I am still looking for where I mislaid my original nose, but it’s okay. I’m sure wherever it is, my pre-pregnancy waistline is keeping it company.
Piña Colada can be a breakfast drink if you have it with eggs. And you don’t drive. On that note, it is perfectly fine to be a bit buzzed at school run. Just don’t try to make conversation. That thing you think is so hilarious probably isn’t. You’re buzzed. Go home.
Writing is the best gig ever!
Writing is the worst gig ever.
I don’t shave my legs. Deal with it.
Ditto armpits. Yes, I realise our friendship may now be in jeopardy.
These are my parents:
I feel I have been smarter than I currently am. But I have never been poorer than I currently am. Both things can be fixed, which means I am very lucky.
I hope to not be living in this country next year because I am a bit tired and there is a whole lot of world to see. However, I will miss the NHS.
Save the NHS!
Why is IS destroying everything?!!
I’d like to build my house from mud. Like those mosques in Djenne. Or like our ancestors’ houses. I already have an architect.
I really like the name Mehitobel and have been wanting to give it to a character. Except she’s a demon, my character.
I wish I had spare robotic eyes that I could switch my human eyes out with so that I can read all the books I want and never have to sleep ever.
I inherited my grandma’s glasses. She had all her teeth. I should have asked to get those too. Clone myself a little baby Mama Onitsha.
I’ve been working on a story for three days. I finished it yesterday. Now I have two stories.
Before I went to Nigeria this time around, I was always on the Hubster’s case about Tot going to school there. I spoke often and longingly of my own experiences in primary and secondary school in Nigeria; the ultra-strict teachers, cutting the tough elephant grass with a machete as punishment, the classrooms with no doors or windows, all that open space to play in, that one time my friends and I found a bullet as long as two index fingers in the sand around the smouldering rubbish heap outside Primary 6A…
“Hang on,” said the Hubster, his unibrow creasing up in one giant mark of concern. “None of that sounds very pleasant.”
“It wasn’t,” I replied.
“So why do you want him to experience all that?”
“Because…” I was confused. “What kind of question is that? Can you not hear all the things I have been saying?”
Sometimes, it is as if he doesn’t listen to me when I am talking.
Anyway, he finally gave in and the day before we left said “Well, when you get there, look around and see if you like any of the schools,” which made me very happy until I got there and realised that of course it was ELECTIONS followed by EASTER and all the schools had closed in anticipation of violence* followed by insane amounts of bingeing. But perhaps it did not matter because being home disabused me of the notion of Tot going to school in Nigeria, at least for now. Here, in order of increasing importance, are three reasons why this is the case:
3) The discipline, my God the ‘discipline‘: By the age of eight/nine when I left primary school, in addition to the aforementioned grass-cutting, I had been flogged with a cane (several times), flogged with a switch (there is a difference), had my mouth flicked (painful!), been knocked on the head with knuckles (Hey! I can smell my brain!) and flogged on the calves (discouraged for girls, because you know, we have to maintain that hot-leg thing for future spouses). All this and I still do not know maths so it was pointless.
I am smiling to myself as I think about it but I admit, that reaction cannot be normal. However, it was part of life then. Everyone got flogged by their parents and teachers; for being cheeky, for not doing homework, for having a dirty uniform, for even looking at a teacher funny. This was just a fragment of life, there was A LOT of good. But tough preventative and disciplinary action was a big part of school where learning was by rote. No one cared if you knew why the sky was blue as long as that was the answer you gave when asked. It’s the Victorian way and as at the time I was in school, it had not changed.
There are a lot of Montessori schools in Nigeria now and a lot that do not employ corporal punishment. They were some of the latter when I was growing up as well. But, I would want Tot to go to a normal,non-ajebo school, like I did. One in which I do not have to pay through the nose for my kid to be treated as a human being. It’s the general culture of teaching we have that has to change, not just that of a few, choice schools. I’m all for discipline but it has to be equal to the misdemeanour.
Not like the time my sister was flogged on the ear for innocently asking a teacher how old she was. Or my baby brother, flogged to get him to start writing with his right hand instead of God-ordained left. My mum went ballistic on the teachers in both cases but my brother now writes with his right. It was probably easier to avoid trouble – his mum wouldn’t be around all the time to fight his battles after all. For a while though, he used to write his letters backwards because his brain could not keep up with the switch.
(My kid is a leftie. Flog him for this and I koboko you right back.)
2) Paying through the nose for the level of education considered ‘basic’ here in London: Which is frankly ridiculous. Some schools charge exorbitant fees because they follow the ‘British curriculum’, but they have no flipping clue what they are doing. The poor parents who will do anything just to see their kids get the best are sold all kinds of nonsense.
Case in point: I have a set of cousins whose training my father is responsible for . Their mother was always demanding these sums for each child, close to the same amount which my father spent to put TWO of his own children through university per term. So he asked her “What on earth are they teaching them in that school?”
“It’s a very good school she said. They give them DVDs and uniform and all their text books are printed in Cambridge…”
“I don’t care what it is they give them, there is absolutely no reason it should cost this much. In fact bring their reading materials when next you’re coming and let me see,” he said.
The next time she came, we looked at the so-called material. It was full of Disney DVDs. The school was making money selling the parents ‘The Lion King’ which they could buy in the market for a fraction of the cost. It did not matter if they kids had it or not, it was compulsory to purchase from the school.
Now, said Aunty could have been lying of course, taking the opportunity to try and get more money from my dad, yes, it’s possible. But I am inclined to believe it because it is the sort of thing we do in Nigeria. You want a ‘British’ education? Then you must do everything that goes it with. And buy this. And that. Or else.*
Or consider this: My sister Whatsapped me last year, complaining that her kids’ school had introduced compulsory swimming lessons. All well and good, right?
“So they have a swimming pool now?”
“They don’t. And they said we have to pay NXXX for both costumes and lessons, if we don’t have ours.”
I asked her to take a photo of the letter. The thing did not make any sort of sense to me. Was there a provision to ferry the kids to the swimming pool? How were classes arranged? How were they going to assess the kids’ skill level? None of these things was covered in the letter. It was just going to be by age, so you could have proficient swimmers in with kids who have never swum a lap in their lives. Add to this a line which made me see red: ‘All teachers are to accompany their students to the pool’. Were they qualified instructors? No. Would they know what to do if a child was drowning?
“How many children per class?” I asked my sister.
“17,” she said.
One teacher to seventeen pupils. In a swimming pool.
Bonus confusion: They’d told parents the swimming classes were compulsory but still gave them consent forms to sign. Consent for what again? I rest my case.
1) My kid has SEVERE food allergies. Here in London, a lot of food items on allergy lists are forbidden for kids to bring into school, as some kids might have contact allergies as well (inflammation of the skin when you come into contact with an allergen). Teachers are trained to respond in cases of allergic reactions, are trained in first aid and schools have certificates to prove it. Cannot say the same for back home, and I’m quite unwilling to risk it.
In the case of Tot, his soy and peanut allergies lead to anaphylaxis. The response has to be as quick as the reaction is and then you need to call an ambulance and he has to be monitored for an least 8 hours in hospital afterwards. We are simply, NOT EQUIPPED.
It is still my dream for him to be soaked in Nigerian culture. There was/is a lot of bad, but there is good as well. So of my best days were spent in boarding school (especially when I was no longer a Ju – junior girl) and the experience still features heavily in my writing. I learnt so many life skills that if the apocalypse were to befall us, I would most likely survive. I’m not bragging. I just would.
However, for now, the challenges are overwhelming and so this may remain a dream for a little while longer.
Good memory: In the photo above, the PE teacher made some of us take off our socks and trainers so that those who could not afford any for sports i.e. had only sandals, did not feel inferior/left out. The girl still wearing hers arrived just as the photographer was about to click the button and was allowed to stay. We learnt football that day. I sprained my toe and never played again.
* Election violence luckily did not happen (or happened in a very small number of areas in Rivers State when some idiots tried and failed to hijack the process). We conducted our elections beautifully!
* My sister, Pastor, had to have a baby in a Lagos hospital. She had her delivery bag packed months ahead, checked and updated it regularly and was sure to carry it when it was time for her to go to hospital. When she got there, they made her buy the hospital’s ‘Delivery Pack’ never mind that hers had everything, otherwise they said ‘she would not get a bed’. She had to take the receipt to another nurse before she was finally admitted. This is the sort of shit we do in Nigeria.
Don’t get me started on her ante-natal classes. Say you were in labour and you showed up at a hospital, they would make you pay ante-natal fees for all the classes you missed (even if you had done classes at some other hospital) before they let you in. Not all hospitals behave this way. But A LOT of them are insane like this. What are you going to do? Not have your baby?