E. C. Osondu
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In boarding school everyone was known for something. We all had nicknames. Everyone got in trouble but Ben got in trouble most and was known as One Day One Trouble, after a book title. Kizito was known as Miler. He loved to run and would wake up early to run ten miles before the bell rang for morning prayers.
Sule was the only Muslim in the school and was allowed to observe Ramadan, he was exempt from running errands and from punishment during the holy month. Gideon Malanga was from Rhodesia, this was during the days of Apartheid, he was spared from punishment by the seniors—it was said he had suffered enough in his home country.
He was the only one who didn’t have to eat spicy food, well not only him, there was also the kid named Sylvester who was said to have a stomach ulcer and sucked at an antacid all the time.
And there was Nicholas, poor Nicholas, the only white kid in our boarding school. His parents were missionaries of some kind. They were medical missionaries, or so the story went, they departed on interior missions with their old and rickety Land Rover and left Nicholas among us. We loved to make him blush and would have him say words like cunt and pussy just so he’d redden. He was nicknamed Oxygen Consumer.
He was the boy with a large pointy nose among a bunch of flat-nosed kids, which made his nose the odd nose out. There were drawings and exaggerated cartoons of his nose. When he walked into any room, boys would pretend to faint from the lack of air, and they’d scream, “Nicholas has consumed all the air in the room.” By the time he’d spent a second term with us, his pidgin English had no peer and he was eating black eyed peas for breakfast like everybody else.
Joe, Joel, and Jonathan were members of the Shaolin Temple. When it was time for evening sport they wore their black gi’s and strutted their stuff. They broke planks and cement blocks with the sides of their palms. They flew over flowerbeds.
They seldom spoke and when they did their words were few, like the words of the dubbed-over Shaolin films from Taiwan that we all loved to watched. Once, a new student had tried to join the Shaolin Temple. They gave him the task of jumping over a very high wall. He jumped the wall to the other side, but landed on his hands and fractured both wrists. He was in great pain but he tried to bear it like a true disciple of Shaolin.
He went and lay on his bed and covered himself with a blanket. The next day when he was discovered in bed, he was running a fever of 120. His mother came for him. She took him to a bonesetter instead of the general hospital. When he returned to school many weeks later, he avoided the members of the Shaolin Temple. When he saw them coming from the right side of the Appian Way, he crossed over to the left. The members of the Shaolin Temple didn’t say much. Someone heard them say that the way of Shaolin was not for everyone, it was only for warriors. The seniors pretty much let them be.
There were a couple of seniors in form three. They were called Seniors Form Three Supposed Five. Though they were in form three, they had repeated the same class twice and their mates were now in form five.
There was of course the honorary senior Danger Boy, who was rumored to be a former amateur boxer. He was big, dark, and muscular and had a beard he shaved every other day. It was rumored he had a concubine in town. The wily seniors started the rumor that he had been a senior in another school but had gotten in serious trouble and transferred here and in the process been demoted. Danger Boy didn’t deny the rumor. They even created a hitherto nonexistent title for him—Senior in Charge of Discipline.
There were seniors who smoked cigarettes and seniors who drank beer, there were seniors who had girlfriends in town and some who had more than one girlfriend. There was also Senior Stanley, who was rumored to convert junior boys into girlfriends; we were discreetly warned to stay far from his eyes and clutches. There were seniors who never said a word. Senior Francis read all the time. He only came to eat at the dining hall.
He had no junior boy who served him. After eating, he washed his plate himself. He was known as the triangular senior—dormitory, dining room, classroom. That was his trajectory. The week of his final exams, he began talking to himself. He plucked flowers from the flowerbed and whispered endearments to the ixora flower. He was taken to the hospital. The story was that he had developed a brain fog, an expression we were hearing for the first time. He never returned.Any student who spent too much time in the prep class was warned to remember Senior Francis.
And then there were the prefects. Every prefect was feared. As soon as a prefect walked into the dining hall and touched the bell, you had to stop eating. Prefects spent the better part of the half hour giving speeches, making announcements, haranguing junior boys, boasting, or simply making themselves sound menacing. A typical speech by a prefect went like this: “You junior boys think you cantry me, you junior boys are all chickens in a basket, you junior boys think you can stand on my nose and get balanced, you junior boys who are planning my downfall, let me tell you this, junior boys, your plans will fall and crumble like the great walls of Jericho.”
After which he’d say, “Now lie down all of you, lie flat on your stomachs,” and we’d scramble to find someplace to lie on the filthy, stinking floor of the dining hall. Another prefect would walk in and ask us to sit, but before we could start eating, he’d set off on his own announcements and somehow forget we’d already been punished and would say, “On your knees, junior boys.” We would all fall on our knees and he’d leave.
The prefect in charge of mail would ask us to get up and listen for our names. If there were fifty pieces of mail, at least thirty-five of them would be addressed to a boy known as Celestine, his nickname was P. O. Box. By the time the seniors were done with us there would be less than three minutes left to bolt down our meals, and heaven help us if we were not done when the bell rang for the end of the dining period—the head of the table would empty our unfinished meals in the waste bin. There was a kid nicknamed Scavenger who’d been caught one night attempting to eat from the trash.
The Games Prefect was Christopher. He was an all-round athlete who excelled in javelin, pole vault, shot put, and soccer. Each time we had a match with another school he would announce a collection. He believed we were good but that we needed the extra wind of juju behind our backs. We gladly paid up.
Sometimes we lost and he’d ask for another collection to go to a more powerful juju man. He was a mass server as well. On days that we won our soccer matches we could hear the players singing and celebrating from almost a mile away.
The Labor Prefect Roy was the most hated individual, if one could be singled out. He was the inventor of all kinds of cruel and unjust punishments. He invented the V-Portion—a brand of punishment in which the portion of grass that you were assigned to clear grew expansively the more you cleared.
He was said to have punished a boy once by asking him to fill an empty bucket with water using only a tablespoon. The boy must have made a thousand trips. He was nicknamed The Most Wicked of Them All. But he came to a bad end. For some minor infraction he poured water on the hard cement floor and told a junior boy to lie there through the night.
The next day the boy developed a cough, a bad cold, and was taken to the infirmary. He told the infirmarian what had happened, and this was reported to the principal. Roy was stripped of his prefectship, then expelled from the boarding house and from the school. His deputy, a boy in a lower class, served out his prefectship. That was how the saying came about, “You can be wicked but you cannot be more wicked than The Most Wicked of Them All.”
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