A Book and 2 Dozen Eggs.

Writing about my train experience brought back lots of other novel related memories.

One of them happened when I was a 15 year old high school student (Senior Secondary School) in one of the northern states of Nigeria.
It happened that I was reading an interesting book that I was yet to finish and could not wait to find out how the story ended.
I think it must have been a Romance or Suspense novel, those were the kind that I could easily access back then.
We were having a lesson in Agricultural Science.
While the teacher was teaching (he, incidentally was my favourite teacher but the lure of the possible ending was greater than my interest in what he had to say that day) I smuggled the book onto my lap and continued reading.
He must have said something to me which of course I did not respond to because the next thing I realised was that the class had suddenly gone very quiet.
I raised my head to see why that was so and my eyes connected with my teacher’s brown chequered shirt.
He was standing right by my desk with his arms akimbo and looking very displeased.

‘Makolo,’ he said sternly.
‘There is a time for everything and lesson time is certainly not the time for reading novels.’
‘Now hand over the book.’
He stretched out his hand and extended his palm, a no nonsense look plastered across his otherwise smiley and jolly face.

‘Please sir, I won’t do it again.’
I whispered, meaning it that one time.

The whole class was watching.
I wished the ground would open up and swallow me.

His hand remained outstretched.
I surrendered the book.

I was so distraught that I could not concentrate on his lessons or any other that day.

At school closing I refused to go home with my friends.
We were a group of four who lived close to each other and enjoyed our long walks home from school.
They were fun walks filled with noisy chatter, laugh and eating of sugarcane or whatever snack was in season, blowing chewing gum bubbles and just generally doing all the things our school principal used to say were inappropriate behaviour for young ladies, especially those from her school.

After futile attempts to convince me to go home with them they walked off.
Alone at last I walked over to the teachers’ quarters.

The teachers’ houses were located at the back of the school far away from the classrooms.
It was the loveliest part of the school with lots of trees which included fruit trees like the Mango, Orange and Clementines trees.
There were also lots of flowers of varying colours and vibrancy, I particularly remember that the purple ones were the most.
Whoever planted the flowers must have purple as his favourite colour I thought as I sat on a large rectangular block near the teacher’s house.

It was easy to identify which was his because he lived next to the school poultry.
He had said so in class on several occasions.

Few minutes passed by and along came the teacher carrying a pile of books.
I saw that he had my novel tucked under his arm.

‘Makolo,’ he boomed, smiling.
He must have forgotten about my book I thought.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I want my book back sir.’
I added a ‘please’ as an afterthought.

‘Im not going to give you that book.’
He said, no longer smiling.
‘You had better go home now.’

So saying he walked off and turned the bend that led to his front door.

Not up to an hour he came back out. He had changed his clothes and looked refreshed, like he’d taken a shower.

‘You are still here?’ He seemed surprised.
‘You better go home now before your parents start looking for you.’

‘I want my book sir.’ I repeated, as quietly and as respectfully as I could.
‘I’m not going home without it sir.’

He stood there for a moment as if contemplating something.
After a while, he turned the opposite way and walked away from the quarters.

It was a very hot and sunny afternoon.
A typical afternoon in June in Northern Nigeria.
There were a lot of shady places due to the presence of many leafy trees but there were no sitting places in those areas so I had to remain seated on the block in the sun.
I got quite thirsty but I had decided that I was not going to leave the school without my book.

After what looked like many hours, I heard footsteps.
It was my teacher.
He did a double take when he saw that I was still there.

‘Makolo! Your parents must be worried by now.’

He looked worried himself.
He came to stand in front of me, he was sliding the palms of his hands off each other like someone who was trying to dust off unwanted particles from their hands.

His hands seem clean, I thought.
What was he trying to dust off?

After some time he began to mutter to himself. I heard words about stubborn children, children who could get adults in trouble.

I didn’t think he was talking about me.
I did not consider myself, a fifteen year old, a child.

Abruptly he turned on his heels and hastened into his house.
He came out almost immediately with my book in his grip and handed the book over.

‘Thank you very much sir,’ I said, getting off my uncomfortable seat and dusting off the brownish earth that had stained my green skirt.

‘Wait,’ he ordered as I began to walk away.

‘I recall you once said that you like eggs Makolo. Isn’t that right?’

I nodded in answer.

‘Will your mother mind if I gave you some eggs?’

I shrugged in response as I did not know the answer to his question.
No one had ever given me eggs so I couldn’t say how my mother would react.

‘Wait,’ he said again as he walked quickly back into his house.

Soon he was back with a small plastic bag containing some eggs which he gave to me.

‘Come, I will walk you half way, it’s getting late.’

We walked towards the big green gate, the one that led away from the city centre.

I got home shortly after five.

My mother was on her way out, I met her at the entrance to our street.

She later told me she was going to one of my friend’s home to ask after me.

‘Where are you coming from at this hour Ayibu?
Don’t tell me you went to a friend’s house straight from school?’
She asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

‘I’m just from school, Mama.’ I replied in Igala, my mother tongue.
‘Good evening.’

The greeting went unanswered.

‘I didn’t know your school now closed at 5pm. Or is today your sports day?’

‘No. Sports days are on Thursdays.’
I replied.
‘My agric teacher seized my book.
I didn’t leave until he gave it back to me.

‘AYIBU.’
She screamed, then threw her hands up in the air looking towards the sky, perhaps in supplication.

‘This book craze must stop.
It is getting out of hand.
It must stop.’

I did not respond.

‘Now go in and eat something, your father will hear about this when he returns.’

It was my mum’s ultimate threat.

The ‘your father will hear about this’ was usually more scary for us kids than what our father actually did when he was told of our misbehaviour.

Most times he said and did absolutely nothing, yet the threat never failed to make us uncomfortable or nervous.

That one time though I did not mind the threat.

I reckoned that getting my book back was worth anything, as long as it did not involve the book being taken away again.