother called in a distance.

I was 6 and it was raining while I played in the backyard. My mother hates her children under the rains, so I knew for certain if she found me then she’d be mad. Yet I did not move. For I liked doing odd little things like that — ignore my mother and stay out watching the world do nothing but be. My frail body did not mind the chills that would come soon after because, the thundering rains had silenced my warring thoughts. In that moment all was peaceful. Crouched under a cluster of plantain trees, I scrubbed a hand fervently across my face, to wipe the water off it. Deciding also to block out the sound of my mother’s voice. On a leaf, I watched keenly as an albino cockroach fell into a spiders’ web. The cream colored imago wiggled ferociously, drawing the attention of the six-legged predator. I took a sharp breath and shut my eyes to what I knew was about happen. My little mind trying hard to grasp the irony of the scene before me. My mother had spoken of moments like these; the hunter and the prey. But as a child who had not known what the word ‘prey’ meant, I’d simply wondered how something as large as a cockroach could be felled so by another as delicate as a spider.

The roach struggled even more as the spider drew close, stopping only to tilt its head towards the lit skies. As though rethinking the feast that had just fallen into its lap. Seconds later, the spider continued its journey coming to rest atop the distressed roach. Ready to pounce.

The breeze had been gentle and brief but, its effects was immediate and lasting. The plantain trees now shook, pelted rain water on me and the insects below. The spider was pushed back and the roach thrown off the web. Seizing his new found freedom, the roach made straught for the shrubbery that was my father’s farm. Such simplicity. Nature thanking God in their own way, my father would say.

“Ebubechukwu!”

She yelled again, a bit closer this time. I knew now I ought to go inside but I wanted more than anything to stay. So I did.

*********

At 8 I needed help understanding what was done or taught in the classroom. I was not reading, writing or winning any spelling bees. Always at the bottom of everything, including math. Which is why January 2005, I was set to repeat primary 1 at a new quasi-private school. Now, If you’re not Nigerian or perhaps you did not grow up here, the one thing you ought to know about primary education back then is; when it came to intelligence (IQ), the only metric had been smart or ‘Olodo’ (daft). Either you got it or you didn’t. And I did not.

A phenomena that did not help when it came to making friends. After trying and failing, I decided being alone was a better option. As it protected me from facing just how different I was from the others, especially E.

In my eyes E was it. That smart, confident with a full head of hair social queen. She often reminded me of the yellow butterflies that comes out after noon rains in April. Esther knew the answers to all the questions and was the class monitor. Whilst I would miss an alphabet or two when spelling my name. Back then all this English had not mattered, what did was that you were not stupid.

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But I wasn’t. A bit slow and closeted yes, but not stupid. Looking back now, the hushed conversations and my mother insisting I be the one reading during devotions, should’ve told me there was a problem .

September 2005. Third term began and a new teacher was employed for the class.

Mrs. O.

My first introduction to the essence of a ‘good teacher’. I may have been stubborn a child but, I know deep down God made Mrs. O. for me.

For the whole term, as soon as the morning assembly was over Mrs. O. would waddle into the class, pregnant. Toothpick hanging loosely from her lips, she’d hand her bags to Esther before heading for the blackboard. Mrs. O would then set a question drawn from any subject, but never the same question twice. Before turning to look at a panicking me whom always made sure to sit at the back of the class.

“Ebubechukwu! Come up here!” Mrs. O’s voice would ring through the class.

For the next 3 months that was our routine. I’d take the chalk, and she’d sit on the closest desk. E would hand her the usual Ziploc carrots and cucumbers.

Chewing rather loudly, Mrs. O. would watch attentively while I fidgeted. I’d press my nose to the wooden surface in hopes of hiding my lack from her and a room full of pupils whom snickered at my turned back. We’d stay that way, fidgeting, snickering and carrot eating. Simple actions, yet filled with so much tension. I simply did not understand the question, how much more the anawer to it. So once again, I closed my eyes to prepare myself for the punishment I knew would surely come.

******

It’s called ‘ The Salli’. The soft mound of flesh located at the back of the leg. Just below the knee.

That was Mrs. O’s favorite body part and with each stroke I felt my skin welt. One. Two — Six. Always six. No more or less. As though she was counting, ensuring never to cross that thin line from lesson to pain. And boy, did I learn.

So much so that by the end of junior school, I’d come to read everything. From my father’s site plans, to my mother’s books on God and womanhood. However what did it was my elder sisters’ sacks full (Ghana-Must-Go) of romance novels. My imagination was unlocked. No longer was it about reading to show off, now it became about the stories themselves. For the worlds these authors crafted with their thought and imagery had me hooked. With every flick of a page or another carefully smuggled Suzan Elizabeth Phillips romance, I cane to fall more in love with the art of storytelling. And so, I shut the world out and read my way from tweens to puberty until discovering real boys and television.

By senior school it was clear where my academic preferences lay. By senior WAEC, I’d cover to cover all the classics — George Orwell’s Animal Farm, Isidore Okpewho’s The Victims, Hemingway’s The Old Man and The Sea. And yes, the complete classical works of maestro Williams Shakespeare. Revised edition of course, but it still counts.

A beast was unleashed and there was simply no caging her.

*******
Now on most days I might still be slow and closeted but Mrs. O. taught me that good things, though slow and grueling surely do come. So from primary through senior school, I went from feeling suffocated when asked to solve an equation or read a passage. To understanding that there is a reason I’m named ‘Ebube’. For I am indeed the work of God’s glory.

Q. What is the meaning of your name and your significant classroom story?

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  Dear Reader,

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