NOTHING LASTS FOREVER

I’m adjusting my eyeglasses as I give the page a once over. My handwriting then were more like scrawls, with lines, and angles that made my ineptitude at the art even the more ridiculous, but I had written this a long time ago, maybe not too long, but I can still read what I did write. In fact, I do not need to read it to remember the words I wrote: “nothing lasts forever.”

I can never forget the night I wrote this. The memories of the years gone by are coming back to me all over again. Here’s a story about a certain day…

It began as a promising day. I was up before the roosters could call, and for the first time in a long time, mum looked really proud, of me of course. Maybe it was because I did my chores before she woke up, or because I was the one that woke her up when I found that our goat was birthing in the kitchen shed. Well, mother had my new school shirt and shorts all pressed underneath her pillow, and they still gave that wonderful fragrance of the expensive detergent she used to wash them.

She smiled real big, after a long silence in which she watched me put on my socks and wear my sandals, Mother sighed. “Look at you, all grown up.” She said, and I couldn’t help smiling back.

The shrieks of statics from an old radio in my parents’ bedroom announced that father was awake. I almost bumped into him at the doorway when I wanted to get to his room and greet him good morning. There was no awful scold today, he fondly clapped a hand on my shoulder, there was no smile on his taciturn face, but his callous hand adjusting my collar spoke of the fact that he was equally proud of me.

When we arrived at the living room, a bowl of hot eba and steaming egusi soup was waiting on the table. Mother greeted father and quickly motioned to the food, “eat quick, you don’t want to be late on you first day at school.” She said.

I nodded and obediently sat to eat as father walked out to check his traps in the nearby bush. Games had been a rare catch for the traps, and father’s arthritis had prevented him from going hunting. Father could barely perform routine farm work, but he’d gotten enough money to pay for my registration fees in the nearby government day secondary school, and that he did before sourcing for funds to cultivate the lands for his yam planting.

Back then when they doubted if I’d pass my common entrance exam and qualify for admission into a secondary school, mother had promised that he’d sell the last of her clothes if she needed to to ensure that I’d have enough to register; and father in his no-nonsense, off-the-bat frankness said he’d make sure I spend my days blowing wind to the blacksmith’s hearth if I didn’t pass the exam. Then, it actually sounded that he was optimistic that I would fail so he could prove how wrong I was spending time with my friends and doing things every normal boy in my village would. I never understood why they had problems with a healthy dose of roughhousing, and trash talk, everyone my age does that.

I was glad to have proven him wrong, though. And looking back, I am glad that he only wanted what was best for me and wouldn’t resort to mother’s less confronting tactic to hammer his points till I get it. I’m glad I got it.

Every bolus that rolled down my throat kept me inwardly hollering hosanna to the heavens and the sight of the drumstick in the soup sure gave me the high spirit overdose. I never get such big meat at any meal, not in sight of father who held on to his ancestral belief that that would amount to spoiling a child and raising future thieves. The approving smile he gave me, and the fact that he didn’t object to this kingly treatment that day proved that so many thing were about to change or had changed.

I didn’t forget to get some cassava flakes into a nylon bag and thoroughly mixed it with sugar. That was supposed to be for my lunch, but the mummy also gave me twenty naira which was supposed to take care of that! Between you and me, this was the first time in all my days that my parent gave me an amount this large for lunch.

My school bag was nothing fancy, but I never gave it so much thought until I walked the street to school with my friend. He had one of those expensive bag pack with keys tinkling every time he moved; this was in sharp contrast with mine which was actually sown by the local tailor, it was made from washed cement bag and still had the print ELEPHANT CEMENT boldly printed on it. Later when I stopped to think about it, I was almost convinced that the smile on Mark’s face was more of derision than happiness at the prospect of studying in a private secondary school or the privileges thereof. But who was I kidding, seeing him dressed up in his properly starched and ironed school uniform, with his blinding white, also brand new stockings that disappeared under his glistening well polished leather shoe. I could still see the string of the manufacturers tag on it—that was my friends way of telling the kids in his new school that the pair was brand new. When you’ve spent an early life not being able to afford whatever you want, you get used to it—get used to others having what you can’t have—and as mother has thought me, I’ve learnt to be happy for them.

My own ‘new’ school uniform were actually tailor made from fairly used clothing materials mother could afford from the market, and both my shoes and stockings were giving me by our neighbour whose son had outgrown them.

I was never one not to consider that Mark’s parent were richer, his father works in the city and rarely comes home except during Christmas and new-year celebration when he’d come with loads of fireworks to rouse the usually silent and serene nights in the village with thunderous sparks and claps echoing around his compound. No one would complain, and we, the children in the neighbourhood, all loved it! Each neighbour was properly bribed with their share of the seasons’ goodies: a handful of polished rice and canned drinks; and sometimes, chunks of meat.

You might have to come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t going to be in the same school with my friend who despite all his endless supplies of textbooks and notebooks (which he was fond of losing) didn’t meet their requirement. However, he was going to a private school that his parent could afford, and I was proud of being admitted to a government school on merit.

The fact that a school bus was already waiting for him at the bus stop to take him to his new school while I had to walk a mile more to mine wasn’t very palatable. But is had my head in the high clouds and hopes in the rainbow shine. I was going to start a new school on a whole new level!

A thought that crashed on my mind made me hastily feel for my pocket, thankfully, the twenty naira note was still there. I sighed, I’d kill myself If I lose that.

The high September sun was already up in the sky, screaming dominance in golden rays that warmed rather than stung. Back in primary school, Mr. Ojo, the Health education teacher said that the morning sunshine was good for health, I couldn’t remember if it was vitamin D or E that he said sunshine makes to give us strong bones and teeth, but I had never complained about walking under the morning sunshine. You don’t care about how sunshine darkens your skin if you have to spend a great part of your day under it, unprotected.

The road to my new school stared down to the deserted area where the school was situated, but I was now walking along side bigger students, who were busy talking something about strike that they barely acted like they noticed my presence. I being the big head I was, didn’t see the need to greet them or initiate a conversation with them. Today after the parting with Mark, I had felt somewhat alone and wasn’t willing to engage in conversation with any soul, that was the extent of the subtle grief. Still, I had my hopes up and shining; the melody of the birds tweeting poems to the tall trees that paved the road, and the gentle breeze that washed me from underneath their shadows was enough paradise to me.

The gate was wide and imposing which made me remember the wonder with which I saw it the first day I came there with father, I could remember then, how proud he was to introduce himself as my father and how eager he was to introduce me to his friend who was a teacher in the senior class. I can remember him telling him to keep an eye on me and give me well meant spankings should I fall short of any rule. Well, I had come to understand that he didn’t really meant what he said, he just wanted me to be ever conscious of the ever stern gaze of his friend who teaches Geography.

Despite the fact that I didn’t have a wrist watch, I was quite certain that I was not late. Students were suppose to arrive government day secondary school before 7:20am, any time after that spells trouble, and trouble presents itself in many forms, some of which included frog jumps across the yawning distance of the football pitch, clearing extra plots after the morning labour is over, or receiving five solid spank on the backside. All the options were so dire, no one would want to experience them.

But when I saw Mr Henry, my father’s friend, a.k.a crusher (as I later got to know) standing at the gate, I got to understand why the students before me had slowed their hasty strides to cautious tentative steps such that we were now walking side by side.

We got to the gate and the big boys greeted Mr. Henry, he smiled back at them and did the same at me, “JSS1 is the farthest class in the third building, drop your back and join the boys working behind the building.” He said.

I didn’t know but wasn’t surprised that the door to my class was leaning one hinge on the wall and that few of the widow frames were missing. I picked a desk on the third row, and dropped my bag into the locker. But that was after I picked my machete and boldly stepped out to the lawn behind the class. There was a taller boy wearing long trousers, well ironed it spoke of his position, before I could get a good view of his tag. I got to know he was the senior boy. He held a well trimmed cane behind his back, watching the new male student clear the grass behind their class room. He gave me a once over and motioned that I joined them, I was eager to. We were not allowed to talk to each during the work, and the taller boy behind us didn’t look like he was ready to deal kindly with defaulters, we all kept to the rules.

The bell tinkered far away, signalling it was time for assembly. We hastily dropped our machete in the class room and ran to join the other students in the line. I was one of the small boys so I had my place up front privileged to a better view platform and also having greater chances of being noticed, for bad or good. I inspected my fingers; they were mostly trimmed, except the index finger that was a little grown. I looked left and right and chucked it into my mouth, my teeth pressed on the nail and it was off before anyone noticed.

“Hey, I am Chuck.” A boy behind my said, extending his hand with a bright dimple graced smile tugging at his lips. I shook his hand and told him mine with a smile, feeling even more at home.

“which school did you attend?” he asked.

“Government Day primary school.” I replied with pride and I could see it on his face, he was impressed by the sheer fact that I was also admitted into a Government Day secondary school. “Yours?”

“Erudite primary school.” He replied.

I frowned, I may not have been to all the places in our little town or the surrounding region but I was quite sure that I never heard of any school called ‘erudite’, to be honest, I couldn’t’ tell then what the word meant. “I haven’t heard of any such school.” I said.

“It’s in Ekiti state. My parent moved here, so I applied with my common entrance result and well,” he shrugged, “here I am.”

“That makes sense.” I muttered absent minded, my eyes was looking far back at line, watching a girl walking down towards us. She was late but didn’t look in the least like she’d served any punishment for that. It was probably because she was a new student that they let her go. Our eyes met and she gave a bright smile that exposed her set of brilliant white teeth, I couldn’t explain it then but I felt a lurch underneath my stomach, in a part of me that I never thought had anything to do with nerve. I quickly looked away but found myself looking back at her again.

The new girl walked to the girls line and took her place behind a shorter girl. Again our gaze met, I found myself waving, she waved back, just before her hands straightened down and Chuck nudged me.

The source of the tense vibes was a short woman standing at the podium; I knew she was the school principal. And she sure looked like it, though a woman. Her hair wasn’t plaited or braided; it was pulled back in a bun with a black beret perched atop her like. Her face had the sort of makeups that had never graced my mother’s face (mother actually believed that make up was bad). The woman had a smile on her red lips as she observed our faces, “good morning students,” She began, I can still remember how the words sounded out of her lips in such outlandish lisp and intonation, it was nothing like I’ve known, her words were clipped, precise, and seems to have its own music. I wonder if I’d ever be able to speak like that, and I wondered how I would feel If mother was the woman standing there, dressed as she was in suit, exuding authority and speaking such glorious queen english.

“I welcome you all to this new session, but while I had been away for the NUT meeting in Lokoja yesterday, there’s been a new development, and there was no way I could get the message across. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the state National Union of Teachers has began a strike action in order to press their need to the government. As much as I’m happy to see you all this morning, dressed so clean and nice, and looking chubby from you summer break, I hate to say that our school staff are joining this strike action as mandated by the union. Simply put, there is no school today…”

I couldn’t get where she was driving at, at first, but the word STRIKE rang home, there is NO SCHOOL, the voice taunted, all the cleaning up, the new books, the early rise to school, the grasses we cleared, all meant nothing. Bottom line: the school is on strike and we all have to go home.

It was mixed feelings among students from what I observed; I remember overhearing one of the senior students telling of how he would return back to city and help with his uncle business, make some money before the school resumes again. Chuck pulled me out of the crowd to the football field that was slightly over grown, but the students had already taken their shirts off and had started a good ball game barefoot.

Some students were already leaving while I was still undecided as to what to do, and wondering why this should happen today. “I hate this, I hate my parents.” Chuck muttered, as he sat beside me on a rock where I sat staring at the football game with no interest at all.

“I wouldn’t be the one to tell them that.” Said a feminine voice behind, the girl came and sat beside Chuck.

“Oh, Rita,” Chuck said, regarding the girl that smiled at me earlier, “what a bad day!”

“On the bright side we get to convince our parent that the private school was the best option after all. We can get to stay in those nice classrooms with ceiling fans cooling your hair; we wouldn’t have to clear the lawn or worry about being spanked.” Rita said. I was quiet, but yes, I was staring at her, hearing her speak made me ashamed that I was her classmate. Her voice though soft, pronounced words in ways I haven’t had before, plus the way she phrased the words: ‘to be honest’, it felt like that was the first time I heard anyone use the expression, “on the bright side.”

She was smiling at me and I found myself saying ‘Hi,’ again.

“You can convince you parents to take you to private school too.” She suggested, still smiling at me.

“I guess so,” I muttered, not willing to admit to the fact that affording another registration fee after the one wasted here was not part of the deal, at all. And as bad as it may sound, I didn’t want to be the reason why mother would sell her Sunday best to ensure I can reenrol somewhere else. Though it was hard for my young mind to bear, I knew there and then that I was stuck with Government day secondary school, for better or worse, till time do us part.

Chuck and Rita who I got to know were cousins soon left me sitting on the rock, the morning sun still washing out on me. I just couldn’t get myself to get my feet to the dilapidated classroom, get my bag and machete and return home. I kept looking back at the podium, hoping that the time keeper would run up and ring the bell and that the principal would take all her words back and declare that it was all a big misunderstanding that school was still in session. But I knew better, though I didn’t act it, it was like the same hopeless feeling I get whenever I would run away from home after some misdeed (like the other time we set a plot on fire to smoke out wild rats and ended up creating the wildfire that nearly gutted out a cocoa farm) hoping that when I return in the evening, the animosity would have died down. If what I did was worth spanks, mother wouldn’t mind doing that after she would make me take dinner and be strong enough to apologise and cry myself to sleep.

A saline streak rolled down my eyes, I stood on my feet and ran as fast as I could, past the football pitch, past the shades of trees to the foot of a mountain overlooking the school, a place where I was truly alone. I felt so humiliated at the thought that my class mates are in school at the moment, receiving classes under better condition and that it doesn’t matter whether our school was on strike, Mark and his classmate would move past the time I’d waste as if it didn’t count. I didn’t deserve this disappointment, I told myself over and over again, just as much as I tried to blame myself for this mishap, maybe if I was such a nice boy and prayed to God before coming to school today, this would not have happened. Maybe if had stand up to the principal or beg her and her staff if I could…

The thought that finally rang home was how I would confront Mark with the news that I couldn’t begin classes because the teachers are on strike.

I heard the crunching of leaves behind me, it made me turn back. it was Mr. Henry, his well shaven head was glistening under the sun as his worried gaze landed on me from behind his horn rimmed glasses. “Good morning sir.” I managed to say.

“What are you doing here son?” he asked, “Have you been crying?” he added before I could reply.

I sheepishly nodded.

“Oh come on boy.” He said. And I obeyed. He had his hands on my shoulder as we walked down towards the school, he ordered the boys playing football to return home, and slowly they picked their school uniforms, some of which were lying on the grasses or hanging from trees, and began to go home with their school bags.

He took me to my class and watched me take my bag and machete. “If you would wait in my office, I can carry you home on my bike.” He offered.

As sad as I felt, I wasn’t going to decline; I waited dutifully in his office and watched his going out with files and returning with them. Mr Henry had a huge cupboard with shelves and stands aside it. All containing countless books, some did look like textbooks, student’s notebooks, and countless dossiers. The map of Nigeria was pasted on the wall behind his cushioned ebony chair. I fiddled with my pencil while I waited.

Time rolled on till it was 10:00am on the wall clock that rang and made ten distinct sounds, and I was still in his office. I remembered that that was the time for lunch break and I dare not spend the twenty naira I was given. So I walked out of the office to the veranda of the building, I sat down and brought the corn flakes mixed with sugar out of my bag. I chew a handful with gusto, relishing the melting sugary and strong sour taste of the mixture. I drank some water and waited in his office again, quite glad that Mr Henry didn’t return to see me taking garri in front of his office, I didn’t know how he would feel.

Mr. Henry returned almost when I was about going out to tell him that I had to go so my parents would not be worried, mother was gone to the market and it wasn’t impossible that she would know a woman who had her child in the school returned home because of the strike incident.

“Come on, let’s go.” He said, as he picked his shiny leather briefcase that was lying on the desk the whole time. I followed him out and watched him lock the door. We walked a few steps down to where his blue Suzuki was parked, it was neat, but sure looked like it had seen better days. I watched him turn the key and kicked at the pedal. The bike roared then made some chocking sound like exhaust hiccup before it died. It responded the same way to Mr. Henry’s kick till he stepped over it, losing the sleeves of his shirt and rolled it up. He bent over the engine part and I watched him fetch his tools and switched the engine plug for another equally fairly used one. This time the engine came to life and he climbed, so did I, and for the period through the ride, I was contented with watching the green leaves, grasses and trees blur by, each bump and splash through muddy water was fun. It was one of my earliest memories of being carried on a bike over a distance as short as from the school to the bus stop. The shortest ride I ever had on bike was when I ran fever one night and my parent rushed me to the hospital ten kilometres away on a borrowed bike.

I stepped down and thanked Mr. Henry. He smiled back and told me to not worry that school will be in session very soon. He dipped his hand into his pocket and gave me fifty naira, he promised to get me some textbook when I return to school. My heart warmed with gratitude as I received the money, I watched his bike bellow to life and moved away.

I was tempted to buy some beans cake that tempted my nostrils by the road side, but I was determined to let my parent know about what I was given. Besides, I was going to eat when I got home.

All in all, the day wasn’t as bad, I had money and a promise of brand new textbooks to show for it. it wasn’t as bad. As if the universe was reading my thought, a large truck rolled by on the road, and at the rear, I saw the inscription, “nothing lasts forever.” It stuck with me.

The thought of seeing Mark later on was not up for debate, I would see him and tell him the truth, my resolve was to get him to teach everything he’s been taught in school, that way, I’d not be left out.

Walking home under the afternoon sun was not like it was in the morning, and I knew better than to expect a vitamin as compensation for the roasting heat. I arrived home on time to meet that mother was back. She told that she was about looking for me when she heard that the school was on strike and I wasn’t yet home. She wasn’t happy, she kept questioning why the government would allow teachers to go on strike, but that was there with his own answers that the staffs of the schools had not been paid for a while. He said that Mr Henry told of how this was the only way to get the government to listen to their plight.

I told mother about the money and how Mr. Henry brought me to the bus stop on his bike, she thanked him in the next church service and said that Mr. Henry should not have worried about helping him over the distance, she sounded like she wanted me to go thought the trouble of trekking back, but we both knew that was not what she meant. I was glad that Mr Henry understood.

I followed father to the farm that evening, and as fate would have it, we had a rabbit caught in one of the trap. That made a good evening meal.

That night as I went to bed, I didn’t forget to ask God to make the strike go away so I can go back to school again, but that was one of the longest night I’d known, I kept tossing and rolling, It was then I knew for sure that the row of horizontal plank that spanned the roof of my room was seven to be exact and that the night was longer than I had known.

I dragged a book from my bag and once again, smell the sharp refreshing smell of new notebooks. I placed it on my desk and decided to write on it. it wasn’t nothing fancy but all the ideas that popped in my head. I wrote about my experience, the disappointment and how mother threatened to sell our goat and its kid, alongside her clothes if she need do so to get me back to school.

Then I scribbled something—a time message to myself in the future if I ever make it. I planned to open it the next year and had hidden it in a hole in the wall. This was what I wrote, “nothing lasts forever.” I still had that paper with me, and every time, life goes wrong, I go back to read it and look in hope at the future where present challenges would pass.

The days after then were not the best I’ve had. But I swallowed my pride and got to read Marks notebooks, funny enough, it was easier to understand, and by the time the strike was over I was most certain that JSS 1 was nothing I couldn’t handle.

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