Mr. Olaoye was a new teacher in my school. His swagger was too much. A young man with a puritanical savvy. He was neat and clean. He was what the Gen Z will call “fine boy no pimples”. Oh God, where did you hide this kind of person that you decided to give us people like Mr. Cane and co.?
You could hardly fault his creation. He was a smooth being with a sweet appearance. He walked like a guardian angel but he was a human being. I didn’t know what was going on in the minds of the girl pupils but he deserved it if they had some feelings for him.
I didn’t know what to think because I thought they were too young to be infused with such amorous fantasy. His hands were in the pockets of his well-ironed trousers when he glided into our class. His shirt was properly tucked into his trousers as he paced up and down the class looking at himself at intervals as if he was conscious of our admiration for him. No doubt, his packaging was total and his personality was wow. Unexpectedly, there was an anti-climax!! “My name is Isiaka Olaoye. I am your new Yoruba teacher”. That was how he introduced himself.
Dramatically, the image of a fine boy vanished with the introduction of Isiaka and his subject and was theatrically replaced with the picture of a man from Oyo Ilé with egregious tribal marks. The name and the subject were a disservice to his urbanity. Imagery is an evil evocation. Instantly, a man that was smooth and clean became fraught and crude in my mind. His appearance that was sterling before he disclosed his name and subject became ordinary amidst the convocation of incompatible compliments. As young as we were, we didn’t know when we started giggling and chuckling. The whole class became rowdy as some of us could not control our ‘electric laughter’. While we were still in this hysterical mood, we just heard: “E sun. O ya gbogbo yin e sun”. It was a strange command that we were not used to. How can a teacher be commanding us to sleep at 10:30 am when he is not Lalude or Abija? Wily-nilly, we obeyed. Anyway, it was convenient for me in particular to obey the instruction because I loved, and I still love, sleep with passion. Even without anybody invoking a decree, I activate sleep with platonic familiarity and romantic attachment. After about 15 minutes of sleep, Mr Isiaka, our Yoruba teacher, asked us to sit up. For every lesson, we had 30 minutes only. So, out of the 30 minutes allocated for his lesson, we already slept for 15 minutes. It was an interesting class. We enjoyed the way he read a passage for us in M.B Odedeyi’s classic book, “Yoruba Dun Ka”.
The way he dramatised his reading would show you that truly, mastering how to read Yoruba language could be very stimulating. When it was 12 noon, we went on a long break. We already had our short break before our Yoruba class. As I descended the staircase, my rascality possessed me uncontrollably. I didn’t know when I shouted “E sun” when I saw Mr Isiaka downstairs, around the staff room. I was expecting him to tell some of the students around to ferry me to where he was. It was so strange when I heard him reply me in Yoruba: “Ọmọ-tin”. I said to myself that this man must have been a celebrated rascal when he was my age. How can a teacher be doing street hailing with his student. I saw that as an unfettered license to proceed with “E sun” as his nickname while he could keep calling me “Ọmọ-tin” which was just a figurative adoration for “Ọmọ ita” which people were calling me hitherto. Semantically, both are good appellations for a scamp. He beckoned to me to move close to him. I didn’t know what he was up to but I like a daring game with an unpredictable outcome. I went close to him and we started talking as if we had known each other before that day. When he called me “ọmọ-tin”, I thought it was a name derived from a background check on me. I later discovered that he had no information about me.
Mr Cane saw the two of us discussing and laughing in front of the staff room. He asked my new teacher-friend in Yoruba: “Mr Olaoye, nibo le ti mo ipata yi ri tẹ nba rérìn”. He wanted to know how Isiaka got to know me and why he was laughing with me. Mr Isiaka dismissed him with a disappointing response: “he is my friend”. I spent the entire break period gisting with Mr Isiaka. For the first time in my four years in the school, I now have a companion who was ready to treat me differently. Somebody who had time for me. It was a fresh feeling of freedom as different from the oppressive incubation that pervaded the school atmosphere.
On getting back home that day, the joy of having a new friend in Mr Isiaka was short-lived. My brother, Late-tua had gotten into trouble in the neighbourhood for punching the eyes of Taiwo, one of the twins of “Ayo’s Mother”. I was told that the mother of the guy threatened to invite the Police to arrest Latua. Iya Ibadan was not happy. She had to intervene so that “Ayo’s Mother” would not report the case to the Police. I asked my brother what led to the fight. He told me that Taiwo didn’t choose him when selecting those that would play “set”. In the whole of Surulere, Paddington was noted for its attractive expanse of land. That’s why everybody wanted to play there. On weekdays, we could have two or three “sets” depending on certain variables. But on weekends, we could have as many “sets” as possible. The problem with my brother was that he always wanted to play every “set” despite not possessing any remarkable skill that one could be proud of. His only skill was force cum aggression. “You mean you punched his face because of that?” I couldn’t tell him that he was wrong because I didn’t want anything that would affect my smoking lesson.
Since I successfully made it to lesson two, I couldn’t wait to complete the remaining four. In the evening, the two of us locked ourselves up in the toilet having made sure that Iya Ibadan was serving her siesta. We went in with five wrapped papers based on my teacher’s instructions. As usual, Latua had the real cigarette. He lit his own cigarette and helped me with my own improvised cigarette. I inhaled, I puffed and I smiled. It was an interesting exploration. As we were doing it, I started thinking about my mother. She didn’t know that the two sons she dumped with an 86-year-old woman were taking excursion into smoking lesson. What did she expect an 86-year-old woman to do to two scamps whose parents could not handle. I was enjoying the smoke coming out of my mouth and the one coming out of my brother’s nose yet I was still not happy with the pace of progress. I wanted to move to the cigarette part of the lecture as quickly as possible. Somehow, I felt that what we were doing was bad but the moment of adventure is not the auspicious time for moral download. At this time, the curiosity to explore the ecstasy of a thrilling misdemeanour to the ultimate overwhelmed the burden of contrition. It was obvious to me that as teenagers, it was wrong for us to take advantage of the physical weakness of an old woman who loved us and meant well for us by engaging in actions and activities that were despicable and reckless. I could also remember that Iya Ibadan, in one of her regular homilies to me, said that GOD is a SPIRIT even if you don’t see HIM, HE sees you. As much as I felt like stopping this smoking lesson, I was impelled by enterprising negativity not to give in to any form of apostolic censure. I was on this rumination voyage when Iya Ibadan opened the toilet door. I didn’t know when I said “ghen-ghen” as it normally happens in Indian movies.
To be continued
