Teachers not Saints

Uji A. Iliyasu
Teachers not Saints
By Uji Abdullahi Iliyasu
 CHAPTER ONE
ELIUD disappeared from College of Education, Akwanga, Plateau
State, when a young engineer had visited Ango, his roommate, at college. He had
discovered from him that a holder of a bachelor’s degree who works in an oil
company earns higher income than a teacher who holds a PhD in university.
Propelled by material wealth, he aborted his teacher education training at
college. He wasted one year at home, then proceeded to the School of
Preliminary Studies, Keffi, where he hoped to prepare himself for Chemical
Engineering at 200 level in the university after an ‘A’ Level pass.
In Keffi, he failed his final exam. After a couple of years in the
devil’s workshop, he hired an exam mercenary who sat for the Joint Admissions
and Matriculation Board (JAMB) exam for him in one of the miracle centres.
Miracle centres are some notorious secondary schools, usually located out of
the way, where the Senior School Certificate Examinations (SSCE) and the
Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examinations (UTME) are taken for students by
commissioned agents, otherwise known as exam mercenaries. The principals of the
schools pay the mercenaries from the pool of money students in their final year
pay alongside their registration fees, termed “help-money”.
                                                                                                                                                         
At JAMB miracle centres,
brilliant students in their final year, in universities close to them are paid
to sit for candidates in order to get the cut-off marks for various courses.
Medicine, Engineering, Law and other professional courses attract higher fees;
between N15000 and N20000.   
        Through this cheating process, Eliud got admission to do
Chemical Engineering at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. He wanted to receive
his reward here on earth in an oil corporation after graduation.  But his brain could not cope with the rigours
of Engineering Mathematics.
        “I can see you are ambitious, but the load of your carry-over
courses in this department  and the
length of  trials we had  given you showed that you could not cope with
Engineering. You have to make a choice between changing the course and leaving
the school.”
“Sir,
I did not plan to leave the school without a degree.”  
“That’s
good, my boy. We have transferred you to the Faculty of Education, where you
are to read Physics Education at 200 level,” the Dean of Engineering of the
university, Prof. Comb, had called Eliud to his office and advised him to
change his course or be withdrawn.
“Please sir, don’t send me to Education. I have
old parents, younger siblings and other extended family members to take care
of. I want to earn a salary that will make life comfortable for me and my
family members, after school.”
        “The choice is yours to accept the offer or be withdrawn from
the school. Good day, my student.”
        The dean of told Eliud blatantly and left him in his office
with some files in his hands.
        Eliud, realizing that the dean’s statement was the Senate’s
resolution, took some weak, unsteady steps to the door of the office of the
Dean, Faculty of Education. He knocked faintly on the door, praying he was not
in even though he needed to see him,
“You are Eliud Samuel
Ehubi?” the dean asked after acknowledging his greetings.
                                                                  
                                           
“You
have not answered my question, young man,” the dean told Eliud, visibly showing
off the important office he held.
“Yes,
I am.”
“I
had helped you without your effort, by agreeing to admit you into my faculty.
If you don’t mind spending ten years for a degree, the Senate minds, your
parents mind. You are not the only student rejected from other faculties,” the
dean said and showed him a list of about One Hundred and Five students from Medicine,
Law and Engineering who had been reassigned various courses in Education. “Most
of us who are teachers today did not apply for courses in education. We found
ourselves here because of one frustration or the other. It was my dream to
become a medical doctor, but I ended up with a degree in Biology Education.
Look at me, am I not doing well?  So
yours is not a punishment but a favour,” the dean told Eliud frankly.
“What will I do after graduation, sir?”
“You become a trained teacher, a professional,
so you will be qualified to teach in secondary schools, of course.”
“What will happen to our education if
below-average performers take charge of the sector?”
“Which parent would like his child or ward to
waste his talent in the teaching profession when the promise of material gain
is his reason for higher education? Until the conditions of service of teachers
are improved, teaching profession will continue to attract below-average
performers. Nigerian parents are too poor to allow their children and wards work
selflessly just for love of country.
But you can escape the jinx of low pay by joining politics with
your education degrees later in life.”
Eliud was inspired by the suggestion to join
politics after graduation, and maybe a stint in education sector for a
beginning. The prospects of huge pay in political office, maybe as chairman of
his local government or a state legislator, gave Eliud relief.
AFTER graduation from the university with a
Bachelor of Education, Eliud received his call-up letter to undergo the one
year national youth service for his country. The National Youth Service Corps
(NYSC) is a programme in which Nigerian graduates who are 30 years old or below
at the time of obtaining a first degree or Higher National Diploma, and who
want to work in public offices, undergo a one-year compulsory, free service to
their fatherland, whether an individual had sponsored self to the university,
or sponsored by parents, relatives, or corporate bodies. Graduates from the
North go to serve in  the  South, and those from the South go to the
North. Former head of state, General Yakubu Gowon, who ruled during the civil
war, said the programme would create unity in Nigeria if graduates from
universities and polytechnics serve the country in states other than theirs for
one year. Eliud, from the North, was supposed to go for his service in one of
the states in the South, but his connection in the NYSC headquarters threw him
to Abuja where he was posted to the FCT Public Policies Implementation
Commission (PPIC) for his primary assignment.
CHAPTER TWO
“WE are training you to replace Barrister Mahmud who will soon
leave for Kaduna to open his law chamber. You know Mahmud was a fine
administrative officer, even though a trained lawyer. He will probably go in
March.  I have seen your ability and
potential and have discovered that you are a fit replacement for him. Would you
like the arrangement?” Mr. Wuesegha asked Eliud knowingly and then added, “I’m
the principal officer in charge of this unit. I’m sure you have seen the name
in your posting letter, but it is not boring for me to remind you that here is
the Training and Development Unit of the FCT Public Policies Implementation
Commission. I occupy an important position here as Training Officer. What I
recommend, management considers it good, and what I condemn, management sees it
as that. Two months to the end of your service, submit your AP form…”
“AP, sir? Are you getting me
a job at African Petroleum?” Eliud asked, eagerly; joy nearly suffocated him.
          “By AP form I mean application form,” Mr Wuesegha smiled,
“Submit it to me, obtain your file number and leave the rest to me. We need
trained teachers because of the knowledge of the psychology of individuals they
possess. You know we deal with the staff of the six area councils in areas of
promotion, discipline and pension,” he said, his gaze burning Eliud like the
heat of afternoon sun which usually heralds rainfall in September.
          “Thank you, sir. I
am overwhelmed with joy and happiness by your kind proposal. I don’t know how
to thank you adequately,” Eliud said, thanking the spider-webbed office
ceiling, instead of God it had concealed from him.
           “Give me
your sister’s hand in marriage, to show your happiness,” Mr. Wuesegha teased,
smiling, but looking serious.
          Maybe if I had a
beautiful sister to bait this man, my appointment would be much easier and
faster. This thought flashed through Eliud’s mind.
“It has been my dream to do
my national service in Abuja, secure a permanent job and become its resident enjoying
its cosmopolitan life. My fear is, while man proposes God disposes. When I …”
“God always supports good
ideas. Don’t fear anything,” Mr Wuesegha interrupted.
“As I was saying before the
benevolent interlude sir,” Eliud insisted, “when I received my call-up letter
to national service and saw that I was posted to Abuja, I became elated because
it was a step to gaining access to the key of the house where my dreams are
being locked up. Now you have promised to hand over the key to me with my bed
already made.”
“The key to which house? We
don’t have accommodation for staff, let alone corps members,” Mr Wuesegha said,
bewildered.
“Instead of giving me fish
to eat, you have promised to teach me how to catch fish in the river,” Eliud
went on.
“What strange things are you
talking about, Ajuwaya?”
                                
“I thank you. The job you
gave me has put food on my table and my dream woman in my arms.”
“Oh,” Mr Wuesegha pulled a
laughter which sounded like the croaking of a hen looking for a place to lay
eggs, his shining black shoes on the left foot hit the desk, spilling left-over
coffee on the memo he had been peering on, turning it to a golden paper.  
             “I’m flattered, my Ajuwaya,” Mr.
Wuesegha shouted. He raised his bespectacled eyes which radiated wholesome love
as if Eliud was his favourite grandson. 
Meanwhile the lens of Eliud’s eyes was busy taking photographs of a
clear future in the clean federal capital city of the most populous nation in
the black world.
THE CONVERSATION was inspiring. It changed Eliud’s whole outlook
on national service and life generally. The silly and mischievous behaviour and
escapades of corps members were soon pushed aside. He swore to become more
dedicated in the discharge of his assignments. Even if I were sent to capture a
lion in the course of my assignments, I would go, Eliud vowed. 
          This is an
opportunity presented on a platter of gold in less than a month into his
national assignment. Thus, unlike other corps members, Eliud never took casual
leave from the beginning to the end of the service year. Many corps members hid
under ill-health to free themselves from their duties, but for Eliud, a man
helps his personal god to attain his destiny; he is successful by his action or
fails by his inaction. Preoccupied by this philosophy, whenever he fell sick,
he would go to his duty post, unwilling to display his ill-health. He thus
performed extra duties of clerical officers, attending to incoming and outgoing
files in the office; he helped the typists,
messengers and cleaners in the Commission. During workshops, he also took upon himself the role of a waiter. He was
convinced that his benevolent oga,
the principal training officer, was testing his sense of endurance. His female
colleague and compatriot, Fatiha, whom he called “Gimbiya of Okene” had a
different idea. She openly disapproved of Eliud’s overzealousness in his
assignments and his open romance with the Commission’s management.
          “Do not work yourself out, my dear.
Your oga is of the bush tribe of the
Middle-Belt region. Among them exists a strong
bond of
ethnicity. As far as you are not of his ethnic stock, forget it.”
Seeing
doubt clouding Eliud’s face, she said, “You may not understand me now.  He only wants to enslave you as the oga above does to him. There are scores
of jobless young men and women hanging on his neck for job. Five of them came
here to collect AP forms yesterday while you were away to your Community
Development Service (CDS). Open your ears well or block it, take it or leave
it. I don’t envy those who flirt around with the authorities,” she concluded.
“But he was
serious and looked solemn when he made his promise. I didn’t ask him,
remember,” Eliud declared, clearing himself.
“Even that is true, don’t
enslave yourself. National service is a period of adventure for youths. Utilize
it according to its design,” Fatiha advised and observed a moment of sensuous
smile, one that could only be seen on the faces of Indian actresses.
“But I hadn’t asked him when
he told me,” Eliud repeated, puzzled.
“Some act on impulse, while
some people’s impulses act on them. Some men, in a moment of ecstasy, behave
like adolescent boys in the company of their girlfriends. When the necessary
talk between a boy and a girl is finished, what comes next is exaggeration of
ability and then quarrel. Your oga
was in his moment of confusion. There is no state in the country where
unemployment rate is as bold as in Benue where your oga comes,” Fatiha lectured, matter-of-factly.
                                  
CHAPTER THREE
TODAY was August 7. Barrister Mahmud had since left for his law
chamber in Kaduna. The post of Administrative Officer II he had held was still
vacant. He had taught Eliud the basics of his duty before leaving; knowing full
well that Eliud would be his rightful successor.  Eliud had just three weeks to complete his
service, so he had gone up to his oga
to remind him of his earlier promise to him.
          “I am sorry. The
Commission needs another lawyer to replace Mr Mahmud. You aren’t a lawyer, or
are you?” Mr Wuesegha asked Eliud unconcerned, his eyes looking above the rims
of his eyeglasses, while he continued to review the memo Eliud had brought to
him. In utter confusion, he chided Eliud for inefficiency in his official duty
for the first time since his posting.
          “Your words sound like command, too strong and didactic,” he
told him.
          After a week,
Eliud’s superior officer walked into the office in the morning, with slow
unstable steps and introduced a young woman as a replacement for Mahmud.
          “Miss Hannah, a
lawyer. She replaces Mahmud,” he said, his eyeballs bulged like a ball of masa in a baking pot, and nearly escaped
from their sockets as he tried to dodge Eliud’s plaintive gaze. In a flash,
Fatiha’s admonition replayed in Eliud’s mind: Do not work yourself out. Your oga is of the bush tribe of the
middle-belt region. Among them exists a strong bond of ethnicity. As far as you
are not of his ethnic stock, forget…Even if that is true, don’t enslave
yourself. National service is a period of adventure for the youth. Utilize it
according to its design.
          Eliud wanted to ask
Hannah her native language but quickly withdrew the urge so that his emotion
would not betray him. It is too early. My anxiety and reason for asking might
manifest. So, I will only ask for her names and from there, I may know which of
the 36 states she hails from. You can know if only she has tribal names. If she
bears Western names, how would you know her clan? Whatever, I will try, Eliud
and his invisible companion argued
          “I’m Hannah Soo,”
she answered Eliud’s question.
          “Oh, Barrister
Hannah Soo,” Eliud reminded her of her title.
          “No, Miss Hannah
Soo, a trained teacher,” she announced proudly.
          Eliud, by her
native name, now knew her native language and the part of Nigeria she hailed
from. He also knew why Hannah was successful among the mob of unemployed youths
of Nigeria and posted to the Training Unit of Public Policies Implementation
Commission of the FCT, where Mr. Wuesegha was the Principal Training Officer.
          “How did you come out lucky from the galaxy of applicants?”
Eliud ventured a probe, his voice unsteady.
          “Did I hear you say
lucky?”
          “Yes, you must be
extremely lucky.”
          “Luck, luck, luck,
where are you today? Please come to me another day,” Hannah joked a poem,
wriggling her buttocks to the rhythm, her face clean of all guilt of the
mature.
          “What are you
doing?” Eliud wondered open mouthed.
          “Dancing luck
dance, of course. My boy, it’s a long time that I heard the word. Is there
anything as luck in this country?”
          “Why did you say
that? Didn’t you consider yourself lucky to get here?”
          “Can’t you see, or are you blind? I’m
a teacher by profession. I got the appointment as an Administrative Officer
when I had collected six-month arrears of salary. While I was undergoing the
compulsory national service, I was collecting the Commission’s salary alongside
my national service allowance. Are you telling me there are no qualified
applicants who read Public Administration from universities, desperately
seeking employment here? Look at me, am I not beautiful enough to merit this
appointment?” Hannah challenged her colleague, adjusting her brassieres,
admiring herself, her palms cupped under her juicy pair of breasts.
           
CHAPTER
FOUR
Today was August 19. The 2002/2003 corps members of the batch B
had been finally disengaged from service and their discharge certificates
issued to them. Eliud proudly laid his certificate on the desk before his oga, even as he demanded the redemption
of his earlier promise to retain his service in the Commission.
          “It isn’t any easy
securing employment in the city these days. To enhance your marketability in
the labour market, you must hold a certificate of proficiency in word
processing, at least, from a recognized computer training institute,” Mr
Wuesegha advised, self-righteously.
          Eliud bent his head
slightly forward and removed from his neck a little brown bag with a long
strap. Within a distance of breathing in and out of the air in his lung, he
produced a diploma certificate in Computer Studies from the famous Saeed
Computer  School, Garki, located a stone
throw from the premises of the Commission. Eliud had undergone six months of
computer training in Disk Operating System, Ms-Word, Electronic Spread Sheet,
Corel Draw and Internet, while he was yet doing his national service. He used
to go to the school after work hours and on weekends.
          “That’s good,” Mr
Wuesegha said, examining the certificate while cones of sweat falling barely a
couple of weeks into his service. Also, he had promised to recommend him for an
award when he had brought in a technician to repair all telephone lines in the
Commission which had been dead for one month and a week, free of any fee.
          “That’s very
thoughtful of you,” Mr. Wuesegha remarked, wrestling the burden of
embarrassment weighing down on him, “but my recommendation will not be honoured
as that of some personalities outside of the Commission. Go therefore, to the
Senator representing your district and get a cover note from him. Or from a first-class
traditional ruler in your constituency. Or get it from a serving or retired
General of the Nigerian Army or its equivalent in the Navy or Air Force.”
          “Sir, how about the
earlier promises you had made to me?”
          “I was so impressed
by your efficiency at first, but I later discovered that you were not as good
as I thought.” Mr Wuesegha lied for want of a genuine explanation.
          “Don’t tell me
lies!” Eliud was visibly angry, “because you cannot score a pass mark if
lie-telling is an exam subject.”
          “OK, to be sincere with you,” anger lent Mr Wuesegha its
courage, “my advice is that you go to your village, acquire some hectare of
farmland and practise mechanised farming. This country’s rural communities are
losing able-bodied youth to urban centres on a daily basis. But the
productivity of the youth lies untapped, locked up in the city. Employment is
not easy to get now in cities, try the village.”     
          “Mr. Wuesegha, the
bottomline of your entire sermon is that you have sold my chance to your sister
because she has the bottom power. Thank you, good Samaritan!” Eliud said,
walking out.
          “Don’t walk out on
me. Stop and listen,” Wuesegha demanded, shame-faced, “do I have any sister
here? And don’t you know that I’m a knight in my church?”
          “Yes, you have! She
is Miss Hannah Soo, a trained teacher. You brought her from your bush village
to replace Mr Mahmud whose place you placed on my lap in my early days here.
You told me that Hannah was a lawyer, but she is not; she is a trained teacher,
like me. You have betrayed and sold me; and like Judas who betrayed Christ
Jesus, you will hang yourself. Knight of Saint Liar!”
          “Where did you get
all this information?” Mr. Wuesegha was flabbergasted. How could a loyal
servant turn to a rebel easily, he seemed to be thinking. 
          “From a very
reliable source; first witness information.”
          “Eliud, are you
talking to me like this?” Wuesegha asked open-mouthed, looking like a weary
ram, after a bout in a world animals boxing championship.
          “Why not, Mr
Wuesegha! This is a bureaucracy mutiny; no superior, no inferior officer now.
What else did you expect from me? Love begets love and hate, hate. As far as I
am concerned, my respect for you had vanished the day you brought in Hannah. As
for your kind and expert advice to go become a farmer in the village, I will
consider it carefully because I will be glad to farm the foods you and men like
you cannot eat.”
ELIUD, boiling with anger due to the betrayal he suffered in the
hands of the officer he loyally       
and diligently served or worshipped, headed straight to the
Commission’s Head of Personnel Management, Dr. Okoronkwo, to lay his request
before him.
          “Sir, I have
excellently served the Commission as an Administrative Officer II. Please
retain my service and give me permanent employment,” Eliud pleaded, tearfully.
He made his request standing because Dr Okoronkwo did not ask him to sit down.
It seemed he was only a shadow.
          The Commission’s personnel head pulled
a long draw from the  stick of  St. Moritz he was puffing  at between his thick, black lips, fixed a
stare at Eliud, saying,  “How many
workers would the Commission have now if it is retaining the services of its
corps members? The most I can do for you because of your dedication to duty is
for you to get a letter of introduction or cover note from a retired Army
General or its equivalent in the Navy or Air Force or in the pseudo-military
agencies, or first-class traditional ruler in your local government of origin
or a senator of the Federal Republic representing your constituency, attached
to your application, addressed to me, recommending your efficiency, for my
consideration.”
          “But sir, I have
served here for nearly a year. Do I still need to be introduced to you? I have
the competence. Can’t my ability be recognized on its merit? I had written over
a thousand flawless memos and more number of letters. I had stood to all tasks
assigned to me excellently. I had represented the training unit in over 15
workshops. You are not a medical doctor but a doctor of knowledge. Will a
half-educated Army General, knowledgeable only in the art of war, tell you what
is good for you and your Commission? Or would you allow a traditional ruler who
rules in his village to also rule over you in the city? Or how would you
acquiesce to a lawmaker who breaks the laws he makes?” Eliud queried the
bewildered personnel head, ready to take full responsibility for his action.
Life is an objective question; the answer to it is ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Whenever
Eliud was facing some difficulty, he would be emboldened by this personal
philosophy of his.
          “I say yes to your
question because as you seek my favour, I too seek theirs. These personalities
are indispensable in the Nigerian system. The senator has the power to promote
or demote or remove me. The General has the money to sponsor me now or in the
future to acquire political power. Can you see the logic? I will retire and
become a politician some day. You know the palace makes politicians in this
country. For that when I help the General, Senator, or traditional ruler, I
help myself. I am building my future.”
          “But you are not
putting national interest first!”
          “Mr. Smart,” Dr Okoronkwo dodged the
question of patriotism Eliud threw at him, “I heard you mention ability, am I
right? Frankly, like all other government institutions in Nigeria, ability is
not recognised here. We follow tradition. Your ability is …,” he jerked his
right leg as if stung by a scorpion, to wipe off a hot ash of cigarette which
had fallen on his trousers, “making you questioning the genuineness of my
doctoral certificate now. How would I want to employ you when you would sooner
seize me by the throat and push me from this seat? We don’t want your kind; we
need people who will flow with our tide of ideals. We leave you to go because you
can stand on your own. Go search the files out there,” the personnel head
challenged Eliud, and then as if he had forgotten to say something very
important, reminded him, reminded him, “Ability,” he glared at Eliud, a cloud
of smoke concealing the ageing contours on his face, “do you have the ability?”
He pulled
at his cigar, his mouth shaped into a cone that tapered on the right side of
where his upper and lower lips meet, revealing his multi-coloured premolars.
          “You applied for the post of an Admin
Officer, didn’t you?” He didn’t wait for Eliud’s reply. “There are scores of applicants who read Public Administration from
better equipped universities abroad and have better results than yours. Nobody
looks at them. But you, a half-trained teacher who should by now be in a fouled
classroom teaching dirty children in a nomadic community, was favoured to bring
a cover note and you stand there talking 
of  discipline  and 
patriotism  bequeathed  to you by 
your

father for love of country. Go ahead with needless campaign and
rot away with your certificate. You will soon know Abuja is not a friend of
beginners, let alone a canopy to shield a toddler like you.”
For the first time, Eliud came face-to-face with the rumoured
rascality of the Commission’s head of personnel. He had heard untoward stories
about this man he had held in honour.
          “Thank you, sir,
for reminding me of my profession and worth. I now know that I am a half-baked
teacher; and if ever I will practise my profession, I will go to my village to teach
deprived children whose parents cannot send them to private schools because
people like you have stolen their shares of the national cake. I can’t see
myself teaching your clean children here even if for a million naira a month,”
Eliud declared, his emotion showed neither sign of rudeness nor politeness. He
was only being frank. He then bolted out of the office of the man in charge of
employment of the organisation in which he had put all his energy for one year.
He then  headed  to the office of the secretary of the
Commission, Alhaji Rufai Mugu.
          ALHAJI Mugu was a dry old man whose lung had got its fill of
Rothmans.  He was from Nasarawa, Eliud’s
local government area. But he was not one disposed to helping Eliud fast
because back at home, his clan and that of Eliud’s always struggled to claim
the original ownership of the land they inhabited. The two parties were always
suspicious of each other. The secretary carried the cold war to the Commission
and waged it fiercely against Eliud.
          “Please sir,” Eliud
began, after courtesies, “help me; I have been discharged by the NYSC and I
want to get employment here.”
          Alhaji Mugu tore a
dry paper in form of a hearty laugh, his shoes kicking the flat wood of his
desk from below. Then shot at Eliud a scorching glare after overcoming the
seizure of ecstasy, and said, “Go home, there are lots of employments in the
village. Go home and farm. If you need money for hoes and cutlasses, I will
give you.”
          Eliud stood like a
statue before the man he considered his kinsman. He lacked what to say. Then he
remembered his mother’s saying: “If the mouth deprives me of talk, I will
starve it of food.”
          “I regard you as my
kinsman, that’s why I came to you.”
          “I know that’s why
I am giving you a fatherly advice. Go home and practise crop farming. I
understand the land in your village is good for melon. I will get you the
tools.”
          “Are your sons
farming in the village? Musa is with the development control of the FCDA,
Khassim is with the Federal Ministry of Finance and Ahmed with the Customs.”
Eliud fixed a stare at Alhaji Mugu like a child hero, then queried, “Or is it
the truth that your clan doesn’t possess any land in our community?”
          Shaking with rage,
Eliud got out of the office of Alhaji Mugu like if pushed by a violent wind.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Eliud wandered in the streets of Abuja from one office to another.
No federal ministry or parastatal in Garki or Wuse or Asokoro district dodged
the sole of his miserable shoes. For three months he combed the city for
employment, occasionally helping to build the federal capital city at building
and road construction sites.  The shabby
treatments he got from one office were better than the next and it went on like
that for days. Sometimes he thought of leaving Abuja for his native state, but
the temptation proffered by the glamour of the cosmopolitan life of Abuja was
irresistible.
          Two strange persons
in Eliud’s shadow began to speak for him: Your fathers participated in building
this edifice; why would you not enjoy its shelter too? Your colleague, Ibro,
had got his appointment letter three months before your passing out
parade.  Your course mate in the
university, Nike, woke up to find her appointment letter under her pillow two
weeks after your final degree exam. You were her coach in academic work on the
campus. Why should you suffer? Why won’t you suffer? He who finds admission
into the university by his own effort, will find out that finding job will
likewise be by his sole effort. As you had overcome the hurdles of getting admission
so shall you conquer the tribulations in the labour market.  Life is a sinking ship; in it are drowning
men. Some swim ashore some are helped ashore, while most others get drowned.   I’m sure  
you are not going to stop                    swimming; your feet are
about touching the sands in the shore.
          Until 
Zuma Rock is moved, no bullet can kill my determination. Eliud  reassured himself, hitting  his chest. He spoke so loudly that he felt
ashamed that he was alone, talking to himself.
            
                               
ONE BRIGHT morning, Eliud had been on his way to a building site
where he would earn the day’s bread when he met his school mate and friend,
Juma. Juma was in one of the batches of corps members who had succeeded Eliud’s
batch. He was on his way to the community development service (CDS) of the
NYSC.
          “Hey boy Ju!” Eliud
called excitedly.
          Juma’s name was
Danjuma, an Hausa word for a boy born on Friday.
          “Hey Eli! Juma
shouted, arms stretched, for a passionate embrace.
          “Still hiding in
Abuja after the service?”
          “Yes ooh.”
          “Where are you
staying? At Sheraton Hotel?”
          “In Transcorp
Hilton.”
          Juma laughed
convulsively.
          “Why are you
laughing?”
          “By your shoes, I
know you cannot afford even a room at a Nyanya hotel for an hour. Those who
lodge in Sheraton or Hilton wear well polished shoes whose soles march level
playing field, making correct impressions wherever they go.”
          “What about my
shoes?”
          “The miles you‘ve
trekked are written on their crooked soles.”
          They both laughed,
mischievously.
           “Now no joke, where are you going, patriot?”
          “To CDS at Area
One.”
          According to their conversation, Juma
belonged to the Drug Free Life Club, which held on Mondays in Julie Useni Park
at Garki, Area One. Juma’s input in the conversation was highly animated while
Eliud’s was dull and reluctant; his conversations were ashes of once glorious
dreams. The conversation bordered mostly on their future in the neat and rich
capital of their country. After a mile’s chat, Juma promised to help pull his
friend out of the competitive labour market, by appealing to a bizarre power.
          “…At the venue, there is an old monkey, believed among
successive generations of corps members who served in Abuja, particularly Julie
Useni Park, to be capable of giving luck to corps members in order to be
retained in their places of primary assignment, or to secure permanent
appointment in juicy ministries and parastatals in the city. He is capable of
predicting what the future holds for corps members. Why don’t you try him?”
Juma tempted Eliud, adding, “Or haven’t you heard about the divine?”
          “Are you joking? I
haven’t heard. Nobody had told me. But can animal help man overcome his
troubles?” Eliud asked his friend, puzzled, and then called his sense of humour
for help, “The monkey may not like me; my grandfather was a skilled hunter. He
killed them a lot, for meat.”
          He plainly
dismissed his friend as a joker when he finally announced, “I cannot beg monkey
for money; I’m of Homo sapiens. Man should be the one to give apes food, not
otherwise. Apes have no souls. No Scripture tells me an ape will go to heaven
or hell depending on its action on earth. If it cheats me now, how will it pay
for it?”
          “Which is better,”
Juma retorted, “begging monkey for employment or kill your kind for money and
power?”
          “But I have no
intention of killing anybody for money ritual.” Eliud reminded his friend.
          “I was not
referring to you in particular; I mean it happens in our midst. Men kill their
loved ones for pecuniary blessings: fathers kill their beloved children to make
money; husbands slaughter their dear wives, sometimes pregnant with unborn
baby, for power and fame; politicians drink human blood to win elections;
restaurants use water used to bath corpses to cook pepper soup in order to
arrest customers’ attention,  housewives
hide meat in their private parts and cook it for their husbands to win their
unflinching love; medicine men steal men’s genitals for money-making rituals;
the list has no end. Now the choice is yours.”
           “But…”
          “The choice is
yours,” Juma insisted, sensing that he was winning the argument.
JULIE Useni Park was a picture of an abandoned project, like many
others littering the states of Nigeria. It was originally planned to be a
neighbourhood zoo, but was soon forgotten after the exit of General Jeremiah
Useni, former minister of Abuja, and close friend of the late head of state,
General Sani Abacha, who died suddenly in office. Rumours in the buses,
garages, at newspaper stands, in football viewing centres  and other leisure  places, wove his sudden demise in office
around unsolvable mysteries. 
          “Abacha died in the
arms of a bevy of Indian beauties,” Juma said, as they walked towards the park.
          “If so, it was a
good death,” Eliud argued, excitedly, curving his arms in the embrace of
imaginary beauties.
          “The government
will not always tell the truth. He was killed by foreign imperialist agents who
saw him as a barrier between them and their interests in Nigeria. Great African
leaders in the past had suffered similar fate. Remember the first prime
minister of Congo, Patrice Lumumba? 
Remember General Murtala Muhammed? They were cut down in their prime.
Abacha was one of the greatest heroes history will teach Nigerians.” Eliud
declared.
          “But he scuttled
democracy by forcing Chief Ernest Shonekan, leader of the Interim National
Government General Babangida installed before stepping aside, out of power.
Would a patriot or a hero do that?”
          “That’s what makes
him a hero. Democracy is next to the enslaving of the poor countries by
powerful ones. With democracy, Western powers have unrestricted access to our
resources. This is why they clap hands for countries which practise it.”
          “Abacha can’t be
any hero, not mine. Democracy is the best government humanity knows, whether
made in America or Africa, Asia or Europe. Abacha killed Ken Saro Wiwa despite
pleas for clemency by powerful world leaders. He was wicked, corrupt and
unpatriotic,” Juma announced.
          “You said so. It’s
your opinion. For me, he was a hero.”
          “Your hero is my
villain.”
          “Well, let us not
argue; in life everybody is right.”
          “No, let us argue;
in life everybody is wrong.”
                   
THE TREES had grown wild. The red dust sprayed from car tyres
plying the nearby roads coated their leaves. The few species of animals which
had survived neglect and starvation were those which could withstand a couple
or more months of empty stomach. Around the periphery of the park were beggars
begging for alms. And pensioners, ex-service men precisely, were seeing begging
for federal government’s recognition and mercy.
          “Their pensions had
not been paid for nineteen months. Pension scam had thrown them into an abyss
of sorrow. Government calls them for screening every other month. The screening
demands physical presence of pensioners in whatever condition. Some came in
stretchers and some in ambulances from their hospital beds. The blind, the deaf
and dumb were many,” Eliud continued his explanation, “Others were complete but
disabled by age and suffering. Many others had no genuine reason to beg for
alms.”
          Eliud suddenly
remembered one incident that happened one week into his national service when
one beggar nearly sent him to where he called Landofseemenomore.
          One beggar had a
wound that looked like a rough razor cut on the thumb of his right hand and
conspicuously displayed it on a spot at Area 8 Junction, Garki, near the
defence headquarters, in order to induce sympathy from passersby. Eliud, who
loved telling stories of bizarre incidents in the city to his friends in the suburbs,
had gone to him:
          “Do not report God
to mortals. Yours is a slight razor cut but you display it in public place.
When you do that you are reporting God. You are indirectly saying: ‘People,
come and see the pain God has inflicted on me. 
Ask Him what wrong I had done to Him?’ If your neighbour reports you to
the police because of a small misunderstanding between you and him, will you be
happy? Go home, papa, you have no need to beg,” Eliud told him bluntly.
          “My son, you sabi
book?” the beggar asked, and brought out two passports which showed that he
fought in the World War II on the side of the British and the Nigerian Civil
War on the side of the federal troops.        “Wetin
you want make I do, keep quiet and die? We, old soldiers de come Abuja for screening
and the live in Abuja nine months.  We no
hear any tory for our pension. Many of us de thieve to eat, some de don employ
to do guard for civilians wey young pass dem grandchildren.” He made a
contemptuous gesture and spat on the ground before him. “Me, to guard bloody
civilian! If I no die in the big war and the small war, I no go gree die for
house, killed by armed robbers, small boys.”
          “But you de collect
money from bloody civilians,” Eliud threw a joke.
          The ex-soldier was
inflamed. 
“You gif me
any kobo?”  He asked. In a twinkle of an
eye, he dived to the side where his old military pouch was hidden and took out
a live gun, aimed it at Eliud’s skull, pulled the trigger. Eliud fell to the
ground, his left ear bleeding. He aimed again at the boy on the ground, now
wriggling in pain like a worm in the sun. People around the scene held their
breath helplessly, passionately begging the old soldier for Eliud’s life, from
safe distances. He slowly lowered his fatal tool and fire shots into the air.
Eliud’s sympathizers took to their heels.
          “I de see marks of
suffer head on your shoes, if not I for kill you. You for de rest for inside
cold fridge in peace,” he told Eliud, who was running for dear life to the
nearest gate of the defence buildings.
OPPOSITE the Julie Useni Park was the Area One shopping centre.
Men who rode posh cars were loading their car booths with expensive foods for
their dogs and other pets. On the main road, truck pushers and pedestrians were
heard claiming rights of way. Okada riders and taxi drivers were pouring curses
on each other for wrong use of road. Back inside, the batch A of the NYSC was
immersed in heated debates over who would sponsor the proposed symposium
entitled, “Making Drug Unattractive to Nigerian Youths.”    
          Eliud and Juma
quietly tiptoed, under the camouflage of tall brown threes in the park, to the
iron cage inhabited by the old divine primate. Juma lay before the ape a bunch
of banana and 150g sachet of yoghurt, a packet of Rothmans, 7 white kola nuts
and seven wraps of chewing gum. These were the gifts to be presented to the
divine before he would reveal anything the client’s future held for him/her.
          Eliud was immersed
in conflicting thoughts.
          “Do Monkeys eat
kola nut and smoke cigar?” he asked his friend in whispers.
          “It is the spirits
that will eat the sacrifice.”
          “But the monkey is
already eating the banana,” Eliud argued on, recalling what his father had told
him before he left for Abuja: “Don’t take as truth what a man who has stayed in
the city for more than a couple of years saysw. Don’t vouch for an old school
mate with whom you have parted ways for more than three years.” he had told
Eliud.
           “That’s what spirits ask him to do,” Juma
explained.
          “If men transformed
from apes as Darwin argued, why is this one still remaining an ape despite its
wisdom?” Eliud whispered to Juma.
          “You’ve never seen
a student who carried over some courses or repeat a year or more in school?”
          “Then this seer is
a congenital idiot. And how can an idiot foretell the future of a wise man?”
          “If you are wise
why didn’t you find employment? Why are you jobless? Whatever you call him, as
far as he has the power to cure our problem, he is important. Even if he vies
for Nigeria’s presidency against President Olusegun Obasanjo, I will vote for
him as far as he will guarantee me a job, which means food.”
          “A monkey
president? An ape to rule humans?”
          “Yes! I prefer the
company of a billionaire monkey to the company of any wise man who lacks and
wants.”
          “But…”
          “Let’s stop this
argument. It will not warm our table with any dinner or breakfast.
THERE was a skinny, pale man at his sunset, who was believed to
understand the language of apes. He was said to be a retiree of the defunct
Northern Textile Industry in Kaduna. He was the chief priest and interpreter to
the wise primate. After Eliud and Juma had paid a courtesy as they would do to
their fathers or a first class ruler, the priest asked them to sit down on a
log, facing the ape. The monkey, after finishing the bunch of banana, winced
and started to hop continuously.
          “He said you are in
search of employment.” the priest interpreted the motion.
          “Any ordinary man knows that after years of eating garri and kulikuli in the university and adventures in the NYSC camps and
temporary taste of joy in places of primary assignment, the next thing is
employment. This is no soothsaying; it is sheer commonsense!” Eliud shouted.
          The monkey stopped
hopping and gave a sorrowful cry, showing well arranged, tiny set of teeth on
dark gums.
          “He said you must
confess the things you had done in secret in NYSC orientation camp so that your
ways would be opened for you,” the priest fixed a gaze at Eliud, obviously to
compel a confession from him.
“It is not sinful, a thing done in secret. Most heinous sins are
committed under broad daylight. I have nothing to confess. Every man is
conceived in the secret of the bedroom,” Eliud told the priest, controlling his
anger visibly.
          The monkey sat
down, holding his cheeks with his palms in the posture of an ancient Greek
philosopher, then shook his head fatally. 
          The priest
interpreted the motion: “He said you had cheated in your final degree
examination. He also said you had once or twice stolen a spoon of soup from the
soup pot of your roommate at the university, and had jilted a girl whom you
knew during a Christmas holiday in your village. All these have brought curses
upon your head and blocked your employment letters.”
          “Mr. Priest!” Eliud
shouted, “tell your god that if he has nothing to tell me, let him eat the
kolanuts we brought for him, drink the yughourt and smoke the cigarettes and go
to sleep. It is his grandfathers, some of whom are still living in the Endo
Mountains in Nasarawa, that were cursed, not me.”
          The monkey squeezed
the tiny membrane of the skin on his face as a father would scold his
mischievous son.
          “He said you are a
doubting Thomas, a man of little faith. And you are also hot tempered.”
          “Tell him that he
is right this time, and if he does not mind what he says about me, I will show
him some of the vexations inside me,” Eliud threatened.
          The monkey stood
upright on his hind legs and waved both his tiny, dry hands up and down as if
he were a road safety officer ordering a motorist to reduce speed.
          “He said you should
be patient and persevere,” the priest said in a low tone.
            
          “Tell him to show
me any hungry man who ever had patience. Is he not wise enough to read the
Bible? Hadn’t he ever heard that Essau sold his birthright to his younger
brother Jacob because of a plate of porridge when he was famished?”
          The monkey moved
front and backwards and sat on his hind legs.
          “He said just as
the Israelites wandered in the wilderness for 40 years, you will have seven
more years to wander in the wilderness, or the labour market, and within that
seven years you will not even have money to buy a second-rate bicycle or even
tooth brush or shoe polish, and you will remember your school days with
nostalgia due to more suffering.”
          Eliud was enraged
but kept his cool, perhaps to hear more. He raised his face from the worship
position and fixed a stare at the soothsayer, wishing he had a sharp cutlass to
cut the ape for meat.
          “The how can you
cure me, prophet,” Eliud asked with feigned interest.
           The monkey counted his fingers and raised them up for him to see.
          “He said you are to
bring a carton of Rothmans and two bottles of foreign gins, seven red kola nuts
and white kola nuts in like number, and 20,000 naira, then he will make you get
work with the Central Bank of Nigeria or the Nigerian National Petroleum
Corporation,” the priest announced triumphantly.
          Eliud’s anger was
at boiling point despite his friend’s encouragement to try the primate.
          “You have tried
other gods without success, why don’t you try this one?” Juma encouraged his
friend.
          “Is he a god?’
Eliud asked bewildered.
          “God is he who
satisfies your needs. Yes, he is god.”
                                     
          “Look,” Eliud
pointed at the divine, “Mr Monkey, however wise you and your priest may think,
you are still an animal; a member of the ape family. You can’t equal humans.
Your mouth is as thick and as long as the wooden baton of a police constable at
the Grade II area court in my village. Your face is as crooked as that of dead
man’s skull, laughing a wicked laugh at foolish living men. It is your
grandfathers in the forest and on the mountains that will be jobless for seven
years. And you,” he turned to the priest, staring at him, contemptuously, “find
something to do; a trade to occupy you. It is better for you, one of Homo
sapiens, to eat from the dustbin of men than to worship an ape. Tell your lord
that he is stupid, very, very stupid. Nonsense!”
          “What humans could not do, the monkey has done for me. By
worshipping him, I am able to eat at least twice a day, which was hitherto a
mirage.  Two of my children are in the
university, three in private secondary schools and one in a private
nursery/primary school. When any of them is sick, we go to a private hospital.
Don’t desecrate this holy ground. Begone, man of little faith!” the priest
pushed Eliud away.
          The furious Eliud
struggled to break from the grip of his friend, Juma, in order to strike the
priest even as the monkey sat quietly looking at man who claim superiority over
him and his clan but unable to get for themselves employments which abound in
the forests, kingdom of apes.
          “How am I sure you
are not part of the 419?” Eliud asked Juma who was now walking away to another
direction, turning several times to look at the priest, as if to say, keep the
cigarettes, I will come for them later.
                  CHAPTER SIX
The frustrated Eliud returned to Kudu, his home town and took
appointment at Private Commercial School, Kudu, owned by the community. He was
hardworking but rumours flew round that he was running after young female
students and awarding them higher exam marks at the expense of the boys. Once,
concerned parents petitioned the school authority because no boy ever took the
first position in his class, but pretty girls.
          “Your result shows
that you might not be promoted to SS3. But if you co-operate, you will go,”
Eliud, now an SSII form master, told Nafisa, one of his students.
          “So what should I
do?” Nafisa asked, concerned.
          “You know it.”
          “I don’t know it,
sir.”
          “You know it. So
you can give it.”
          “What, sir.”
          “The greatest gift
a woman gives to a man.”
          “I am a girl, not
woman. I don’t know it.”
          “You know it.”
          “I don’t …”
          “You do…”
          The promotion exam
to SS3 saw Nafisa who had always been occupying the bottom of the class among
the first top 10 students. Rumours then started flying around of how Nafisa was
usually seen with Eliud in unholy hours in his office in the school compound
and staff quarters.
          “When an individual
pursues his own interest with zeal, he helps the collective interest of the community,”
  That was the principal, Mr Ogbagu’s
secret argument in defence of Eliud when the community wanted his appointment
terminated. But he did not let the parents know his feeling concerning his
amorous teacher. The principal appeased the community with a letter of
undertaking of good behaviour and fair play towards both boys and girls of the
community, the letter he had forced Eliud to write.
THE OFFICE of the
principal of Local Government Science School, Namu, was tucked in a space
between a toilet and the bookless library of the school. The roof of the
building that housed the principal’s office was only waiting for the first
rainstorm of the season to go to rest from many years on duty. The office was
full of hard-cover books of forgotten authors. An old wall clock hanging at the
left hand corner of the wall ticked away days of selfless service of a patriot;
the principal.  Mr. Annabi, was fair,
skinny, a middle aged man of average height. Grey hairs formed a fez cap on his
head, which hid the theorems of Archimedes, Newton, and ancient philosophies of
Socrates, Plato, Aristotle and others. 
He sometimes advised his teachers to “Be kind, for everyone you meet is
fighting a hard battle”, or told them that “
No human thing is
of serious importance
.”
          Sometimes he said
he got the quotations from Socrates, some other times he said from Plato.
          When one of his
teachers, during the morning briefing, asked him to be definite in quoting
authors, he told him: “Plato was Socrates’ student, so Socrates and Plato are
one, Plato’s knowledge is Socrates.” 
          Since then some of
his teachers nicknamed him Plato, others called him Socrates.
          Mr Annabi’s beard, grey and unkempt, was anxiously waiting for the
kiss of Mai aski blades.  Mai
aski
used to come every month-end to his office for clean shaving.
          One
dull summer morning, he called Ango, one of his dedicated teachers to his
office. Ango has become a young school teacher who thought that wealth is a
thing of the mind, which include altruistic service to humanity and a
reciprocal love from the people in a community. 
He brought his ideals as a student unionist at  a teacher 
training college, to his work  as
teacher.  To him, a  poor sick man on his hospital bed who is
loved by his people is wealthy and healthy.
          “Mr Hadi, I’m
sorry to have taken you off the flock of sheep you shepherd.  But at the
end, my action will favour the shepherd and the sheep. Won’t it?” Mr. Annabi
opened the hidden chapter of the glad tidings he had kept for his dutiful
teacher.
          Ango looked surprised for not seeing
any Fulani herdsman nearby when he had looked around through the office’s open
windows. When he heard flock of sheep and shepherd, he was convinced that the
principal was not addressing him.
          “Where is the
shepherd.” he asked the principal, searching the office.
          “You are the
shepherd; your pupils are the sheep,” The principal explained.
          “But the shepherd
haven’t heard or seen anything, except for a messenger who said I was
wanted at principal’s office. May I suggest I had offended the
principal or a parent of one of his pupils?”
          Your offence is that you
have been here for almost five years giving your all, but you have never been
given the responsibility of a WAEC supervisor. Wouldn’t you like to do the
supervision? It could help you and your pupils.”
          Ango was confused.
What connects WAEC supervision with my welfare and those of my pupils, he
thought.
          I obtained teacher
education to give my best to my country. I would always do tasks equal my
professional ethics,” he told the principal bluntly.
          “I am sure you
would also love to do a job that will improve your welfare, wouldn’t you?”
          “Temptation is a
strong force of wind that destroys the fortunes of weak men. I don’t know how
strong I am. Sir, you may pass the cup from me.” 
          The
principal who expected that Ango would jump at the offer was as much perplexed
as his favoured teacher.
          Are you joking or serious?  Do you ever
realise that your shrewd colleagues even bribe me to get my favour,
nomination  and recommendation to the WAEC and NECO offices?  I
thought after serving our school conscientiously for many years, and still
watching a black-and-white TV, you need to change it for the coloured, and also
replace the hardwood chairs for the cushion ones,” the principal’s voice tinged
with mockery.
          “Who replaces them
for me? And how does a TV and cushion-chairs connect with WAEC supervision?”
The more bewildered Ango asked.
          Are you serious that you
don’t know?” the principal looked solemn, “WAEC supervision is
                                                 
a facility for a teacher to furnish his rooms with pieces of
furniture and electronic items, which his salaries cannot afford.  Won’t
you like to change the old bike you ride to school daily and avoid the mockery
of your students? Or you are not ashamed to always bend at roadsides cleaning a
plug from your old motorbike while your students pass by in their parents’ cozy
cars? Are you satisfied with their usual ‘Good morning Sir’ salutation while
they giggle secretly at your wretchedness at your back?”
          The thought of
students giggling secretly at Ango jolted him. For uncountable times, his old
motorcycle had broken down along the major road to his school.  The fault was usually the bike’s sparkling
plug which he would bend down to remove and clean up while his students passed
by. Ango was scandalized.
          “Am I being mocked
for my patriotism, and even by my students whom I work hard to mould into
conscientious future leaders?”  He then
muttered to himself, “Could this be true? Life is something else if it is.”
          You must know that among
the students, every teacher has an alias. I am not sure you are an exception. I
may be wrong, but once I heard one or two students call you ‘Iron Horse’, after
your bike.” The principal taunted
him with the reality of his lack.
          Ango
laughed indifferently,
and sarcastically responded, “Will WAEC supervision allowance change the alias
and get me all I need in the house, and enough to go to a member or two of my
extended family who look up to me as their financial messiah?”
          Our people say a load of
food carried on the head is not big enough to put off hunger for all season,
but it will create a chance for the hands to get more before the stomach
swallows every bit of it,” the principal said. 
“And remember,” he pushed a heave of air from his gorilla-like
nostrils, flattening his stomach visibly, “the bricklayer commences building a
tall house with double or many floors with a single block. You are like a son
to me; so, I won’t teach you unethical manners. I won’t give you snake when you
ask for fish. But I am quite sure you will learn from the principals of other
schools what I will not teach you now.”
          “And
what is the bottom-line
of all this, sir?  My fingers ache if a minute passes without my
exhausting a stick of chalk on a blackboard. Can the shepherd now go to tend
his flock, for which he gets his monthly pay?”Ango reminded the principal of
his responsibility.
          The
principal’s face radiated with great importance. 
Go to Jos tomorrow, you and Mr Adebayo, the vice
principal, for accreditation. Our letters got to us late after many days of
deliberate holdup at the Ministry of Education (MOE) zonal office, Namu.
Although you have missed the induction at Keffi, which held last week, you can
still occupy your place if you have the will to,” he told Ango.
          Ango’s expressionless face reinforced by an uneasy silence
put the experienced principal on the edge of his seat, so he opened up,
“Because of your dedication to duty and loyalty to me, I have nominated you for
WAEC supervision for this May/June Senior School Certificate Examination
(SSCE). Go early, for tomorrow, even though a weekend, is the last day for the
accreditation. I understand the Chief Inspector of Education (CIE) in the zonal
office wanted to usurp our slots. He and his assistant have taken our places at
the accreditation course held at Keffi Government College ground and have even
collected the first allowance. It is only in Jos that we can beat them to it.”
          “Why would a Chief Inspector of Education do the job of a
classroom teacher? Selfless service for country and duty to God, or what do you
think?” Ango wondered why the principal did not clap for the inspector of
education for his dedication to duty and selfless service, but chiding him
instead.
          The principal’s face
brightened up at the prospect that his favoured teacher would appreciate his
kindness and goodwill.
          That is why you should
imagine the benefits accruable to WAEC supervision. He has removed our VP’s and
your passports and replaced them with his and his assistant’s. You know it’s
you and VP I have nominated for this year. When you go to Jos, go with two passport
photographs. The VP will guide you.  I have already informed the Zonal
Coordinator at the WAEC office of your problems. We will surprise those
long-throats. Our people say if you want to shield the chicks from the hawk,
start throwing stones at the hawk while it still hovers in the sky strategizing
before it swoops upon the chicks. It is only in WAEC office in Jos that you can
displace those scoundrels.”
          “But why should the
education officers keep away our letters from us?” The innocent teacher asked.
          “It’s
politics.”
          “Is
he contesting an election?”
          Politics plays anywhere,
anytime; not necessarily by potbelly politicians. Every man is contesting an
election. There are politicians who have no political parties; they are
everywhere: in schools, in markets, in offices, at homes, and the like. I don’t
pay visits to the MOE zonal office regularly to give CIE ‘handouts’ as do other
principals,” Mr. Annabi stated, waiting for the effect of his speech on his
listener.
          Ango, more of curiosity than of any
pecuniary benefit, nodded, “Okay, thank you. We will go tomorrow first thing in
the morning,” He then bent down his head in a hard thought and asked himself,
“Doesn’t the government pay them salaries?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The arguments on the probable causes of the mass failures of Arna
Mission School’s students hovered over the village square ominously like a
storm-bearing cloud. The Parents/Teachers Association (PTA) of Government
Secondary School, Arna, and the village’s enlightened youths had called a
stakeholders’ meeting to find a solution to the continuous mass failures in the
WAEC and NECO Senior School Certificate Examinations (SSCE) for three
successive years. All important personalities in the village and their
representatives in government had been invited to contribute their quotas
towards ending this unenviable performance of the students. When the stage was set for the meeting,
the man on whose shoulder the burden of these failures hung stepped forward
amid calls for silence by the elders.
          “Your Highness,” Mr
Akanya, the principal of Government Secondary School, Arna, bowed in obeisance
to the village chief, “my elders, parents, I stand before you this morning to
convey the message of my students to you, their parents. As you might have known,
our school has been failing in its SSCE conducted by WAEC and NECO for three
consecutive years,” he raised three fingers on his right hand to emphasize his
point, “the problem has defied all logical solutions, so we have adopted a
suggestion by parents to call a stakeholders’ meeting to find ways our students
can pass as other schools do, especially Arna Mission School, our closest
rival. Should we continue to lose our final year students to Arna Mission, when
we have better facilities and more qualified teachers? What do we do?”
          Abasoja,
an old World War II veteran, a repository of a variety of controversies in the
village, aggressive in character and open at heart, stood up,
looked contemptuously
at  the principal and announced, “If you
have more qualified teachers and better facilities as you claimed and your
students still fail,  then you as the head, is the cause. You are
incompetent and unfit for…”
          The
principal
interrupted
Abasoja, “This is a formal congress, every speaker must observe the protocol,
man or woman; soldier or civilian. Etiquette must be observed in order to…”
          Abasoja
shouted at the principal, “
Mr. Principal,” he advanced towards him aggressively, “you are our
problem. If the head is rotten the whole body follows.  Instead of you to teach our children
knowledge, your teachers are busy pursuing our girl-children. We all know…”
          The
chief of Arna, Malam Tanimu
shouted to silence down Abasoja. 
          “Abasoja! Abasoja!
We are not here to find fault with anybody but to find a solution to the
consistent mass failures of our children in their WAEC and NECO
exams. And don’t close the meeting before it commences.”
          Your Highness,” Abasoja
addressed the chief as he was returning to his seat, “I speak the truth. If I
should come out of the Great War alive, why should I fear  a principal or his teachers? Let the
principal tell us how many of his teachers marry outside of the school fence?
Odumu’s daughter,” he used his index finger on his right hand to press down the
smallest of his fingers on the left hand to count, “married Mr. Benja; the
beautiful daughter of Ibaku was snatched by Mr. Matthew, her form
master; the daughter of Audu married Malam Musa, and  I am suspicious
of Vice Principal’s nocturnal visits to Alhaji Sidi’s house, because Maryam,
his daughter, is ripe for marriage.  So,
Principal, can you prove…” 
          The
chief, obviously angry at Abasoja’s effrontery and lack of decorum, even before
the chief and titleholders, growled again, “
Abasoja! Abasoja! Even if what you said is true,
let us discuss our children’s mass failures in the exams for today. Other
issues may come next time.”  He then
pointed to the chairman, Parents/Teachers Association of Government Secondary
School (GSS), Arna, “Please, let us hear what you have for us.”
          The PTA chairman ignored Abasoja.
           “Yes, what the
principal has said is the reason we are here. Look at other schools and look at
Arna  Mission, especially. What  is the 
secret behind  the  success stories of other schools in the WAEC
and NECO exams every year? Are their students brighter than ours or their
teachers more skilful in handling their lessons than ours? Why would their
students outdo ours in exams alone?  In inter-school quizzes, debates and
sports, we always beat them. What do we do? Why won’t crops grown on the same
piece of farmland give out the same yield and taste? We lose our promising and
final-year students to Arna Mission and other ill-equipped schools, even though
we have the best of facilities, why?”
          The veteran, Abasoja,
tried hard to assume the manner of a gentleman, but was unable to check his
emotion. “
Let
us not pretend. We all know what to do. We know why Arna Mission always wears
feathers of distinction and credits on their caps. Let us do what they do.  Why do students we bring up run to other
schools to sit for final exams?  It is
because we don’t have the magic wand to harvest credits for them. So don’t
pretend. A serious man will spit on the fire on the roof of his house if he
finds no water, hoping to put it out. Bagga! M-e-n!”
          “What do they do?”
Saleh, a middle aged man from the audience challenged the veteran.  “Tell us what they do. We are in the
blacksmith’s workshop, so let us tell him the shape of the knife with which we
want to cut our meat now or we get the wrong shape and cut our hands.”
          “Yes! Yes!” the villagers shouted.
          The
furious Abasoja soon shed off the polite character he had assumed after the
chief’s rebuke and returned to his old self.
           “You, son of Ibakwu,” he said as he pointed
menacingly at Saleh, “are you married with a son? Did your father teach you how
to face your wife in bed? Crimes are not taught by spoken words, but by actions
of role models or peer groups. Please…”
          Are we committing crimes by gathering here to
discuss the future of our children, em? Tell us if all of us here are
criminals?” an elderly man asked Abasoja while looking in the direction of the
chief, obviously seeking his assistance to sanction the old soldier whose
statement also implicated him.  “Please,
let the youngsters talk first,” he finally appealed.
          “Yes, let the
children talk first. The hunter alone knows the bitterest or the sweetest part
of the game he brings home.  Let us give the children the chance to talk.
They know their problems better than we can appreciate them,” another villager
agreed.
          This is why our children
fail. Let the elders who have seen many Christmases guide the children. I have
fought the wars in Vietnam and the Congo. If I didn’t die then, why should I
fear any bagga now? M-e-n! Abasoja bellowed.
Another villager stood up to challenge Abasoja. “It is not because of war we left our farms
untended and gathered here. We are talking the future of our children. If we …”
          Abasoja angrily
shot forward, demanding, “What future have children who cannot pass exams which
other children pass with ease? Tell me. I challenge you to tell me,” the
veteran said and sat down, murmuring.
          “My people, the
elder talks last not because he is wiser than those who spoke before him,
but because he is given the chance to see and weigh the folly and wisdom of
their speeches. It is not at all times that the last speaker takes the day. Let
all parents force their children and wards to read hard at school and at home.
Let us give them the freedom from farm work in the final year when they prepare
for their exams. This is not the conclusion of the discussion from the chief,
but a personal opinion, open to contrary views backed by reasons,” the chief
suggested.
          Sequel to what His Highness has said,
I suggest we think of a better way to equip the school library and laboratories
with modern books and equipment respectively. Our dilapidated structure might
be the cause of our children’s mass failures,” another villager stated.
          One
man, fragile but serious, stood up quietly and bared his mind.
           But Arna Mission has better facilities compared
with ours, yet they are a model we look up to in WAEC and NECO exams.”                              
          Abasoja couldn’t
contain his joy at the last speaker’s wisdom.
          “You are your
father’s son, Ogabu,” he said raising the man’s hands up.
          A
young man p
ut
a hand up anxiously saying, “Excuse me, sir, excuse me, parents, excuse….” but
no one gave him attention. He
continued to shout until the PTA chairman heard him.
          Inuwa, what do you have
to say?” the PTA chairman asked. 
          I want to say something,
sir. I want to talk, and it is important, sir.” 
          Abasoja
got angry at Inuwa’s
audacity and barked, “Sit down, shameless failure!”
           “Zaaki,” the PTA chairman turned to the chief,
“let us give the ex-head boy of the school a chance to speak. The man who wears
the shoes, they say, knows where it pinches.” He turned to the young man, “What
is the cause of the constant mass failures in our school?  You also sat
for SSCE last year and the year before and failed. Didn’t you?”
          “Zaaki, my
parents,” Inuwa bowed in deference, “the modern trend is for a principal to buy
over the exam officials; from the school invigilators, WAEC supervisors, the
WAEC external supervisors up to the scorers of the subjects. Our principal
knows it but he chooses to play the Pope in the congregation of idol
worshippers.”
          The audience exchanged glances as Abasoja praised the youth.
          Thank you, my boy. I made a mistake to hush you
down. You have washed your hands well, so you can eat with elders. When the cause
of a sickness is known, the cure is at hand.”
He turned to the angle where their
representatives in government were sitting.
           “We thank God our Senator and Rep and the
local government Chairman and Councillor representing our ward are all here. I
have fought the Great War and came out alive, would anybody then expect me to
fear any bagga?” he said and fixed his gaze directly at the government people.
          “Senator,
Member of the House, Chairman, Councillor, we thank you for honouring our
invitation. I thanked you first not because you are more important, it’s
because you are more powerful. You have the power which belongs to us the
people. This problem is yours to solve. The issue concerns our children, our
hope for the future, but now it involves money. Our people say when a public
debate comes to money issue, it is not the giant or the most vocal or the man
with the greatest gift of wisdom that is accorded the front row, but the man of
means even if he is a dwarf in structure and intelligence. What do you say?”
          The chief, as if waiting
for Abasoja to hit the nail on the head, immediately announced, “
Can we hear what you
have to say, our representatives in government?”
          Senator
Ado, in his overflowing, expensive agbada,
b
owed to the chief,
adjusted his voice amid ovation from the students in the audience. His
over-starched agbada groaned like a
thunder announcing a valedictory rainfall in October. 
          “Zaaki, greeting is
yours,” he bowed to the chief. “Everybody knows that it was by your massive
support and cooperation at the polls that  I was able to go to the Senate
after all hope had been lost from other parts of the constituency. Today is
time for a payback.”       The audience
nodded their heads in approval such that even as one man’s head hit another,
the other was not aware of the pain.
          “I will give two
million naira as help-money to service WAEC and NECO supervisors so that our
children will now overcome their failures and secure a future.”
The audience was thrown into a noisy merriment amid renewed claps for the
distinguished senator of the Federal Republic. Abasoja was all smiles.
          Dr.
Abaji,
member, House of Representatives (representing Namu/Nasu
constituency) shouted, “Zaaki,”
as he bowed to the chief, and began, “The major word here today is payback
time. I give N1.5m naira for supervisors’ entertainment. I won’t remind you of
the knowledge of how the table was turned against my opponent in the election
that brought me to the House. I owe you an immortal thankfulness. Thank you.
All of you here are my benefactors. Some characters bite the fingers that feed
them, but for me, I fill the hands that feed me so that they can feed me more.”
           A
rapturous applause greeted the Rep’s
speech. Accord was returning to the audience.
          Mr.
Timoti,
Namu LGC chairman, stood up after the honourable member of the
Federal House of Representatives had made his speech.
          “I had earlier planned to give this community a
befitting clinic to reduce infant/maternal mortality which is on the steady
rise here, but because of the urgency of the matter before us, I will now first
solve it.   When a guest wants to eat pounded yam, the host should
not give rice. For if he does that the guest’s hunger remains unquenched. I
give one million naira to brighten our children’s future.” A thunderous
ovation punctuated his speech.
          Audu,
the councillor representing Namu ward,
broke protocol when he started his speech
without acknowledging the chief’s presence.
          “It is a sign of
disrespect for the child to…”
          Abasoja
rose
sharply, shouting, “Awudu,
greet the chief and the elders first! Or you don’t have ancestors in your family?”
          Audu
retorted, “
But
I haven’t seen you do that since you have been speaking.”
          Has Awudu now become my
age mate?” Abasoja threw his query into the air around the audience.
          “My name is Audu,
not Awudu.”
          “Whatever you are
called!”
          “Abasoja, it is
true you have not greeted the chief before making your contributions since
morning.  If a child grows up to be a left-handed adult, it is the failure
of the parents to teach him the use of the right hand at childhood, for a dry
fish cannot be curved to a desired shape without breaking it. Even the chief is
not your age mate too. Although he is young enough to be our son, he represents
our ancestors. He is, therefore, older than we all are, and so deserves our
respect,” an old man from the audience said.
          The
audience chorused, “
Yes, it is true!”
Audu resumed his speech
triumphantly, “…wash his hands when the elder is still eating. Here, people
older than I am are many, but the government has seated me on their shoulders,
making me now taller than they are.  If a giant carries a dwarf on his
shoulder, the dwarf becomes the giant. 
May I suggest that the money realized from this gathering today be used
to build more classrooms, which will house our children who really want to
learn…”
          “Audu,” the chief
called out quietly, “start your speech all over again to make sense,” and
murmured to himself, “I cannot understand why the young are always in a
hurry.” 
          “Yes, Zaaki,”
Audu  bowed to the chief,  
It is rude and impolite for a child to stop
eating  when the elder is still eating.
People older than I am are plenty here, but …”
          “But you are not
repeating what you had said. This is not what you said in your first speech,” a
villager corrected Audu.
          “Whatever I say now
and what I had said earlier are the same. It is my choice of words that
confuses you. You know I studied English Language in the university. I can use
any word to start my speech from middle or centre and still make sense. My
knowledge of English has affected my speech in our indigenous language,” Audu
explained.
          An angry villager
announced, “Don’t tell us that you know English. If you know English, you can’t
be better than Egya’s son, Ema. Repeat what you had said in the beginning; the
first beginning, and don’t confuse us again.”
          “If what he has
said now means the same as what he had said earlier, let him continue so that
we won’t waste time here. Weeds are choking our crops on our farms.” an elderly
man suggested. Elders nodded their heads in approval.
          “The fact is, it is irresponsibility on the part of a grown
up male to abandon his farm work and indulge in trivialities,” a man announced,
“but thank God most of us here are earning a little from government. We can
call a truce with the weeds today, after all the future of our children is not
a trivial matter.”
          “Let us not waste too much time on
these big-headed children. We don’t even know if we can reap the fruits of
their education for which we are here wasting our time in our generation,”
Odumu, a well known farmer in the village stated and stood up, folded the edges
of his agbada to his body and left
the audience to their trouble.
          “If
you don’t reap the fruit of your children’s education now, it will come the
next generation. Your grandchildren and great grandchildren will enjoy the
fruits,” a young man advised even as the eyes of the audience were losing
Odumu’s disappearing figure.
          “Where is my own
gain?” Odumu asked skeptically as his image finally disappeared from the eyes
of the congress.
          “Continue with your speech, my son,” the chief ordered Audu,
“but let every person in this gathering understand your point,” he reminded him
of the importance of clarity in public speech.
          “Ok,” Audu
announced, “a child who washes his hand while elders are still eating,
indirectly calls the elders glutton. People who have seen more rainy seasons
and more years of harvest than I did are many here, but the government has
seated me on their shoulders, making me now taller than they are.  May I
suggest that the money realized from this gathering today be used to build more
classrooms, which will house our children who really want to learn…” 
          Abasoja
was inflamed, “
You, son of Omaji, don’t beat about the bush when the path is
clear and unmistaken! Give us our dividends of democracy. You are not doing us
a favour.  Give us money to do what we want to do for our children’s
future. Enough of talking. Don’t mesmerize us with unnecessary and empty words
of a politician!”
          Audu,
sounding sarcastic, said, “
Can a storey house survive on a foundation built
on quicksand? I promise to build a one-block of three classrooms for our
children to provide an enabling environment for learning and…”
          The principal of the
school interrupted
with thunderous hand claps. When he heard the faint echoes of his
lonely ovation, without any supporting hand, he turned round and found that he
was alone in a crowd; he was on his own.         “Am
I wrong?” He searched again the mob of faces in the congress for support,
repeating, “Am I
wrong!” No one answered him.
He thus felt like a fool in the company of some strange wise men.
          Abasoja, as frank as he
was ever known, announced, “
Awudu, you had no potbelly when we elected you. Now you have a pot
hidden in your stomach.”
          He demonstrated the pot size with his two hands weighing
his stomach.
          “Where did you get it? Hadn’t your father been a poor man
without a bicycle? Where has he got the motorcycle he is riding now? Where has
he got the money to change the thatches of his house to corrugated sheets of
zinc? You cannot decide for us what we can do for our children with our money.
Give us help-money for WAEC supervisors today. Classroom may come tomorrow as
your individual voluntary service. You can even teach our children English and
arts of public speech in the classrooms you will build in future!”
          Audu
looked at the audience contemptuously. He first looked at the distinguished
senator of the Federal Republic, shifted his gaze to the honourable member of
the House of Representatives, then to the chairman, before fixing his gaze at
Abasoja.
          No!  Say all you
know about my father and me. Who took my own exam for me in the 1980s? Did I
need to bribe the supervisors to pass my school cert exams? What are we teaching
our children? A legacy of laziness? Indolence? Perpetual  dependence?”
          The
PTA chairman stood up to halt Audu and Abasoja from further argument and
possible physical engagement.  Quietly he
said, “Audu, you supposed to be a gentleman, aren’t you?”
          “Gentleman?
No. A gentleman is he who is always cheated in the public. Haven’t you ever
listened to Fela? I no be gentleman like that…,”
          “It’s
ok, Honourable Councillor. But
exam
fraud is not the only crime humanity knows. There are other crimes more heinous
than exam malpractice. And can you tell us the state of our education sector
when you wrote your first school leaving certificate examinations, Councillor?
Did your parents know the phenomenon of private schools with their prohibitive
school fees then? Are you not a responsible parent?”
          Abasoja
who has found the needed support he craved for to disgrace the audacious
councillor, mocked, “
How will he see when the
government money he receives by our grace has blinded his eyes?”  He
pointed to Audu furiously, but looking at the chief he said, “We will not stay
here and see this boy insult us. Mr. Councillor, you are preaching the
word of God to sinners while a prostitute sits on your lap in a brothel, with a
bottle of beer in one hand and a stick of cigar in another.”
          Meanwhile, a youth
leader, a member of the village elite class and a champion of the people’s
cause who had been studying the situation keenly, quietly put in, “Mr
Councillor, don’t pretend to be holier than the Pope here because payment of
school fees for your children doesn’t bother you. We all know your children are
in private schools. Remember how we stuffed ballot papers in the boxes for you
to win this election. Remember how much we paid the agents of your opponents to
put their signatures on the paper. Is this different from the help-money we
gather here to talk about?”
          The audience
released a tsunami of ovation, but Audu stood his ground.
          Yet I am not convinced
to bend to crimes and criminal tendencies by your appeal to
                                     emotion. I have my
personal principle. Buying the supervisors to let our children pass exam is
criminal. Let us take our children to private schools to learn well.”
          “But how many
parents here can afford school fees in the private secondary schools in the
local government headquarters far way?” PTA
chairman asked.
          How many of you will
not  marry additional wives in places farther than the local government
headquarters with money more than enough to send your children to private schools
when opportunity presents itself?” Audu threw back at PTA chairman.
          Are you suggesting that
we all are criminals and amorous? Are we not the ones who lifted you up? If you
think we are criminals, then your father,” Abasoja  looked 
in the  direction  of Audu’s father who sat quietly in a corner
like other illiterate villagers who could not make any input in the debate
because they could not speak English which was the language selected for this
occasion, “is more criminal than us. I am older than your father. You bagga!”
Abasoja shouted as he moved towards Audu’s father, ready for a brawl. 
          And what did I say?
Did I deny the fact that you lifted me up? But you should not also deny that I,
now sitting on your shoulders, am taller than you all are. But for you being
criminals, I didn’t say so.”
          The
village champion declared, “You have already insulted the elders. The word the
elders regard as insult is small. It is not all about telling an elder that he
has a big head, but by saying or doing things you shouldn’t have done in his
presence. Talking while an elder is talking is an insult to him.  An insult to an elder is implied.”
          He
stared at Audu for some seconds and announced, “
By sitting on our shoulders, we can decide to throw you down on
thorny weeds or into hot water or fire!”
          Abasoja
ran to where the last
speaker stood and shook his hand vigorously as hungry village school children
would shake a branch of mango tree to get the fruits, then announced, “I have
found a friend in you! If I had a daughter of marriageable age, I would have
given her to you here before the congress rises up without a kobo for a dowry.”
          “But I can wait
till one of them reaches maturity,” the speaker told Abasoja.
          “It is fire that
makes charcoal burns. Before any of them reaches maturity, your charcoal may
not have any fire left,” Abasoja told the speaker.
          “Ashes from my
charcoal can still burn, I bet you,” the man reminded Abasoja and they both
laughed it off.
          My people,” Chief Tanimu called, pushing noise
away, “so much has been heard. Today…” he turned to see a commotion at its
adult stage. Abasoja had gone silently
to where the councillor stood, grabbed him and threw at him a couple of
hot slaps that woke up the babies who were sleeping on their mothers’ backs at respectful
distances behind men in the congress, saying, “
Bloody civilian!
Bagga!  I have fought wars in the Congo and the Vietnam and came out
alive.”
          Amid the commotion,
he pointed at Audu as he was being led away, mouthing, “Will this boy for
whom we committed crime with his full knowledge and acquiescence in
the general elections now turn against us and even publicly insult us? Are
we not the source of his political power? Does he possess any talent which to
earn the huge which to learn the huge huge money his office has been sending to
his hitherto flat bank account? If remunerations of political officeholders
were to be decided by their academic qualifications, do you think this boy
would go near the table where men wine and dine? Democracy is indeed power; a
weak power, with which foolish men mislead wise men.  Ma-m-e-en, bagga!”
                                        
CHAPTER EIGHT
The zonal inspectorate office, Ministry
of Education, Namu,
was covered by a canopy of dogonyaro
trees. The sunrays made hundreds of slim holes from the gap the leaves left.
Sunlight hit the ground like water from a sprayer, making the ground a leopard
skin. The building was a two-block office built in a face-me-I-face-you design,
about 150 metres from the main road and 100 square metres, tucked in the
premises of Federal Government Girls’ College, Namu. The WAEC external
Supervisor and the Key-holder were busy arranging materials for various exam
centres for today’s papers. Within the premises, teachers who had been appointed
supervisors were arriving from their various schools. Motorcycles cried under
the cruel bite of footbrakes. Fogs of smoke from their silencers filled the
entire premises, rolling into a malevolent cloud.
          Most of the teachers, in anxious moods,
looked at their wristwatches for the umpteenth times while walking towards the
office. A handful of them were arguing with okada riders over a ten or
five naira change. One teacher wrote his names and addresses of his home and
school on a piece of paper and gave it to an okada rider, so that when
the change was ready, the okada man would take it to his wife at home or
give it to any security guard at the gate of his school to keep for him. Two
teachers were heard talking to each other.
The one whom cones of sweat were cascading his
wrinkled forehead, said, “Has the posting been done; I mean swapping of
supervisors?”
          “Even in war time,
generals of the opposite fronts greet each other in beer parlours.” the second
teacher retorted.
          A war of ideas is
deadlier than the war fought with arrows and guns and bombs; my enemies are
pursuing me,” the first teacher announced.
          Where are they?” the
second teacher looked surprised, “Or am I blind?”                                                      Poverty. They are all over the place: in the market, in the
street and at home, pursuing men and women out, naked or half naked.”
          But is it here you run
to for a cover?”
          A drowning man, they
say, will clutch at a straw. The stipend at the end of the supervision is
capable of killing one of my enemies. Our people say no one knows the size of
the stone that could kill an elephant. Can you now answer my question? I say,
would you like to be swapped?”
          Yes, of course, I
would.”
          For me, I was
comfortable at the centre I served during the science practical.”
          “Where did you
serve?” the first teacher asked, bewildered.
          Private Commercial
School, Namu. Rice stew very plenty,” the second teacher laughed. “It’s an
RSVP.”
          I was at the
Federal Government Girls’ College (FGGC) Namu. What I got daily was a 35c1
bottle of coca-cola and a five-naira biscuit like a weeping child in the
kindergarten. No good food and drinks from the principal to satisfy my hunger
and thirst for a good meal, the first teacher lamented.
          Why did they treat you
like that? Didn’t they wish their students good luck in the exam?” the second
teacher smiled at his friend’s misfortune. “I ate chicken laps and drank Malta
Guinness to my fill every exam day.” He then lowered his voice, bent towards
his colleagues like a yam tendril courting the support of a nearby tree, “I go
home each day with no less than four ‘k’.”
          “Agbamzu!” the
first teacher exclaimed. “God punish FGGC authorities. May the principal see
hell in the life beyond as I have seen in his school?”
          “Maybe your
personal god is poor, because my mother told me that if one’s personal god is
poor, one will also be poor even if he works hard. Who is as busy as a
stone-cutter and a wood-splitter? But who are as poor as they?” the second
teacher philosophized.     
          Do you subscribe to the
baseless philosophies of the illiterate? As an educator, I hope you do not. A
man reincarnates in order to achieve his deprived or unrealized dreams in the
previous earthly life. If my personal god was poor I, his reincarnate, should
be rich now in this present earthly life. The busy bees are rich in the honey
they produce. I shall…”
          The second teacher interrupted, “I learned that FGGC has
been blacklisted by the WAEC office in Jos. This is the reason the principal is
staying away in this exam. She has served her country and state meritoriously
for 30 odd years and wouldn’t like to jeopardize her career in one erring
moment. We even learnt she would soon become 
commissioner for education in her state.”
          But I was told that she
collects sheets of zinc from newly admitted students and old                                       students
as pre-requisite for admission and promotion respectively. Can anybody prove me
wrong?”
          Wrong idea! It is true
the philosophers say the world is full of problems because of wrong ideas. The
school authorities collect one bag of cement only from new students and a sheet
of zinc from returning students. That’s all.”
          And the zinc must be
submitted before registration?” the first teacher asked suspiciously.
          It is true that good
deeds repel rumour-peddlers as much as evil deeds attract them,” the second
teacher murmured, and warned, “Be careful, rumour does no one any good. The
zinc is for the roofing of the huge exam hall with the aim of minimizing exam
fraud in the school and the cement is for the school fence project, to stop big
men from getting to the girls’ hostel in the night.”
          The first teacher
unleashed a laughter which sounded like a dry paper  being torn away by an
Indian hemp addict at a construction site, or 
as a poor pupil would tear his test score from his dossier in
anger.  Then he mocked his colleague,
“…aiming at maximizing exam malpractice you would say.”
          The
two teachers treated themselves to a hearty laugh.
          “En hen …” the first teacher broke the merriment, “why has
the FGGC been blacklisted by the WAEC office?”
           “Aren’t you up-to-date in your chosen field?
You will end up not knowing that your wife is pregnant until a baby whines in
your toilet,” the second teacher teased his friend.
          Thank God, my wife has
reached her dry season; I mean she has now journeyed to the desert of womanhood
and poverty has blinded my eyes and closed the gate of my heart against
younger
apples of child-bearing age in the garden of Eve.”
          “Wise
man,” the second teacher began, “despite trying hard to cover up your meaning,
I got you. 
No one can tell the lust
in a man until he finds wealth or is bestowed upon with fame and power. Passion
lies dead in the face of soldiers of poverty, but wealth enlivens them and
wakes them up. You are one of the sons of Adam and very likely to eat of the
apple of the daughters of Eve.” He closed his eyes dreamily and continued,
“Aren’t you fantasizing resting your head on a beautiful woman’s lap in a foreign
country; maybe on a Brazilian beach, at a Thai night club or in a resort in
Dubai?”
          Leave philosophy to the
Greeks, martial art to the Chinese, history to the Africans! Why has the
principal of FGGC been blacklisted?” the first teacher returned to their
earlier talk.
          Your sins are forgiven.
I will now tell you,” the second teacher chuckled. “That FGGC Mathematics
teacher, I mean Miss Zim…” he looked around to avoid possible eavesdropper,
“who used to write Mathematics for Abuja candidates, has been caught by a WAEC
man from Jos.”
          The first teacher,
who was puzzled, couldn’t believe his ears. “Hadn’t his principal any money to
give the WAEC man?” He asked thoughtlessly.
          The man, Zhika, was
harsh and cruel; his countenance was like that of a hunter’s dog, which has
missed a big game in a hunting expedition. He couldn’t accept any bribe.”
          “Mr
Isaac Zhika?”
          “Yes,
you knew him?”
          Who told you Mr Zhika wouldn’t accept any bribe?
He is a money-monger; notorious  for
extorting money from  principals  of 
exam centres, known all over the miracle centres in the
WAEC
districts he previously served. I know him very well.”
          The second teacher opened his mouth in
total disbelief like an infidel listening to a sermon on everlasting life in al-Jannat.
          “Please, tell me more! Is your newsbag empty?” he asked,
humorously.
          It cannot be empty even
over a night. I will tell you everything: Mr Zhika’s harsh face conceals a deep
greed known only to men who know the ways of mortals. He is ripe with greed and
as cheap as mangoes. The man has no scruples. He had met me once or twice in
the centres I had supervised previously. At GSS Namu, Mr. Zhika, leaving the
main entrance gate, appeared from nowhere like a ghost on revenge mission to
the earth, and caught the students red-handed, with photocopies of answered
exam questions, even as the principal was giving a helping hand right in the
hall! It was the Biology practical. Hell was let loose in the hall. But soon
after, about ten minutes of closed-door negotiation with the school
authorities, he left the school smiling, his teeth pushing the muscles on his
cheeks to his two ears, as he was leaving the principal’s office.”
          But did you allow exam
malpractice in your centre?”
           “I don’t understand you; what do you mean by
‘malpractice’?” the first teacher feigned ignorance. 
          “I mean fraud,
corruption, magu-magu or cheating.”
          “Now I have got
you. Is there any single public action devoid of fraud in our system? What do
you do in your centre? Say ‘No, thank you’ when a kind principal offers food
and drinks to a hungry beggar you are?”
          Of course, yes; I do say
‘no.’ I even hire the service of friends to help me supervise the hall
efficiently.”
          “On whose payroll
your helpers earn their wages?”
          I pay them from my pocket.”
          Socrates! Confucius! For
what! The first teacher shouted with disbelief, hands on his head as if he had
just heard fatal news.
                                                                                                         
          “For
patriotism, of course.
For God and country. For truth and justice.”
          The first teacher cleared his throat and started lecturing:
“Patriotism makes sense when your country makes promises to its citizens and
fulfils them; and not when it steals from the have-not and adds to the
have-plenty. Stay there and talk of patriotism; build castles in the air while
real men build mansions on land before you; stay there and see old ministers
recycled in the new government or their sons and daughters inherit their
appointments while your hapless shoes wear and tear against stones in Abuja
streets in search of jobs hidden away from you, but waiting for the men of
lesser abilities. Wait and die in recruitment exercises for pseudo-military
agencies while successful candidates enjoy sweet dreams in their cozy beds
waiting for their letters of appointment. Wait there and see federal ministers
and state governors go for medical checkups in far away Switzerland with ghana-must-go. You will also watch
politicians buy half a million naira recharge cards for their mobile phones for
a weekend when you hunger for a hundred naira eba in a fly-infested
roadside restaurant, even as professors in university communities, with heads
bald or grey from erudition, struggle to pay for a full tank of their cars at
filling stations. You will see common Nigerians clinging to life, five to 10
persons, in a room in tenements where
shit flow past their doorsteps while lawmakers spend millions to buy luxury
cars and paint their official residences. You and I are here because
WAEC supervision, like other ad-hoc national assignments, such as population
census and electoral exercises, are less attractive in terms of financial
claims, or we wouldn’t smell it. Can your son gain admission into the Nigerian
Defence Academy, or even work with 
the  Nigeria  Customs 
Service?” he  paused,  then continued, “Would he get a job at the
Central Bank of Nigeria or the Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation, even
with first-class honours from a first-class university? Where there is money
and prestige, the poor are trespassers. If you talk patriotism, you are on your
own.  I have since stopped listening to and standing for our National
Anthem. I will stop and stand still for our National Anthem, maybe in  military barracks because of the fear of
being kobokoed by soldiers on guard.”     
          The second teacher stared unbelievably at his companion
who, to him, has transformed into a total stranger and heaved, “So long a
sermon; won’t these ideas turn your head to a devil’s think-shop?” He pulled a
large volume of air from his lung, pushed it through his hairy nostrils and
reassured his friend, “Whatever happens, I will be patriotic.” Then by way of
reinforcing his patriotism, he started to recite the National Pledge after
which he reminded his friend, “My reward is in heaven, as a teacher.”
          Do you think all
teachers go to heaven?” the first teacher asked, and continued, “I warn you, I
won’t allow you lick your fingers when you eat my wife’s food. I invite you to
supper tomorrow after the Maths papers,” the first teacher teased.
          Why after Mathematics?”
the second teacher wanted explanation.
          Don’t you know?
Mathematics and English Language are the papers that make or mar the WAEC
supervisor; they enrich him or impoverish him depending on his outlook upon
life.  Haven’t you heard among supervisors this axiom: ‘Miss the two, miss
a fat purse’? If a supervisor cannot make money on Mathematics and English
Language days in the month of May, he will count himself poor in the month of
June.”
         
CHAPTER NINE
In the MOE zonal office
strong room, the
WAEC man rose from a bag he had just
arranged. He looked, to the poor teachers, as important as a bank manager about
to approve loans to his poor clients. Teachers stood waiting, their imaginations
wandering about like those of some below-average school pupils awaiting the
announcement of their promotion results at a speech and prize-giving day in a
high school with their parents in attendance.
          Eliud
Hubi and Ango Hadi were birds of different feathers that were to flock
together. While one was materialistic, the other was altruistic.
          Mr. Hubi, where did you
serve last week?”        The WAEC man’s
sudden question broke the silence which had been guiding the men’s fantasies.
Now they looked like poor men who were reluctant to wake up from  sweet dreams in which they lived the luxury
life of the rich.
          “I served at GSS
Omina,” Mr. Hubi replied.
          “Go to Arna Mission,” the important man ordered.
          Mr. Hubi who was now overwhelmed with
joy, roared, “Yessah!”
          Instantly,
Mr. Hubi became an important personality in the eyes of the supervisors
awaiting posting.
          Arna
Mission Secondary School is a hotbed of examination malpractice and any crook
of a supervisor posted to it was considered lucky by his roguish colleagues.
          Mr. Saleh,” the WAEC man
called out, “go to Garinmu.”
          Yessah!”  Mr.
Saleh exclaimed,
then moved towards the army-colour WAEC pouch, with a
tag hanging on it reading: “GSS Garinmu.”
          Saleh got it too.
Garinmu was a Mecca among corrupt WAEC supervisors.
          “Mr. Hadi, go to
Arna Mission,” the WAEC man
announced. 
          “Arna Mission
already has Mr. Hubi posted to it, sir,” the key-holder drew the WAEC man’s attention in order to correct the mix-up.
           Yes, sir,” Mr. Hadi politely responded, then said, “Mr. Hubi has already been
posted there.”
          “I know what I do.
Go along with Mr. Hubi. Arna Mission is a large centre, and a haven of
mercenaries, therefore, one man cannot effectively supervise their large exam
hall.” He swallowed a dry saliva, “You and Mr. Hubi shall go to Arna Mission,”
the WAEC man made himself clearer.
           “Yes, sir,” Mr. Hadi obeyed.
          Mr. Hubi, finding
that the WAEC man had already closed that chapter, could not argue further. At once, Mr. Hubi lost interest in the whole
exercise. It was as if the WAEC man had reduced his importance by pairing him
with another man, a rival, to one of the miracle centres he had heard much
about; the school where many unscrupulous teachers had made enough money to buy
household appliances to decorate their living rooms.
          Mr.
Hubi knew that he could not complain, because if he did, the WAEC man would
know the reason behind his protest and would punish him by sending him to one
of the schools in Namu town. It is not all external supervisors that were
corrupt. The hearts of some of the honest ones were as hard as granite, so not
malleable.
          “WAEC
supervision is a service to humanity and not a money-making venture, thus
supervisors should behave like volunteers in service for God and country,” Mr
Zakari, the WAEC zonal coordinator had warned prospective supervisors during
the induction at Keffi.  
 
          Mr
Hadi took the army-colour khaki pouch containing examination materials, bowed
down a little and threw it to his back, in the fashion of a successful bank
robber, then crawled to the verandah. He looked up from under the weight of his
burden in order to see where Mr. Hubi was standing waiting for him. He met a
friend who was surprised to see him amongst the favourites of their respective
principals.
          Hey, big boss, are you
one of the WAEC supervisors for May/June?” the friend hit him with a question.
          “I am a WAEC
supervisor for 2005, not for only May and June,” Mr. Hadi corrected,
strengthening the importance of the national assignment he was undertaking,
laughing. 
          “I’m
sorry; forgive me.  I didn’t mean to belittle your position, WAEC
registrar. Have you written your resignation letter?” he teased Mr. Hadi.
          The bewildered Mr Hadi queried, “Resignation? For what?”
          I thought you had got a
permanent appointment with the WAEC. I didn’t know your appointment is ad hoc.”
          Stop joking in a rush
hour. You said you didn’t know the scope of my appointment; tell me who told
you now that I am an ad hoc staff?” He unloaded the burden off his shoulder and
put the pouch near his feet, while holding its hands firmly, as if it contained
some hard currencies.
           Just agree,” the friend insisted,
laughing, “that your appointment lasts for only May and June and I will allow
you rush to your station.”
          Agreed.  Satisfied?” Mr Hadi succumbed to his friend’s
precondition for his freedom to move away.
          “Which centre have
you been posted to?”
          “To Arna; first
experience.”
          Which of the Arna?”
          “How many Arnas
does WAEC have?”
          “I mean Arna
Mission or Arna Government? There are two exam centres at Arna, or are you not
aware?”
          Arna Mission, then.”
          “Good, you are
lucky!” Mr. Hadi’s friend exclaimed shaking his hand, for a reason he could not
understand.
          Mr. Hadi looked bewildered, “Lucky, why?”
          Don’t be a kid. Don’t
tell me you don’t know why you are here? WAEC supervision is a facility for
teachers to buy electronics and furniture items for family. Don’t accept
anything less than N20, 000 from the principal. Today is Mathematics day; if
your family’s pot of soup has no meat on Mathematics and English Language days,
you are an unsuccessful supervisor. Don’t you hate failure? I’m sure, like all
men, you do, and even your candidates hate it more.”
          Mr.
Hadi felt embarrassed. “
But I follow exam ethics,” he told his friend.
          “Stop making noise,
Pope! Have you ever seen a local government councillor riding in a car a
grey-haired professor in the university community only dream to possess? Have
you ever seen where teachers were called for a national assignment with high
financial claims? Immunisation, election and census exercises and workshops
where secondary school teachers and university dons make noise to promote
government policies and programmes are areas other professionals despise or
cannot handle; that is why teachers make cheap labour for them. Did WAEC give
you any mobilisation fee? And will you trek to Arna and fast from sunrise till
sunset and then trek back to Namu? By the way, do you have a refrigerator,
cushion-chairs or a generator at home, even the type called ‘I pass my
neighbour?’ Take no less than N20, 000. 
I served, last year, at Arna Mission. Two of us got N10, 000 each from
the principal and N15, 000 each from external answer sheets on Maths day.”
          What do you mean by
external answer sheets?” Mr. Hadi asked, perplexed.
          External answer sheets
are exam answer sheets and question papers supervisors give subject experts to
solve outside of the exam hall, usually in the school library or in a
designated hidden place in the school provided by the school authorities, for
‘prepaid external candidates’, usually from FCT.”
          Mr. Hubi, boiling with anger for
the unnecessary delay caused by Mr. Hadi, arrived at the scene where his
colleague and a friend stood chatting like children who do not understand the
importance and power of money, and stated gravely, “If you can’t go, give me
the bag, idle chat cannot help in an hour like this. A man who has no financial
commitment, sees one kobo as a valueless piece of metal; he feels the heat of
the sun and the wet of the rain. For me, I feel nothing because I need money. I
need it. Look around, shine your eyes. Even fools are riding in cars which
should have been ours to enjoy.”
          “Chairman,” Mr.
Hadi’s friend addressed Mr. Hubi, “teachers are supposed to be a repository of
morality, ethics and decorum. I thought you would greet first, then talk your
grievances.”
          “I’m sorry, good morning, Mr. Awanda,” Mr. Hubi shook his
hand, “It is poverty.  Poverty is next to
insanity,” he reminded Mr. Awanda.
          Mr Hubi’s voice
sounded familiar to Mr Hadi who had been doubting in his mind whether he was an
old college mate at Akwanga or not.
          “Eliud!” Mr Hadi
shouted when he was sure it was he.
          “Ango! Director of
student welfare!
          “Eliud, the runaway
teacher”
          “Ango, the Mandela
of the Lower Plateau!”        
          The two supervisors
embraced each other warmly.
          “You ran away to
read Engineering, what brought you to teachers’ forum today?” Mr Hadi queried.
      
“It’s a long story, brother. My effort was all motion without movement.
Fate keeps my file in teachers’ ministry.
      
“Faith, who is her? And you allowed her to do that?
           “Not human; not
Faith. It’s fate; destiny. It does what it pleases. You cannot decide what it
wants for you?” 
         
“You allowed it to play you like a ball. I decide my fate.”
         
“You cannot decide for yourself.”
         
“I can.”
        
“You cannot.”
        
“I can.”
    “But
your dreams are not realised.”
“Dream guides destiny.”
“It does not.”
“It does.”
         
After the two friends exhausted their happiness over their sudden
reunion, Hadi’s friend, who had been standing, watching them with admiration,
resumed his sermon.
          “What I was saying
to Mr. Hadi, my friend, concerns both of you. You may take my lecture; it is
free,” Mr. Awanda offered.
          Mr.
Hubi smiled

mischievously, “I am also a guru in that realm. Save your energy. I will
lecture Mr. Hadi for you. Calm your anxiety,” he said and snatched the pouch
from Mr. Hadi,
commanding, “Let’s go.”
          “Mr.
Awanda,” Mr. Hadi’s voice was tinged
with
sarcasm as he started after Mr Hubi, “thanks for the kind advice
you
painstakingly
offered me, yet I will protect my professional integrity and family name. I
promise to render unconditional services to my country, uphold her honour and glory
and God will help me.” He waved goodbye to his friend, reciting the National
Anthem loudly,         “Arise o compatriots, Nigeria’s call obey, to serve our
fatherland, with love and strength and faith…”
          “I wish you good luck, missionary, member of the order of
the deprived citizens of the Niger, Knight of St. Mumu,” Mr. Awanda laughed heartily and added,
“This man is still a foreigner in his own country.”   
CHAPTER TEN
On the road to Arna Mission Secondary
School
on
Mr Hubi’s motorcycle, Mr. Hadi and his companion were wet by fine dust thrown
upon their backs by the back tyre of the bike. The Arna road was brownish earth
and some parts were already muddy in the young rainy season. The bike moaned
loudly under the weight of its burden even as it kept on reminding its riders
of its own share of the spoils from the supervision, as it climbed the hilly
road to Arna. Lorry tyres frequently showed where they had struggled to freedom
from the muddy grip of the road. Some unfortunate frogs and toads had met
their untimely deaths under some lorry tyres as they searched for daily bread
in isolated ponds of rain water. Their children and wives at home were yet
to be informed of where the corpses of their bread winners lay.
          Faintly, Mr. Hubi
ventured a conversation.         “WAEC
encourages corruption.”
          His companion,
probably engrossed in another thought, did not respond. So, he shouted because
the winds the bike was pushing behind had been snatching words from his mouth,
past his colleague’s ears.
           “WAEC encourages corruption.”
          Why? How do you mean?”
Mr. Hadi asked.
          Did WAEC give you any
mobilization fee? Did they give you any money for transport and feeding? This
bike you are enjoying is mine, not WAEC’s. It is the school authorities that
will feed you. It is the same school that will provide your transport fare.
Tell me how supervisors can’t fall into their traps?  He who pays the piper, chooses the number
that pleases his ears.” Mr. Hubi said, matter-of-factly.
          Yet I believe honesty is
a godly policy. Remember, Americans say, don’t expect what your country can do
for you but what you can do for her. Selfless service pays,” Mr. Hadi reminded
his colleague.
          Mr. Hubi was annoyed with
this America’s nationalism axiom.
          Nigeria is not America,”
he warned,  “While America provides the
environment for her citizens to realize their dreams and excel in their fields,
Nigeria forbids her citizens from dreaming tall dreams. If you talk of honesty,
you are on your own because you are about the only Nigerian I know who still
dreams that honesty pays. You have heard that truth shall set you free, but
here, truth shall imprison you. WAEC office itself is not honest. Exam
questions are sometimes leaked six or twelve hours for some candidates before
the official time, ditto JAMB.  NECO
exams are even the worst,” he added quickly, “and all other higher examining
bodies.”
          Mr. Hadi remained unconvinced.
           “How?” he asked.
          Don’t you know that some
business centres and internet cafes sell copied or downloaded exam papers
to the highest bidders at miracle centres?”
          Mr.
Hadi was
confused
and skeptical. The revelation was chilling her. 
So, what I have been hearing about exam bodies in my country is true? he
asked himself. It is all true. Corrupt WAEC and NECO officials give birth to
exam malpractice in secondary schools. Teachers and parents support them.
Cheats impersonators and mercenaries have seized government houses and all
public offices; they have seized the military, paramilitary and the police
barracks as well as law making chambers.  
But can we blame them? Our system believes in paper qualification at the
expense of practical ability. What do you expect from students when
multinational companies and even government agencies and parastatals headed by
old middle school graduates turn away second-class degree holders from their
job vacancies? His subconscious answered him.
          You mean WAEC and NECO
offices are aware of all this?” Mr. Hadi asked skeptically.
          Go to any WAEC or NECO
exam centre and find out.” Mr. Hubi challenged, and added, “Are we not on our
way to WAEC exam centre? You will see the veracity and detail of my story
today.”
          Even if it is true, count me out! I am for
heaven where my reward is waiting for me. My reward is in heaven!” Mr. Hadi
stated, his eyes glowed with anticipation of the eternal reward he would
receive in heaven as a teacher, with angels singing his praises.
          The hell shall be more
comfortable than the heaven you dream of because heaven will accommodate only
one Nigerian, and that Nigerian, I am afraid, is undoubtedly you; only you
without the companionship of any compatriot, because now no Nigerian teacher
agrees to receive his reward in heaven.”
          “But
I agree.”
          “Only
you.”
          I shall find friends
from other countries,” Mr. Hadi insisted.
          “The heaven inmates
will not court your friendship as a Nigerian; they may fear that you go to
heaven to four-one-nine them,” Mr. Hubi joked.
          “What of Nigerians who were not
teachers?”
          “If Nigerian teachers could not make
heaven, do you imagine any other Nigerian professionals could?”
WHITE-up-green-down uniform decorated
the premises of Arna Mission. Students from Abuja separated their “superior
group” from those of the local students. Some young security men, obviously in
the service of the school PTA, manned the school gate intelligently. A
visitor’s identity must be clearly known before he/she could be allowed to
enter the premises. If a visitor’s identity and mission were doubtful, the
security men quickly sent signals to the exam hall while the intelligence
questioning was still ongoing. This tactics allowed examination conractors to
have enough time to clean up their written answers on the chalkboard in the
event of an unexpected visit of an external WAEC supervisor. Even though the
school kept their bribes at call, nevertheless they pretended they were working
within the ethical boundary of the noble profession.
          Mr. Hubi went to inspect the exam hall
while Mr. Hadi headed straight to admin block where the school’s Vice Principal
(VP) received him into his office.
                                                           
          “I welcome you with
joy,” VP announced, pushing a toothful smile.
          His teeth, stained
by kola nut also suffered a rough arrangement on the gums. He was dark and
slim. When he walked, he seemed to float on the ground like a basket ball on a
water surface. His eyeballs, hid in their sockets, were like stones sticking
out in a dry lake, and his unusually slim neck made his head a picture of an
ancient skull of a dead Ethiopian herdsman.
          “Thank you, VP,” Mr. Hadi shook his hand.
          “I hope you are
aware of our operation?” VP broke the silence that followed the greetings.
          Mr. Hadi did not
understand the parlance of WAEC exam officials, therefore, looked
bewildered. 
          “What operation are
you talking about? I hope I have not missed my way to a military barracks. Is
here not Arna Mission Secondary School?” Mr Hadi asked.
          Meanwhile his head
was slowly rotating on his neck as he observed education paraphernalia and
teaching aids in VP’s office.
          VP chuckled,
confusing the naïve supervisor more.
          “Go straight; don’t
make the road look crooked, tell us your terms,” he said.
          Mr. Hadi tried hard
to understand VP’s parables. Few seconds later, he thought he had got the
message. He then said innocently, “Chairs and desks must be well arranged with
considerable space between one candidate and the next. There must be no…” 
          VP was annoyed, and
ranted, “I hate supervisors who pretend.
Don’t you know why you are here? Don’t you consider yourself fortunate to have
been posted to our school? Tell us what we shall pay you so that you will not
give trouble to our students, Mr. Supervisor.”
          Mr. Hadi who was now highly
embarrassed exclaimed, “
By Jove! If I have heard you clearly, then every Nigerian public
officeholder is insane.” He then pointed at VP with the palm of his right hand
straightened as if rejecting a gift from the devil, while flattening his lips
and pushed them forward contemptuously and said, “I see you as a responsible
education officer with whom parents are assured of the proper upbringing of
their children, but here is a budding principal of a secondary school
disgracing his family, state and profession. Do you really have principles, a
prerequisite for any principal’s appointment? Your types are the ones who
destroy the future of daughters of men under your care by tempting them with
words too large for their age.”
          VP
looked at the naive supervisor rather with pity.
          When I was a young man
like you, I talked more of patriotism than you are talking now.  In fact, patriotism was my religion. But here
I am, 27 years of service, 53 years old and still living in a tenement with
scandal-mongering and belligerent women. My children enjoy the grace of my
school or I wouldn’t have been able to pay their school fees in private
schools. Turn this arrow away from me and point it to your heart. Do it now and
tell me how painful the pain is.” VP called Mr. Hadi’s attention to the plight
of education officers in his country.
          “Yet count me out,”
Mr. Hadi insisted, showing no emotion.   “God can sustain the earth
because of one good man. Haven’t you heard the story of Ayuba in the Torah, I
mean Job in the Old Testament? Haven’t you heard of the story of Noah and the
Ark and how he and his family members were saved from the Great Flood that
destroyed all lives except the pairs saved in the Ark? How about Lot, who was
saved from the brimstone in Sodom and Gomorrah?”
          “But his wife
looked back.”
           “And she turned to a pillar of salt!”
          As
they were arguing, Mr. Hubi entered VP’s office and met the two educators
arguing over what he called trivialities. He promptly swallowed VP with a warm
hug, then a soldierly
salute.
          Morn sah!” he shouted,
standing at attention. I’m here again. I hope RSVP?”
          “Ricestewveryplenty!”
VP announced and treated himself to a luxury of laughter.  He then shook Mr. Hubi’s hand vigorously,
“Yes, you are a man!” He called out to a student passing by the door, “Hey!  Tell the exam coordinator to organize two
bottles of Malta Guinness and two plates of bitter-leaf pepper soup for our
important visitors.”         
          VP
was openly searching for Mr. Hadi’s reaction to the warm reception his
colleague accorded him.
          “Welcome,
my friends! VP announced loudly, as if he was seeing them for the first time.
          Thank you, sir,” Mr. Hubi responded,
shaking VP’s hand vigorously as if demonstrating how strong he was.
           “The season is here, the day is bright, if the
term is agreeable, then…”
          “Relax,” VP cut in,
“just tell us your terms. Your assistant is a novice; he wanted to turn this
bright summer morning to a dull day.”
          Meanwhile Mr. Hadi
sat quietly looking at the two men he was trying find a fit name to call. He
wondered whether to call them crooks or smart guys or business men. He felt as
if he was in a strange world among alien characters. 
          Today is Maths paper. I
hope you are aware of the importance of this paper to your students. This paper
is also of strategic importance to us supervisors because if we lose the
bargain on Mathematics and English Language days, we lose all. Give us 60,000
naira only.”
          When VP cringed at
the mention of 60,000 naira, Mr. Hubi quickly reminded him of how godly
teachers are. 
          “No reward is too
much for a teacher. That’s why our pension and gratuity are paid in heaven.”
Mr. Hubi said and laughed mischievously.
          Uncontrollable
anger seized Mr. Hadi. 
           I am not a party to any of your goddamn deal!”
he said and seized the exam bag, ready to go out, to the exam hall.
          At that point, a student entered the office and announced,
“Here, sir.” He put on the table two bottles each of Guinness Stout and Malta
Guinness and a packet of Rothmans and a box of matches and quickly disappeared.
In the next moment, he reappeared with two plates of steaming bitter-leaf pepper
soup, which he had snatched from a stocky young woman about to enter VP’s
office. He placed them on the table and gave VP ten dirty 500 naira notes, and
said, “Sir, the balance of my help-money.”
          The visitors exchanged glances as the VP tried unsuccessfully
to cover up his guilt. He then turned to the supervisors, “You already know the
game and its rules, so no need to pretend. Help yourselves; even soldiers eat
in the battle-field.”
          “Mr. Hadi, let’s eat first. God puts the stomach in front
because of its importance. Let’s eat first,” Mr. Hubi persuaded his
friend.                  
          “Adam fell because of the pressure his stomach mounted on
him. He put the apple Eve gave him in it.” Mr. Hadi warned.
          “Therefore, we
should go hungry, abi?” Mr Hubi queried.
          “No, we should eat,
but let not our bodily needs push us into trouble.” Mr Hadi straightened his
argument, and added, “Time is running against us. First impression is immortal.
I must earn distinction in WAEC office for this assignment.”
          “If so, don’t let
hunger and thirst defeat your noble cause. Haven’t you heard of the supervisor
who chased candidates that wanted to cheat all about the hall at GSS Tudun Boka
and then collapsed out of fatigue, reinforced by hunger and thirst? What
happened later? Candidates answered their questions from textbooks while he
received first aid in an empty government clinic. He died a day after! Nobody
celebrated him. No state burial. No obituary in the papers. No posthumous
national merit award. Do you want to be like him?”
          Mr.
Hadi
looked at the steaming
plates and bottles of Malta Guinness and his mouth watered.  I’m really thirsty, he told himself.
          “Sit down and
exorcize the demon of hunger in your stomach,” VP mocked.
          Mr Hadi obeyed and
sat down. But as he was eating the food the principal of the exam centre he was
going to supervise provided, forces of good and evil were battling in his head.
However, he was determined to hold his own.
          “Even
Satan tempted Jesus in the wilderness. I must resist all temptations here as
Jesus did in the wilderness,” He strengthened
himself against any further weakening of his spirit so that he
could resist any evil plan by the principal and his vice.
          Mr.
Hubi and VP negotiated and settled for N40, 000 when Mr. Hadi had left the
office for exam hall.
IN THE heat of the examination in the Arna Mission’s exam hall, candidates were busy copying answers
from the chalkboard. Mr. Hadi ran from one desk to another in vain. At a
critical stage of dissipating his energy, a protruding nail on a chair in the
exam hall gripped his trousers and tore the left leg lengthwise up to his
thigh. A volunteer amongst the candidates, who looked like
                                            an
important government official held down in one grade level because of poor
certificates, donated to him a pair of the trousers he had worn from home,
after Mr Hadi was evacuated to the principal’s office out of the prying eyes of
girl-students.  By the time Mr. Hadi
returned to duty in the exam hall, he remembered the story of the supervisor
who had collapsed at GSS Tudun Boka and slowed down his movement in order to
save his energy and young life. Sitting on the edge of the supervisor’s chair
in the hall, he soon fell asleep out of tiredness. The presence of security
agents: men of the Department of 
Security Service (DSS), the Civil Defence Corps and the Police in the
hall, seemed to be a booster to the candidates’ security; they were secured in
the exam fraud and malpractice.
          Occasionally,
candidates shouted at the men of the Civil Defence Corps and the Police to
shift their heads or adjust their berets for them to see the chalkboard clearly
so that they could copy the answers the mercenaries were writing on the
chalkboard for them. Mr. Hubi and Mr. Hadi were treating themselves to more
bottles of Guinness drinks and bush meat at lunch when Mr. Buta called Mr. Hubi
from a nearby window.
          I have a contract, are
you interested?” Mr. Buta announced proudly to the exam supervisors.
          “What contract? In
Abuja or Lagos or in the Niger Delta?” Mr. Hubi questioned, knowingly.
          Mr. Buta unleashed
the laughter of big men, which sounded as if he was pronouncing letter Q
without stopping. He then talked boldly like an abductor of a princess or
celebrity.
          “I have 45 external
papers, which I want to write outside the exam hall for my Abuja students,” he
said, and without waiting for the answer he teased, “Or should I call the
police to enforce my request?” 
          Mr. Hubi on hearing
this odd request convulsed with laughter, and Mr. Buta joined him in the
merriment.
          After they had had
their fill of hearty laugh, Mr. Hubi, who was trying to hide his eagerness from
the bold teacher, said with indifference, “I’m sure you know the terms.”
          Of course, I do; 500
naira per paper.  But we are colleagues,
remember. Take 20,000 naira and leave the remaining balance for logistics,” mr
Buta said.
          Mr.
Hubi smiled
,
“You talk as if you are losing the bargain when you had collected more than
3,000 naira for this paper from each of your ghost candidates.”
          “No trader goes to
the market to reap home losses,” he reminded Mr. Hubi. They then sealed the deal with a hearty laughter.
TEN minutes before the final paper for
the day ended, Mr Hamza, the principal of Arna Mission School, dressed in a
clergy man’s caftan, beards wiping the steering wheel of his old ash-coloured
Peugeot 504 saloon car, sped through the school gate on to the dirt road
leading to Namu like a suicide bomber crashing the gate of his target building.
Mr. Hubi had gone to VP’s office to collect their money, while Mr. Hadi and one
invigilator were tidying up the answer sheets on the supervisor’s table in the
hall. The invigilator was constantly reminding Mr Hadi of his share of the
spoils from the day’s duty.
          Mr.
Hubi arrived in VP’s office and announced, “
We have finished the assignment. We want to go,
VP.”
          VP
feigned anger, “You broke parts of the contract,” he said, resting his head on
the palm of his right hand, a pen between his fingers was touching his right ear
lobe, his left leg on the edge of his desk showed a dirty pair of black socks
in a worn-out pair of brown shoes.
          Mr Hubi did not
hear or pretended he didn’t.      “We want
to go, VP.”
          “You broke parts of
the contracts!” VP was serious.
          “What parts?” the bewildered
Mr. Hubi asked.
          “You people did not
give enough time to the students to finish. And you harassed our female
candidates. For our female candidates, young men are always curious about full
chest, but not men who supervise WAEC exams. Not inside exam hall. Can you…”
          “A bride who
doesn’t love her husband says her husband had killed a snake but refused
to give her its legs.” Mr. Hubi said, openly nodding his head in anger.
“After adding extra 45 minutes, you still say we have not given enough time,
aren’t you grateful?”
          “Very grateful. For
parting with N40, 000!  We should smile
like Father Christmas for a generosity forced upon us? He then brought out a
wrap of 1000 naira notes, pushed his hand in Mr. Hubi’s direction, his face away,
and shouted, “Take, you rascal!”
          Mr.
Hubi, holding the notes like a pack of cards in his left hand, s
pit on his right fingers
and began to count the notes: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,
nine, ten, eleven,… eighteen, nineteen, twenty.
          “This is 20
thousand naira!” he announced looking at VP with hate.
          VP
was
amused, “Yes! This is
what Principal said the school can afford, supervisor.”  
          But we had agreed on
N40, 000,” the dumbfounded Mr. Hubi insisted.
          “My oga said the treasury is empty.” VP told
Mr. Hubi.
          “But did the
supervisors empty it? Would he want credits for his students without wanting
distinctions for his supervisors?” Mr. Hubi queried.
          VP, now bold and sarcastic,
said, “You are not the first supervisors we have transacted business with nor
are you going to be the last. If we give N40, 000 for only one paper, how much
are we going to spend at the end of the WAEC and NECO exams? NECO is already
few miles behind WAEC.”
          Mr
Hubi, not sure whether the man talking to him was the same VP he had amicably
negotiated the terms of the contract with asked, “
But we had agreed on
N40, 000, hadn’t we?”  He looked VP from
toe to head and appealed, “Please stop joking in time like this.”
          “Joking?
Who is joking?
Do you think the security agents helped you control the candidates
for nothing?” VP said, transforming his face into a dreadful monster’s. “We had
budgeted only for the Police and the Civil Defence Corps but two men of the
State Security Service came from nowhere and snatched N10, 000 from Principal.
Aren’t you grateful? Mathematics master paid you N20, 000 for only 40 papers
for his Abuja students.” He deliberately understated the number of papers the
Mathematics teacher took out to solve for his special candidates. “That shows
that you have earned N40, 000 in less than a day. Compare it to your salary of
30 days from the state. What a sharp difference! It takes a university graduate
teacher 30 days to earn N16, 000, but in less than 12 hours, two of you have
earned N40, 000. Or are you PhD holders?”
          But we agreed on N40,
000, Mr Hubi insisted.  He then stared
menacingly at the sub-principal as if he was waiting for a strange order to
descend upon him and end his fraudulent and despicable life.
          “Take it or leave
it!” VP barked, leaving his client more astonished.  He then talked to himself loudly,
“Police 5 ‘k’; Civil Defence 5 ‘k’; SSS 10 ‘k’.” He swallowed some bitter
saliva and continued his lamentation, “SSS men have caused us this confusion;
we didn’t budget for them. One day, the Army, Navy and Air Force may come to
this centre demanding their own settlement from help-money. Maybe, we shall
start budgeting for EFCC, Customs and Immigration, NDLEA, Road Safety Corps and
even NYSC as well!”  VP walked away
leaving Mr. Hubi to his funeral.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the evening when Mr. Hadi returned
to Namu from Arna Mission and had signed off in MOE zonal office where the
local WAEC strong room was housed and arrived in his home, he met his
younger  brother waiting for him at the
door of his room in the tenement where he was one of the numerous tenants.
Brown dust powdered the visitor’s entire body from the village road. The
visitor greeted his elder brother in a lifeless, ominous mood.
          Could it be the cry of the owl I heard on my way home from
Arna road? It may be true that the aged are spirits. I’m sensing trouble from
my brother’s sudden appearance, Mr.
Hadi spoke
to himself, then tried to find where his brother had kept his
travel bag. He saw nothing.
          “You surprised me,
what’s the problem? You came without a travel bag; is all well at home? 
Our people say we should not fear a visitor without a bag, for the host will
feed him for only a night. But if the visitor is one’s kinsman, we should
exercise fear because he may bring a fatal message or something worse. How’s
Mama? Is she dead?”
          “My
brother, Mama is not dead but she is the reason
I’m here. Mama is critically sick. The doctor
said she would be operated on; total cost N50, 000, and N30,000 deposit before
the operation commences; would not survive in the next seven days if nothing is
done; doctor diagnosed a disease whose name I cannot pronounce,” he
panted.
          Mr.
Hadi 
looked at the sky as if asking God to explain to
him if a crime committed, just for once, 
to save one’s mother is punishable by Him or not.  As if he had received the revelation, he
suddenly said, “Wait for me,” and disappeared, even without opening the door of
his one-room apartment for his brother. 
          Education
is light. Mother has given the light to me. Let her enjoy the shine of that
light, he said as he dashed out of his home. 
Outside, he slowed his steps saying, “God, forgive me if I steal to cure
Mama. Let the torch she had given me now lead her through this dark tunnel.”
          AT
MR. Hubi’s house,
Mr. Hadi knocked
on the door with the force and boldness of a landlord knocking on a rent
defaulting tenant’s door, pushing down dust particles from where cement
connected the wooden door to the wall.  “Kpan! Kpan! Gbum! Gbum!” the knocks sounded.
          Mr. Hubi was surprised to see Mr. Hadi
gasping when he opened the door. He was alarmed.
          “If
I had a bank account, I wouldn’t open this door. What’s the matter, patriot?
Patriots always look worried and concerned about the folly of their
compatriots. You look ghostly. Have you received any fatal news, or you have
come to torment me with the words of Thomas Jefferson and Abraham Lincoln?” Mr.
Hubi teased, putting the cutlass he held in his right hand away.
          After
11 years of service; 11 years, I have no kobo saved anywhere.  My mother is critically ill. Give me my own
share of the money,” Mr. Hadi said, shadows of tears created double lens on
each of his eyes against a bright lantern in Mr. Hubi’s living room. 
          Mr. Hubi tore
a dry-paper-laugh.
          “You
are lucky you came early. If you had waited two hours, you would have met
nothing. What remains of the money now is only ten thousand naira. It’s a pity
your mother is ill, but I can’t help more. The rest has filled the holes months
of borrowing from neighbours to keep my family alive had dug,” he said and
apologised, “Don’t think I laughed because I am callous; no, I laughed at your
naivety. You are far removed from the societal norms. In the dance floor, I see
that your dance steps were incongruous to those of the members of the
community. What makes you think the audience will watch only you and paste
notes on your forehead, for your strange dance steps?”
          What
have you done with the rest?” Mr. Hadi asked, in frustration.
          Are
you a kid? Haven’t you got what I said? With the money I have paid a three-year
old rent. The one I have just given you was supposed to be for my family food.
Can’t you see?” He pointed to his children mobbing a freshly unwrapped cement
paper of suya just brought in by him.
           “Your mindless patriotism has destroyed my
painstaking plans for the month.”
          But
we earned it together!” Mr. Hadi complained loudly.
          Hadn’t
you called me corrupt, fraudulent and unpatriotic for accepting the money? Or
have you forgotten so soon?”
          “You
don’t understand; my mother is dying. She needs money to be operated on in
order to live.”
          That’s
why we need money. You don’t have to face a problem before you set out to look
for its solution. When you are married, your problem doubles or even triples.
You thought I
didn’t know God or I could not tell the
good from bad, but now you have seen the true picture. I need money to solve
family problems.  Left to me and my
immediate family, I can manage with my meagre salary, but how about the
problems of mother, father, siblings and other extended family members? Some of
them contributed to my education project, so, I won’t push them away when they
need my embrace.”
          “Should
we solve problems of our benefactors through fraudulent engagements? Won’t that
be a disservice to them?”
          Thank
God, we didn’t steal at gunpoint; we didn’t embezzle public fund meant for
millions of fellow citizens. Ours is a drop from a mighty ocean,” Mr Hubi said
then added, “Have you ever seen real money?”
          Mr. Hadi, in spite of himself,
exclaimed, “Yes! On counters in banks, wedding receptions and funeral
ceremonies.”
          “Ha ha, ha, ha!” Mr Hubi coughed out a
laugh,  “You
can’t stop being a stranger in your home,” he told Mr Hadi frankly.
          “But
the Scriptures say all sins are punishable by God. And don’t you think a drop
of water makes a mighty ocean?” Mr. Hadi reminded his friend of the morals of
their religions.
          I
wouldn’t know until you returned to me the money Judas who sold Christ Jesus
gave you, Mr Hubi said, stretching his hands in Mr. Hadi’s direction, with
urgency.
          Mr. Hadi’s eyes were now tears-soaked. 
          “I
am now Judas?” he asked.
          I
didn’t say so, but we will seek God’s forgiveness after this exercise. Saint
Paul was forgiven his sins and was even converted to Christianity on his way to
Damascus to persecute the Christians.”
          By the time our sins were not forgiven
by God midway, shall we
hang ourselves in the
end?” Mr. Hadi asked his friend.
          You
said so,” Mr Hubi said and bade his friend goodnight.
                                         
CHAPTER TWELVE
Today was Economics paper. Abuja
candidates were plenty at the centre today as yesterday. Economics was as
important as Mathematics and English Language in FCT secondary schools. The
principal of Arna Mission and his vice, after their fallout with the
supervisors, were not aware that the two supervisors would return to their
school the following day. Their experience in the field ruled out that
possibility. The two education officers were having good time condemning the attitudes
of the ‘greedy exam officers’ who served in their school the previous day in
the principal’s office.
          “Those bastards
think exam supervision is a money-making venture,” Principal started the
conversation, laughing.
          “If we hadn’t done
that way yesterday, where could our school get that kind of money to pay the
hungry supervisors? The external supervisor from WAEC office alone nearly
rejected the N50, 000 offers and threatened to blacklist our school when he had
asked a candidate why she was not writing and the girl proudly replied that she
was waiting for the subject teacher to bring in the worked answers.”
          As Principal and VP
were immersed in the condemnation of Mr. Hubi and Mr. Hadi, Arna Mission exam coordinator entered the office.
          “Good morning,
Principal. Good morning, VP.” The coordinator threw his greetings at them.
          Good morning, Dean. How
much is left out of the help-money bag?” Principal queried.    
          We have so far expended
over 400,000 naira. There is about 2.9 million naira balance in the save,” the
coordinator stated proudly like a flawless accounts manager.
          How much did each
candidate pay this session?” The principal dug deeper, even though he knew.
          “Seven
Thousand, Five Hundred Naira each.”
          “How
many candidates did not pay?”
          “I
cannot say, but I doubt if there is any defaulter.”              
          When
Principal and the exam coordinator were talking, VP was taking secret notes of
the accounts information.
Principal told VP and the coordinator, “Make budget for today; be
wise in handling greedy supervisors and corrupt security agents. Our centre has
turned to their goldmine; make sure gold is not mined mindlessly today.”
          MR.
HUBI and Mr. Hadi arrived at the
Arna Mission’s gate
few minutes later than the scheduled time for the commencement of today’s
papers, with vengeance simmering in their eyes.
As they headed
straight to the exam hall, their eyes were as red as live charcoals.  When they entered the exam hall, the
candidates had already seated. They commenced work without any ceremony.
Collectively, they drove away impersonators by the use of WAEC photo album.
They chased away exam mercenaries. They asked the police to arrest cheats. Many
arrests were reluctantly made by the police. The hall was heated. Principal and
VP felt ashamed to come near the men they had scorned the previous day. By WAEC
tradition, the two supervisors were supposed to have been swapped with other
teachers the following day, but the new WAEC woman from Jos said she was tired
and asked the supervisors to return to their various centres until the next day
when she would do the swapping. The principal sent several emissaries to the
angry supervisors to no avail. Each message inflamed their anger even more.
          Arna
Mission’s PTA chairman, an elderly man, Malam Usmanu, who the students
nicknamed, Danfodio, was called upon to rescue the students. The elderly
chairman made passionate appeals to the two young supervisors to consider his
age and see reason.
          “We are aware of the injustice done to you people by
Principal yesterday. Don’t worry; you will be handsomely treated today. Take my
words. Don’t worry about money; the wife of my son, an Army officer, a Lt.
Colonel, came home from the Kotoko Barracks in Kaduna to write her SSCE at home
and I won’t allow her to fail. Tell us how much you want. If the school cannot
pay, my son will pay.”                                                 
          Mr. Hadi who was
covertly excited, said, “We have considered your age that is why we are even
listening to you; the precondition for seeing Principal is that we must be paid
our yesterday’s balance immediately. He walked out on us yesterday thinking
that we were not going to return to the school today.”
          Danfodio couldn’t
wait. He dipped his hand and gave Mr. Hadi a fat brown envelope saying, “This
is your transport fare. It is from the PTA.”
          When the supervisors who collected the
envelope in the fashion of police officers at check-points, opened the envelope
gift from PTA chairman at a safe corner, their boiling anger began to condense.
They could now go to see Principal in his office. When they entered his office,
he
extended his hand for a shake.
          “Welcome, my
friends. The foundation for enduring friendship is always laid upon ashes of
enmity. We were belligerent enemies; we now are friends, so…”
          Enough of sermon,
minister of God. Why did you cheat us yesterday?” Mr. Hadi demanded, twisting
his face dangerously like a midnight robber.
          Principal
was
surprised at Mr. Hadi’s
sudden change of principle.
           “Cool your temper, boy. Anger is a bad
messenger that delivers false messages. My VP did not take me on in the
bargain. I agreed only on N20, 000…”
          You are a man of a
religious order, Mr. Hadi interrupted, “if you tell us lies, you know the
consequence of it with your god. Forget yesterday, that is backward looking; it
retards progress. Today we take no less than N60, 000 and to be paid before
service or forget us. Our anger has killed our hunger. Twenty Thousand Naira
balance of yesterday plus N40, 000 of today’s paper. Yes or no?” Mr. Hadi laid the rules before the principal.  “And
remember,” he raised a carton of textbooks on Economics and a number of
pamphlets seized from cheats, “these are enough evidence for the WAEC to cancel
the papers and blacklist your school.”
          The visibly
terrified Principal knelt down before his guests, “Please, have mercy on us.”
he begged, his eyes full of real or pretended remorse.
          That’s why we said N60,
000 only; twenty for yesterday, forty for today. What do you say; would the
guilty receive the judge’s leniency without his pleading guilty? Let us hear
you,” Mr. Hubi told Principal.
          Gentlemen, you are not
selling anything to me and I am not buying anything from you. You should be
considerate with your demand. After all, Danfodio has seen you.” Principal
stated, visibly concealing his anger.
          If we are neither
selling nor buying anything, then let’s close shops,” Mr. Hadi barked, stood up
and dragged Mr. Hubi out of the office.
          Oga, let us pay
them. If we don’t, we risk losing our offices and the entire school plant to
flames. The cost is not what matters, but questions that will follow. The
candidates have heard what we had done to those exam officers yesterday. They
have started questioning the purpose of their help-money. The students will
surely protest if we fail them today,” VP advised Principal.
          After gnashing his teeth for a score of seconds, he said to
VP, “Call the rogues in.”
          VP exited
Principal’s office and ran to the supervisors.
          “Gentlemen,
gentlemen,” he called, catching up with them, “we have agreed on your terms.”
          Let us hear from the
horse’s own mouth this time. Let us know if Principal is aware of the deal or
not. And we must be paid every kobo before we shall allow fraud takes the place
of ethics. When a thief has what to fall upon in his save, the trauma of jail
is insignificance because hope replaces his sorrow. We are alive to our
responsibilities and are aware of the ethics of our profession. We only think
we deserve our reward in our active days than in retirement,” Mr. Hadi said as
they headed back to Principal’s office.
          Principal opened
his office drawer and counted out N60, 000. Pushing his hand towards Mr. Hubi,
he declared, “Take it, rogues!”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
GDSS Tudu-Hudu was tucked in the bush three
kilometres away from the village as if the villagers were ashamed of its
structures. The entire building was built of earth blocks. It was a single
block of five small classrooms. Each class was supposed to take only five small
desks, but in the class registers, there were as many as 125 students per
class. The building looked as if it was built by a group of primary school
pupils practising how to lay blocks. Two persons might give different
descriptions of its wall. One might say it was round, another might say it was
straight, but both might not be wrong.
          The
wooden verandah props bent under the push of the falling wall. It looked as if
they would collapse the next moment. In the principal’s office was a dirty
table, about 12 years old. On top of the table were half-torn class registers
and dust-laden student dossiers. At the right side of the table, a little
hidden by some books, was a leaking drinking cup, soiled by garri and the red
membranes of groundnut, perhaps previously taken by the principal.  The ceiling of his office was water-soaked,
brownish and sagging from leaking. It looked like kpomo in egusi
soup. In the wall of the office were cracks in which the principal hid his
pens, shoe polish, tooth paste and tooth brush. 
He was slim, tall and dark. He looked like a man who knew no peace in
his home for years; anger occupied greater number of the rooms in his mind.
          When
Mr. Hadi arrived in the school compound, the students were already seated,
waiting for the day’s paper. He examined
the school building and exclaimed,    “My God, what a place? Bad luck when single?
My mother! …”
          The
principal of the school, Mr. Alanana, intruded into
Mr. Hadi’s thoughts.
          “Why are you late?
My students are tired of waiting for an irresponsible examination officer,” he
stated furiously.                                      
          Mr.
Hadi was
shocked
to receive a rude welcome from the principal of the exam centre he was going to
supervise, but tried hard to manage his anger. He managed to keep calm and
respectful. 
           “You must understand that the distance from
Namu to your school is over an hour’s drive,” he explained politely.
          And so what!” the
principal shouted to the world.
          The
anger boiling in Mr. Hadi due to the principal’s lack of principle and hospitality
evaporated and condensed into a thick cloud of thunderstorm.
          And so what you see and
hear, Mr Principal!” Mr Hadi retorted, perching precariously on his left leg as
if waiting for additional venom from the principal so that he would swoop upon
him and carry him off the ground like a hawk would do to a chick.
          And where is the WAEC
bag?”
          See it there,” Mr Hadi
answered, pointing to the bag containing exam materials on top of a disfigured
chair in the verandah.
          The
principal winced suspiciously.
           It looks tampered with. I hope you hadn’t
stopped on the way to sell question papers!”
          That’s a figment of your imagination.” Mr Hadi retorted.
          The
school’s Dean of Studies (DOS) arrived 
at the spot where the two men were engaged in verbal battle.
          “It’s ok, sir,” DOS told the principal, “The important thing
is that the papers are here and students are waiting.”
          Without waiting to
see whether his intercession was accepted by his superior officer, he dragged
Mr. Hadi to a corner, whispering to him, “We call him Mr. Vex. He is easily
angered. He is always as angry as a man who does not enjoy the love of the
woman he loves in his community,” He paused, then quickly added, “What is your
term?”
          This patronage and
sudden question was a strategy to earn my goodwill, Mr Hadi thought.      This
is a small school, and today is religion papers; and you are a good man, but
the distance between Namu and your school is long and tiresome, and my mother
is …”
          Mr Hadi wanted to
say he needed money for his mother’s illness, but held himself.
          “What happened to your
mother?”
          “No. it’s a slip of tongue. Nothing.” Mr Hadi lied,  and quickly said,        “How much will you give me for my entertainment; I mean for
food and transport?”
          Mr Hadi covertly asked for his take-home cash.
          Please bear with us,
take 1000,” DOS ventured.
          No joke. One
thousand dollars or naira?
          ‘‘Dollars
ke !’’ DOS
exclaimed
           “I help you for N5, 000.”
          The
principal arrived at the scene where the negotiation was going on between his
dean and the supervisor. He took full photograph of the roguish supervisor from
toe to head and hissed.       
What did you just say,
five what?”  Without waiting for Mr
Hadi’s response, he queried, “What is your monthly salary as a class teacher?”
          I didn’t ask for it,” Mr
Hadi quietly responded, “My duty is to conduct the exam and leave; leave
quickly from this fly-infested school, but if you ask for it, I take big to
justify the consequences that may follow. I lowered the amount because the
school building,” he shifted his gaze to the structure, “and the dirty premises
had discouraged me. At some centres, I collect not less than 20, 000 on the
average. And this could be in naira or dollar,” he teased the principal.
          You might have built a
three-storey house at your village if that has been the case.”
          Please, sir, leave this
matter to me,” DOS begged as he dragged the principal to his office.
          Bad luck, Mr Hadi
muttered as if calling someone nearby.  
Silently, he soliloquized: I should have given the bribe to the WAEC man
to be posted to a big centre as Mr. Hubi had suggested. Oh my mother! Mama, my
education has impoverished you. I must get you well or I face the torment of
the prick of conscience when I enjoy the fruit of your toil at full cycle, maybe
later in my career, when you no longer watch me.
          DOS
returned from the
principal’s office.   “Please take N3,
000. Help us; we are a small centre, and this is our first experience.”
          I forgive him,” Mr Hadi
said while extending his left hand to take the money, without interest. Half a
loaf is better than none, he lamented his ill-luck.
IN the exam hall, the village Pastor and
Imam first prayed for worldly materials and then tickets to heaven.
Then the chalkboard was
divided vertically into two equal halves. One half was for Islamic Religious
Studies (IRS) and the other half for Christian Religious Studies (CRS).
          The Imam of the
Tudu-Hudu Central Mosque was writing the answers for the Muslim candidates and
the Pastor of Faithful Church, Tudu-Hudu, was writing the answers for the
Christian candidates. Meanwhile DOS walked about the verandah, watching the
narrow path that led to the school for any intruding external supervisor(s).
          Mr. Hadi sat on a
stool which looked like the ladder the mason used in laying the top layers of
the blocks of the school buildings, at a window of the classroom where exam was
being written, sipping from a bottle of Fanta provided by DOS.
          Mr Hadi insisted he
used his teeth to open the Fanta by himself to make sure it was not tampered
with with a sleep inducing drug.
          “Mr. Supervisor, please bear with us, ours is a small
centre,” DOS reassured.
          I understand. Relax,” Mr
Hadi answered DOS as a benevolent thief would say to his elderly poor victim,
“if it were three days ago, I would not collect anything, yet I would give
nothing but professional ethics,” Mr Hadi lamented.
          “What had happened
to tell apart three days ago and today in your life?” DOS queried.
          “It’s personal,” Mr
Hadi answered quietly.
MR. HUBI and Mr. Hadi
were back again at
MOE, Zonal Office, Namu. Today
they had been paired to go to Wando Community Science School. They had
previously ‘seen’ the WAEC man through the Key-holder to secure the posting to
such a big centre.
           Mr. Hadi drew Mr. Hubi to a corner within the
premises and advised, “
We have to look frightful in order to earn higher income. At
Tudu-Hudu, I had seen with my two eyes how Imam and Pastor of the town divided
the chalkboard and wrote answers for the candidates in their school. That was
where I served during the religion papers.”
          Are imams and pastors
not human beings? Or are they not Nigerians? Are they immune from the harsh
economic condition of our country? Do they go to a different market from ours?
Don’t they have women who need new clothes? Don’t they have children who are in
private schools? Don’t they have cars or motorcycles or generators to fuel at
filling stations? Don’t they buy kerosene for their cooking stoves in black
markets?  Don’t they have first or second
cousins, nieces and nephews in their extended families who pay them unscheduled
visits? Or uncles and aunties who throw at them lists of wants?  In this country, only fools and the insane
talk of patriotism. Man professes a religion because there is a god who
provides for him, who protects him, who reserves for him a room in heaven and
answers his prayer here on earth. But patriotism is just like religion; the
patriots look on to a country that answers their prayers; that fulfills their
promises of heaven on earth. Does your country answer your prayers? Are you not
a graduate? How many times does the elementary Health Education say you should
eat in a day, and do you look forward to mealtimes?”  Mr Hubi’s eyes turned red, “No. You eat only
to survive. How much is your monthly salary? N16, 500! Count it in dollars and
you will discover that you earn about the amount for a child’s breakfast
in the kindergarten in a clean country. 
Your old mother is dying for want of N50, 000, but you lectured me about
patriotism? Wasn’t that funny?”
          Excitedly,
Mr Hadi said, “
Lecture me no more. I am now a first witness.” Then quickly he
reminded his colleague, “How about my suggestion?”
          What for, and how do we
do that?”  
          This is the last chance
for me to save my mother,”      Mr. Hadi
stated gravely, “This is the strategy: let us dress like men of God.”
       What connects men of God
with WAEC supervision? And do you want us to lose the money the school
authorities will give us?”         No, you got it wrong. Men of
God hate fraud, not less exam malpractice.”
          Mr.
Hubi became more
confused, “That’s what I meant we would …”
          “Wait!” Mr. Hadi interrupted,
“By being men of God, we shall instill fear in the school authorities and the
students. By this, the authorities will be eager to pay whatever we demand in
order to ease tension in the exam hall. We shall be respected and feared and
because of that we can earn higher in silence than in tumult.
          Good idea!” Mr Hubi
exclaimed.  But I fear our new status may
spill the beans. They may fear to talk fraud with us and we shall be the losers
at the end.”
          They cannot afford to be
silent. What about the students’ help-money? Even if our plan fails, we shall
court their patronage as easy girls would do to famous and successful men,” Mr
Hadi unfolded his plan B.
          Mr.
Hubi and Mr. Hadi, each went to his home. Mr. Hadi took his tasbia, got
his babanriga and borrowed a turban from a neighbour who was an Imam of
a street mosque run by Sunni Muslim community in Namu, while Mr. Hubi took his
suit, borrowed a big cross of Christ Jesus from a prophet of a nearby Holy
Order of Cherubim and Seraphim Church and a rosary from a Catholic friend.
          Mr. Hadi joined Mr. Hubi in his house
which was along the street that led to Wando from Namu.
In Mr Hubi’s house, the two supervisors tested their new
office paraphernalia and were satisfied, then set off on their ‘missionary’
journey.
          About three kilometres to the town of
Wando, they parked their bike along the road and went into the bush. Mr. Hadi
sneaked into a big babanriga and tied a turban, which looked like a
white bandage, around his head. He looked like an erudite Muslim scholar. He
then took a tasbia, held it between the fingers in his right
hand, each bead slid down heavily as he counted a prayer silently.
          Mr. Hubi went into a neat milk-colour
suit, a large cross of Christ Jesus hung on his neck. The body of Christ rested
on his heart as the coat was unbuttoned. He held the Holy Bible in his right
hand while the rosary wound around the left wrist like a woman’s wrist bangles,
as he meditated.
          Mr Hubi inspected their regalia
and heaved,        “I think all’s
well?”        
          We’ve got it!” Mr Hadi
shouted. As he jumped up in excitement, his hands stirred the nest of bee-like
insects which gave them multiple injections on their ingenious heads.
                                              
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
The atmosphere in Wando Community
School was graveyard-like. The students held their chests with fingers on both
left and right hands interlocked. Teachers and the accredited invigilators
lamented their misfortune openly. Today was English Language and religious men
were sent to them as supervisors! It was only the WAEC exam bag that showed
that the visitors were school supervisors. The reverends went to the p
rincipal of Wando’s office quietly like the biblical coming of Jesus, who
it is said, will come like a thief in the night.
          Looking at the
priests, the bewildered principal, Mr Ogapa, whimsically asked, “Can I help
you?”
          “Bless
you. No help.
We
are WAEC supervisors for English Language papers.”
          Mr Ogapa suddenly
turned cold. He opened millions of files in his brain to place where he had
seen men of God go errand for the West African examination body. He couldn’t
solve this riddle, so impulsively he uttered, “Really?”
          Peace on you, Mr.
Principal,” Mr Hadi threw his greetings at him.
          The
principal laboriously
pushed forward a friendly smile in spite of himself. 
          “You are most
welcome. Our students are orderly; our environment is friendly,” he tried to
appease the priests.
          “Very good,” Mr. Hubi said and cleared his throat,
even though there was no need to introduce himself and Mr Hadi, “Mr. Principal,
I am Pastor Eliud Samuel Ehubi of the Deeper Life Bible Church, Namu. I teach
Christian Theology, I mean CRS at the Holy Child Seminary, Namu. My father is a
knight of Saint Paul, and a Member of the Order of the Niger. And this,” he put
his right arm on Mr. Hadi’s shoulders, “is Ustaz Ango bin AbdelHadi. He teaches
Islamic Religious Knowledge at Islamic Training Centre, Namu. His father is the
Na’ibbi of Bauchi Road Izzalatu Bidia Waikamatis Sunnah Mosque in Jos, and his
great, great grandfather fought in the Usmanu dan Fodio Jihad of 1804.                                                  
          The
shock from the supervisors’ rich CV seized the principal’s sense of reasoning,
and unsettled him.
          The unveiling of
the supervisors made the principal feel like going to toilet.      
          “You are welcome,
brothers. But as you carry out your duty, bear with us; young people are always
weak against the temptation of Satan,” he submitted, bemoaning his fate
silently. 
          “Not only young men
and women, but all men. But if we have God in us, we will overcome it,
insha’Allahu,” Mr. Hadi preached as he
headed to the exam hall with all sense of professionalism as a man of God and
as an educator.
          “Get them some
drinks and food,” Principal instructed his deputy.
          “Yes, sir,” VP
obeyed, but whispered to his boss, “Shall we waste our money on them; men who
will not compromise their position? They are of no help to us and our students.
Let’s just consider F9 in English Language paper for our candidates.”
          “You have a point
here. I hate men of God. They make us look like children of Satan. But the
students deserve better treatment because they have bought all the credits with
their help-money,” principal said.
          “Then
what do we do?” asked VP.
          “When
we come to the river, we will decide whether to roll our trousers and walk
across it or pull off our clothes and swim across. If you are too anxious to
cross over a strange river, you may end up stripping yourself naked while the
river depth does not go beyond your ankles.”
IN THE Wando Exam hall, five-carton
load of papers were seized.  Cheats and
impersonators were held. Log books were given to them to write their names and
to append their signatures as evidences of various malpractices. Gradually, the
hall grew empty of candidates. More than two-third were already out of the hall
for various offences. There was hullabaloo in the huge examination hall. The
atmosphere in the premises was tense. Riot was imminent. Mr Hubi feared for
their lives.
          Mr.
Hubi
anxiously walked to Mr.
Hadi and drew him to a corner.
          “Will it work out
as planned, Prof?”
          Don’t sell us out. Don’t
flinch. Any last minute change of tactics, we were out,” Mr Hadi warned his
friend solemnly.
          Meanwhile,
a young man whose girlfriend was writing the exam ran to the principal in his
office, panting.
          “Sir, I can help,”
the man announced without a ceremony.
          Help what!” Principal
shouted.
          “The candidates.
Your students. I can help talk to the supervisors. I can help to spare the
principal’s office from angry flames,” the man insisted.
          “Did you hear of
any evil plan from the students? Will they protest?”
          “Protest is an
understatement,” the man frightened Principal further.
          Principal
peered below the lens of
his eyeglass doubtfully at the man.
           “How can you do that? How can you help? The
supervisors on duty today are men of God. Their fathers are respected knights
of some religious orders.”
          Give me the money you
are to give them and I will give it to them saying, ‘Goodwill from Principal,
for lunch and transport’.”
          Principal
looked the young man curiously to see if he was not a visiting rogue, hired to
tarnish his reputation, and said,
“Don’t implicate me and my school. I have only
three years to retire from active service,” he looked the young mediator
curiously, “And how can I trust you?”
          The man did not get
the last question on trust and begged Principal’s pardon,   “What did you just say, sir?”
          “I said call VP for
me,” Principal said, not sure of the direction to take. Would he risk the
students’ uprising or allow himself to be swindled by the young man?
          “But I heard some
word like trust.”
          “That’s why I asked
you to call VP.”
          VP
arrived within seconds, more out of curiosity than worry. He had been enjoying,
covertly, the unfolding events since the strange supervisors arrived in their
school premises.
          “Here, sir,” VP
registered his presence.
          These men are from God.
How can they accept money from us to compromise their position? This boy,” he
pointed at the young man beside him, “says he can do it for us.”
          I am afraid offering
them bribe or whatever we call it, may implicate our school and tarnish our personalities.
They may accept the money and show it as evidence in WAEC office,” VP warned.
          Ok, I understand your fear.  But may I remind you that my father is a
Police Commissioner serving in Abuja. In the event of trouble, I will take care
of myself. Just give me the money; I will say it is from the candidates.”
          Principal
was inflamed, “Nonsense!
Go away, son of the devil!”
          Sir, let us give the young man the chance to
help us. If our students fail English again, for two successive years, we may
lose our positions. Maybe the men of God will fall to our temptation,” VP
suggested. “And if we failed to persuade them, the students might understand.”
          “Men may fall to
Satan’s scheming, but surely not these priests. They are too serious. They are
too religious that the Satan cannot court their company,” Principal said sadly.
          “Flaunt women and
money as bait before sons of men and you see how weak they stand against them.
Remember, Eve and Adam fell to Satan’s promise of better life for them in
the Garden of Eden.  Nothing, I think, gives better life than money.
Let us try; I believe in the saying that nothing risked, nothing received.”  
 Principal disappeared
behind a curtain in his office and reappeared within a couple of minutes. His
hands shaking with fear as he gave VP N70, 000 instead of the N35, 000
originally budgeted for the paper.
           “Take it!” he said as he pushed his left hand
to his VP over the table.
          Leaning
on a window in the exam hall, the young man
called Mr. Hubi out of the hall to a corner,
          “Bros, Principal
sends me to you.”
          Mr.
Hubi feigned
incorruptibility, “Tell
him we are doing our job with dedication.” His statement sounded like a
duplicate whose original was the opposite. “It is a national assignment; we
cannot leave this hall and come with you. Cheats are all over the hall like
bees on a honey comb.”
          Sir, it is important,”
the young man said as he loosened his fist. 
“Take; it is only N70, 000.” 
          The young mediator
handed 60,000 naira to Mr Hubi, knowing he would not count the money in the
prying eyes of the students.  “Principal
says it is for your lunch and transportation. He thanks you for your patience
with his stubborn students.”
          “Blessed
art thou,” Mr. Hubi
smiled, silently, “O God, this is too much,” but pocketed the
money.  He whispered to the young man,
“Thank him for his kindness and hospitality. For God loves cheerful givers.”
          Mr.
Hadi arrived at the scene when the young mediator had left.
          What’s the matter?” he
asked.
          Mr.
Hubi motioned Mr Hadi who followed him to a distance beyond the reach of the
eavesdropping ears of the candidates. E
xcitedly, he announced, “Good news from
Principal! How true is your theory!”  He
shook Mr. Hadi’s hand saying, “When you die, Nigeria will preserve your brain
in a laboratory for scientific scholarship.”
          In less than five minutes, the
hitherto tense atmosphere relaxed. The papers that had been seized from cheats
were returned to them. The impersonators were called inside to continue their
writing. Forty-five minutes were added to the regulation time. Soon, the
supervisors handed over the supervision of the hall to the invigilators, with
the pretext that they were going to say their prayers. The English master took
advantage of the relaxed atmosphere and negotiated a deal with The English
master took advantage of the relaxed atmosphere and negotiated a deal with the
supervisors to write outside  the  hall  25  papers 
at  N20, 000.
          Three bright  final-year students from the English
department of the state university were ready to treat the papers in a corner
inside the school library. While the three undergraduates provided the answers,
25 students drawn from SS2, who could write fast, took charge of the papers.
          Some students sitting far at the rear,
taking advantage of the peaceful ambience, asked one police officer and a
couple of Civil Defence Corps to sit properly in order for them to see clearly
the answers being written on the chalkboard by exam mercenaries. The hall was
now happy.
SINCE morning, Principal, whom members
of staff nicknamed Glue-hand, sat in his office, looking forlorn and feeling
cold as if the world meant nothing to him anymore. Of all the days he had spent
as the principal of the previous secondary schools, today was the saddest. He
had never felt bereaved like today, not even when he lost his mother! Millions
of ideas rioted in his coconut-shaped head that wears designer caps on Sallah
days. Students said he quarreled with men in matters pertaining to religion.
          Suddenly, Principal was
seized by convulsion due to the discovery of a mysterious merriment unbecoming
of the bereaved.   He was still laughing
even as he called out to his VP.
          “VP!” he roared,
but before VP could answer his call, he had steadied himself up.
          VP rose to
Principal’s call indifferently.  He was
unshaken by the principal’s condition that deserved their common grief. “Here,
Sir!” VP announced lukewarmly.
          “You look
unperturbed. Don’t you grieve?” Principal queried.
          “Grieve?” VP
repeated as if he was not sure Principal meant the word.  Feigning more ignorance, he asked, “Over
what, sir?”
          “Tell me what is
extraordinary today?” Principal threw a riddle at his subordinate.
          “We have real sons
of God as supervisors today,” VP answered, obviously enjoying the drama.”
          “Is that all?”
        That is all I
can see, feel and remember.”
          “Haven’t you lost
anything?”
          “Nothing that I
know,” he said and theatrically dipped his hands in his trouser pockets,
pulling the folds out to check if he had lost something. He then said, “The keys
to my bike and house are here.”
          “Are you pretending
or you meant to say our money seized by those thieves is not enough concern for
you to do something?” Principal opened up.
          Nothing has concerned me
before.  So, today cannot be an exception. My salary is all that concerns
me, as far as they did not steal my salary, I am ok,” VP told his boss bluntly.
          “So, you are not
with me?”
          “I am, in matters
of lesson, but not money, kudi, owo, ego
as usual,” VP moved his fingers as if counting money.   “Have you ever taken me into confidence in
matters involving money? All the time, you monopolize everything and even
encroach into the duties of your subordinates. After all, the supervisors are
still much around; you can cancel the contract if you so wish,” he told Mr
Principal and slammed the door, going out with the wind.
          For
the first time the world was empty of friends who had been there day and night
for Principal. It dawned on him that the most dutiful subordinate is one that
is most aware of his rights. After surviving the shock of his VP’s rude
behaviour and walkout, he resolved to get back the money he gave to the
supervisors. Therefore, he sent for the supervisors at the end of the exam.
          I am overwhelmed with
your saintly supervision,” Principal began his speech, a tinge of sarcasm in
his tone, “Nigeria will be better off if sons of God like you are put in
positions of trust. Our classes today witnessed a quiet we had never known.” He
praised the supervisors more and pointed at a table, “These are for you.
Entertainment of guests is a sign of the goodwill from the host.”
          Mr. Hadi preached,
We are greatly impressed. We are all God’s creations. Every soul has a
purpose to be given a life on earth.
We are God’s children so
the devil cannot come near us. The devil deceived the son and daughter of God
and they betrayed the trust He reposed in them. Adam and Eve fell to the
devil’s temptation and lost the eternal kingdom where milk and honey flow
freely. The lesson of our forebears has taught us to beware of temptation.
Pride is the foundation of man’s fall. All the angels but Satan bowed down to
Adam, and Satan thus earned God’s wrath …” 
          Mr. Hubi helped his
colleague, “
And
it is said in the Scriptures, ‘Let his habitation become desolate, let there be
no one to live in it, and his office let another take.’ Judas Iscariot betrayed
Christ Jesus and he hanged himself, leaving his discipleship position vacant
for another. Evil was practised in the city of Sodom and Gomorrah, and God
destroyed it with fire and brimstone. Lot’s wife turned to a pillar of salt
when she looked back against Jehovah’s commandment. Nigeria still has…”
          I am happy both of you
are vastly experienced in your respective faiths. Show good example to your
followers for a better society,” Principal interrupted Mr Hubi.
          The axe is already laid
at the foot of the tree that bears no fruits,” Mr Hubi added.
          Yea, an atom’s weight of
good and an atom’s weight of bad shall not escape the knowledge of Allah in the
Al-kiyammah,” Mr Hadi declared.
          Sarcastically, Principal averred, “We are all human. Take
the food as a sign of our goodwill. Enjoy yourselves and see you next year.”
         
AT HOME, Principal
was smarting under the pain of parting with 70,000 naira for the two ‘holy
supervisors’ at a go. He had given them a lunch but he could not tell whether
they had eaten it or not. The young man who was courting the supervisors’
companionship took the food to the exam hall as directed by the supervisors
despite Principal’s insistence that they eat in his office.
          The flavour of the food wafted past
the nostrils of students who had not yet left for home. Principal’s son and his
friend  were  the last stragglers from the exam hall. He
had no slight fear that his inquisitive son might touch a piece from the
inviting pieces of meat.
      
          Sitting in his living room, he was soliloquizing about his
misfortune. 
          “What
misfortune fate has thrust upon us today? If men of God could do this, then I
fear for our children. I have finished my race and have u-turned, returning
home, but how about my children? What future is in store for them? Would they
take after us? What a wasted generation. What a…”  
          As Principal was immersed in thoughts
when he returned to his house, his little daughter entered, screaming for help.
Her
      elder
brother, Dadi, who had tasted some of the meat left by the supervisors in the
exam hall, was vomiting on top of a waste dump near the school gate. Had the
principal poisoned the food he had given to his guests?  If it was
so, now he really believed the supervisors were sons of God because he did not
hear that they had misbehaved on their way to Namu. But the supervisors,
as part of their orientation, were suspicious of all foods given by exam
centres, therefore, avoided Principal’s food.
          Daddy! Dadi is getting
mad,” She screamed at her father.
          Principal ran to the spot where his son was scavenging a
dustbin and pulled him away from the waste.
          “Dadi, what have
you eaten?” he queried.
          Dadi
laughed his response in
three important words: “Food … exam… hall…”
          “Oh God, I’m
finished.” Principal announced. “This boy has eaten the jegemi I had  put in the
supervisors’ food.”
           Jegemi is a local herb which has exceedingly
more intoxicating power than marijuana. When taken in excess, it has the power
to send the user to the land of insanity.           Principal
sent for three tins of peak milk for Dadi to drink. The milk, he said, has the
capacity to lessen the potency of the herbs.
          Wando students and
staff were drawn to their principal’s house to sympathize with him over the
sudden mental disorder of their colleague. 
VP suggested that Dadi be taken to hospital but principal promptly
refused. He knew the root of his son’s mental disorder and wouldn’t want
someone to reveal that it was through food poison.
He told his sympathizers that the case did not require  modern medication and persuaded them to leave
his house. 
          “My staff and students, I thank you for the sympathy you
have shown us, but my son’s case does not require treatment in modern hospital.
Soon he will be all right. It is one of the exam stresses.
When the people were away, he bought two tins of peak milk, opened
and poured them into a cup and forced Dadi to drink. Soon he fell asleep only
to wake up the next morning, sane.
          “Daddy, what was in
the supervisors’ food?” this was the first sanely statement he uttered.
         
WITH THE help of the man whom the principal had sent to give the
supervisors bribe, jegemi powder was carefully mixed in the drinks the
principal bought for the two godly education officers alongside hot plates of
pepper soup. When the powder was put in the bottles the caps were carefully
closed tightly that no one would know that the bottles had been previously
opened. The plan was that the boy used and opener to open the bottles in the
presence of the supervisors to douse any suspicion. It was meant that when the
supervisors fall asleep, the boy would return the money to the principal, and
he would be given 30 per cent of it.
          To go home with
their pride, and more so that by now they had money to buy for themselves such
foods for some days with their loot, they ate left the plates untouched and the
bottles of Malta Guinness without a sip.
          Mr Hadi had taken
one of the bottles, held it up and read all the readable items on it to make
sure it was non-alcoholic. At the end they resisted the temptation.
           When the supervisors were gone, it was clear
to the principal and the boy that they were truly from God.
          It was the food and
drinks that Dadi, Principal’s son helped himself with.
          He was passing by
and impressed with the behaviour of the men of God, he went to greet them.
          “Good afternoon,
sir,” he greeted.
          “Blessed art thou,
my son,” Mr Hubi answered.
          “I love to be with
God.”
          “Oh good boy. How
do you worship God?” Mr Hubi asked.
          “By eating and
drinking.”
          “Good boy!” Mr Hubi
tried to avoid further fun and went straight to the point. “Are you a Christian
or Muslim?
          “My father says we
are Muslim.”
         
Don’t worry about what your father says. Help yourself with our
food. We are filled.”
          Dadi faintly
refused the invitation twice but on the third prodding he sat down on the table
set for the supervisors and drew the plates closed to himself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In the bush along Wando-Namu road,
darkness was slowly spreading its cold wings upon the world as road users were
thinning out hurriedly.  The groaning
from the supervisors’ motorcycle and chirping of insects were the only sources
of life in the bush. Mr Hadi felt sleepy.
          We are late in returning
from today’s assignment. The WAEC office is waiting. My brother is waiting for
me at home for my mother’s medical bill. Let us share our money before reaching
Namu. I will first settle with my brother no matter the urgency of the office,”
Mr. Hadi broke the silence,  
          “That’s also ok by
me. Wise one, member of the order of the exam ethics,” Mr Hubi said, laughing
at his friend’s ingenious plans which worked perfectly.
          You hold the
commonwealth. How much have we earned?” Mr Hadi asked.
          He didn’t want to
create an avenue for his partner to manipulate the figures.
          “By my accurate
calculation, we are N112, 500 richer,” he reminded Mr Hubi.
          A good day for two wise
men!”
           Mr Hubi shouted joyously.
          “Three wise men from the east presented gifts
of gold, myrrh and frankincense to baby Jesus. But we are two wise men from
Namu who earned double pay from a stingy principal. We are teachers not
saints!”
My Hubi ignored mr hadi’s early
celebration.
          You got it wrong,” Mr
Hubi insisted, pulling out all the folds in his shirt and trouser pockets, to
buttress his claim.
                                                                                                                   
        
          My mother will now live!
She will now live! Mr Hadi shouted excitedly, nodding continuously as if
someone was disputing his claim.
          Mr.
Hubi counted

the loot, recounted and counted again, turned to his colleague and announced,
“No. You got it wrong! It is N102, 500, in all.”
          “The amount is guaranteed.
Principal (N70, 000) plus external papers (N20, 000) plus three impersonators
(N7, 500) plus the PTA’s N15, 000, making a total of 112,500 naira,” Mr. Hadi
stated gravely.
          You got it wrong,” Mr
Hubi insisted, pulling out all the folds in his pockets, to buttress his claim.
                                                                                                                                                                              No. I am right. Do the
calculation and see.”
          Mr.
Hubi was
unaware
that the young man had stolen N10, 000 from Principal’s “goodwill” to them. But
I have only N102, 500 on me. And I can’t remember I had spent any kobo from our
earnings.”        Not convinced, he pulled
out the inner folds of his trouser pockets for the umpteenth time to establish
his innocence. 
          “All I know is that 112,500 divided by 2 equals N56, 250. My
share is N56, 250 and I want it now! My mother is dying in the hospital. My
junior brother is waiting for me in my house. You knew about it. Didn’t you?”
Mr Hadi stated anxiously.
          “Haven’t
you read the Greek philosopher who said
we should be kind to all on our way, for every
man is fighting a battle, and only the dead have seen the end of war? Being
silent does not mean that I have no problems. My children are out of school
because of school fees. Remember my senior brother at Abuja who used to pay
their fees has been sent to his early grave by men of underworld last year
during the yuletide, leaving the responsibilities of my children and his
together  with his widows, one of whom the custom compelled me to inherit,
upon my shoulders. Let us be reasonable. In time of urgency, the slow-walker
gets to the destination earlier than the one in a haste, the elders say. If
every man’s problems are written on his forehead as we walk in the street,
there will be no moving traffic. The sun’s daily journey from east to
west would suffer delay as it stops to console every man on its way,” Mr
Hubi gave out a long lecture that was already turning the anxious Mr Hadi off.
          My mother is dying and I
need some money to spend in order that she may live. I didn’t stop you from
having problems. Remember that some problems need more urgent attention than
others.”  
          Problems are best solved
when we confront them with jolliness. Which group is as happy as alcoholics in beer
parlours? A thief who is running away in a blind alley is soon caught by his
pursuers.  Your  mother 
will  now live  because you 
have  got  the                                      money.
But let us not play puppies; they fight thinking they are playing.” Mr
Hubi  said, thought hard and suddenly
asked, “How honest is the young man who mediated between us and the principal?”
          I am all ears, preacher
man. But let me have my share; time is running out. About the youth’s
character, you owe me an explanation. You are the one he gave the money to. You
are the one he talked with.”
          Mr
Hubi
brought out a dirty
wallet counted some money and pushed it in his colleague’s direction.
          “This is your
share.”
          Mr Hadi wetted his right fingers
with his spit and counted, “10…20, 30, 37, 39, 40 … thousand!  Where is the rest?” he shouted.
          “The rest goes to
the WAEC man who posted us to this centre. We got here because we                  
promised him higher reward above what other supervisors would give
him. It is not through luck, for luck favours no deaf and dumb,” Mr Hubi told
his colleague.
          Mr
Hadi,
in a blind fury seized
Mr. Hubi’s wallet, and barked, “Where is my money!  I have not known of
any arrangement with the WAEC man! Where is my money?”
          Mr.
Hubi struggled to keep the wallet to himself and a fight ensued. The two
friends struggled with each other. The struggle turned to friendly fight and
finally a brawl. They fought and fought on until no more strength was left in
them.  They fought like Okonkwo  and Amalinze the Cat in Chinua Achebe’s
“Things Fall Apart”. In the course of the fight, they lost the wallet. Each man
now thought his opponent had the wallet in his possession.
          Later,
the lack of any more strength in them made them call a truce and they
disengaged, looking at each other like two tired cockerels fighting over a
pretty hen.
          Mr Hadi looked at
his wrist watch and roared, “Where is the money!”  Now blood was dripping from his teeth, like a
blood sucking monster.  “Don’t pretend
that the money is lost,” he warned.
          Where is the money?” Mr.
Hubi shouted back at his colleague.
           You have it!” Mr Hadi reminded Mr Hubi.
          Mr.
Hubi, with all the strength left in him, seized Mr. Hadi and threw him
against a nearby dry stump of locust bean tree. Before he realized what he had
done, his companion was already breathing his last wish, as he coughed out
mouthfuls of blood.
          Mr Hubi replayed
the conversation Mr Hadi had had with his mother when he wanted to proceed to
secondary school.
          “You said that your
name is among the boys and girls the government wants to go to college?”
           “Yes, Mother,” Hadi answered proudly.
          “You know your
father’s position on matters of college for his children?”
          “No, Mother”
           “Your father said he would not give you money
for college because your senior brother, Sadiq is already in college. He will
not shoulder the responsibilities of two sons from one mother in college. If
your father sponsors you to college, it is too much favour on me. You will have
usurped the place of the son of my youngest co-wife.  He is taking one child at a time from each
wife. Sadiq has filled my own vacancy. 
The only vacancy left now is for the youngest wife or Amariya.”
          “But father has the
money to send 20 boys to college.”
          “Having the money is
not the issue. The issue is that he must wait to see that Amariya’s son reaches
college age and sends him to school before considering the second son from me
and Ada, Musa’s mother. But I will make sure you go to college and even finish
university so that you can take good care of me when you finish…”
          “Let us change our
official dress before we reach town where people know us, Mr Hubi declared, but
there was silence.
“Oya, come down!” Mr
Hubi shouted.
          The shout jolted Mr Hadi from his slumber.
           
AFTER SUBMITTING his report at the MOE zonal office, he quickly
ran to his house. At home, Mr Hadi found that he was a little richer than N60,
000, enough for his mother’s hospital bill.
          “Take this money,”
he handed over a parcel to his younger brother. 
It is N60000. First thing tomorrow morning, you are on your way home. I
am still on a service thrust upon me as a teacher, for West Africa,” he said.
          “Thank you
brother,” the younger brother sobbed.
          “Don’t give Mama
bad luck. She needs our support in time like this.”
          The younger Mr Hadi
wiped the tears from his eyes by the right hand sleeve of his shirt.
          “I was not crying
for Mama. I was crying for you. I was wondering where you got the money between
yesterday and this morning. If you borrowed it, how many years would it take
before you can repay it? For over a decade, you have not sent more than N5000
home to Mama, but this morning you are giving N60000 after just a day’s notice.
Tell me how the money came.”
          “When death is
involved, questions are irrelevant. Just go. I will come after completing the
assignment.”
AT MAINOMA Hospital, Ahapa, patients who had been operated on were
being provided breeze using hand fans by relatives.  Mama Hadi lay quietly in the female ward full
of women who shared similar financial backgrounds.
          When Mr Hadi’s
younger brother arrived in the hospital, he went to the nurses straight. The
nurses directed her to the cashier and he paid all the bills demanded for the
operation.  Soon the doctor and the
nurses were set for the operation.
The operation was successful, but she needed blood transfusion. Mr
Hadi’s younger brother was screened in the lab. Luckily he and his mother were
O positive and the blood was sufficient to draw from.
          The blood in the
its clinical receptacle  was kept in cold
water in the lab to cool off. There was no electricity and the fridge got tired
from over action. In the water the names of the donor, the blood group and the
patients to be given were written on the leather holding the blood.
When the transfusion was set by a nurse, the blood moved slowly
and stopped after some minutes. Mama Hadi shook convulsively, and when the
young Hadi had gone to call doctor, the convulsion was over.
          The nurse who took
over from the previous nurse was called. She tested the patient’s heartbeat and
found that she was dead. Silently, she walked away to the doctor and reported.
          “Dead, why? The
operation was successful and there was no complication. He quickly stood up
from his old swivelling office chair and walked to the female ward, to the bed
Mama Hadi laid. To his utmost surprise, he discovered that the blood being
transfused was group A instead of the O+ her son had donated. The donor was
Hassan instead of Hamid, Mr Hadi’s brother.
Silently the doctor removed the blood set and with  it, he walked backed to his office, and
called all his nurses in.
          “Who among you set
the transfusion?”
          “Sister Faith,” the
voices were unanimous.
           It had been rumoured that Faith was the
doctor’s favourite among the nurses. Some even gossiped that she run errand for
the doctor in pursuit of his off-duty gratification.
          “Could you not
differentiate between ‘O’ and ‘A’? Could you not differentiate Hassan from
Hamid? Could you not differentiate Hajarah from Hannah?” the doctor raged at
sister Faith.
          Shame and guilt
overwhelmed Sister Faith that she could not even talk.
          “No one should say what really happened.  Carelessness from one of you has killed that
woman. Sister Faith will lose her job for her unprofessional conduct,” Doctor
John warned the nurses.
          The nurses
exchanged glances in disbelief.
          As Dr Ekwo  took his
stethoscope to go to the ward to break the bad news of Mama hadi’s death, his
thoughts were on the future of the hospital named after his father, and whether
to return Mama Hadi’s medical bill or to keep it.
Today was in June 2006.
The End
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