Each time Jamike returned to school after staying away for a couple of days for not paying his fees, he was quick to catch up and would still be among the top students, scoring the highest marks in class tests and examinations. Being sent home from school was what Jamike expected whenever he did not have his fees. Even with this knowledge the boy still went to school when fees were due, hoping he would be lucky not to be sent home.
What happened to Jamike one Monday morning was a situation he had been through often for not paying his fees. To make the matter worse, he was late to school too. It was a cloudy and chilly morning in January during the dry harmattan season. There was dryness everywhere as trees reeled in the wind that sent leaves and debris spiraling high into the sky. Smoke and sparks rose from many compounds where fires were made in the open air and children surrounded them to warm their ashy bodies. Uridiya got up early to gather palm nuts to cook. They needed palm oil for use and for sale toward his fees. She noticed that she did not have enough water and wanted Jamike to run to the stream three miles away to fetch water before going to school.
Jamike came out from the room where he slept on a mat on a ribbed bamboo bed. Stretching himself and rubbing his eyes he approached the fire for warmth, extending his open palms toward the rising flames. He was the first child by the fire. Shortly after, other children in the compound crouched around stretching their hands toward the flame like Jamike. At this time of the year it was a ritual to warm up before getting ready for school.
“Jamike, I noticed I will need more water to cook these palm nuts,” Uridiya said to her son who just got out of bed.
“How did you plan to cook palm nuts when you didn’t have enough water? Were you going to borrow water?”
“No matter what else I may borrow, son, I will not borrow God-made water. I will not cook with empty hands, anyway.”
“That’s what I wonder about.”
“Please, son, can you run to fetch me a pot of water before you go to school?”
“Mama, I will be late for school. Each time I go late, I get flogged. I am not going to the stream this morning.” He stood and staggered away from Uridiya, upset and shaking his head.
“If you go right away you will not be late.”
“I am not going.” He leaned angrily on a mud wall and wiped tears with the back of his palm.
“Jamike, please go fetch your mother some water. I am not going to drink the oil I am making. This is the palm oil I will sell to get money for the fees your teachers never tire of asking you to bring.”
“I know, Mama. I will be late to school and I will be flogged.” Jamike began to look for a bucket so he could take his bath.
“Jamike, please, my son. Please, my husband. Just one pot of water will do. You will not go a second time.” Uridiya called him such an endearing name like “my husband” whenever Jamike did something special or she wanted to cajole him to run an errand she suspected he would resist. Jamike put down the bucket he wanted to use for bathing and picked up a clay pot. He held it by the neck.
“Jamike, do not hold that pot by its neck. It is clay and not iron and will easily break. Before you know it you will be holding the neck while the pot is in pieces on the ground.” Jamike placed the pot on his head and moved toward the wooden gate of the compound.
“I will fetch a pot of water and only one pot. I will not go two times to the stream this morning. I don’t want to be late to school. The teacher told us we would learn new arithmetic today.”
“No, darling, one pot is all I need. Take quick steps. Let me see you back right now.” While he was gone Uridiya set the big earthen pot on a roaring fire with the water available. It was for the second or maybe the third round of cooking that she would need more water.
Jamike was late to school as he worried he would be. There was already a line of latecomers kneeling outside the school gate. The assistant headmaster, Mr. Ndu, was standing with a bundle of canes to administer strokes on each student’s buttocks. The headmaster, Mr. Ahamba, a disciplinarian, stressed punctuality to school, but it was his assistant who enforced it through corporal punishment. The assistant headmaster was notorious for flogging. Students nicknamed him “Eze Nkita,” dogtooth, because students said his teeth were set like a dog’s and he showed no mercy when flogging as a dog would show none when biting.
A woman who once brought 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