Who's Afraid of School? How I Got My First Scholarship.
by Imo Eshiet
There
is a saying among my folks that a man who has never traveled outside
the confines of his home thinks the horizon begins and ends in his
village. Until I journeyed out of my country, I had no idea that one
did not need to pass through a vale of tears to get educated.
When
I came across Aristotle’s views that learning is a pleasurable
activity, I hotly contested it as mere philosophical abstraction and
adamantly would have no truck with it no matter what my critical
theory professor said to the contrary.
My
reality was painfully different. Getting education was an
excruciating experience — not for lack of aptitude, but rather
because my society was determinedly disenabling. Throwing every
obstacle it could muster from environmental, climatic and cultural to
economic factors, it did all it could to frustrate and deny access to
education to those at its margins. Let me illustrate this bush dry
and crabby experience.
In
my part of the world it never rains but pours, and the sun never
shines but burns. Split almost evenly between torrential rains and
scorching sunshine, the weather is a breeding ground for diseases
from malaria to typhoid fever. During the rains, the environment
teems with mosquitoes that transmit protozoan parasites to the blood
of their victims. During the dry season it rages with ticks, gnats
and sleeping sickness-causing tsetse flies. One barely had any
defense against these pathogen-bearing nuisances.
Since
we had no umbrellas but had to go to school when it rained, my mother
simply improvised one. She would dash into the rain, knife in hand,
slash a broad leaf from the plantain tree, thrust it in my hand, and
push me into the rain. Off to school I went, defying the grim odds
of hunger, the heavy downpour, lightning and thunderstorms.
Mother
knew that opportunities for mobility were very limited without
education. For her, school was the antidote both for poverty and for
the rankling feeling of being unable to get out of penury in spite of
long hours of hard physical labor. The nearest school was five miles
away, and I virtually had to wade and swim through the flooded road
to get there. I often arrived sodden and bedraggled, the improvised
umbrella shredded by the driving storms.
Because
my parents’ circumstances were humble, I set off most days
without breakfast and returned to a measly dinner, the only meal for
the day. Along the way, schoolmates and I foraged and wrestled with
birds and squirrels for wild fruits, tubers, nuts and berries to keep
the stomach from total revolt.
The
vagaries of the weather were not the only difficulty. My parents
worked for a struggling corporation. My father was an artisan and
mechanic. He fixed and drove trucks and tractors in the oil palm
estate while mother, who was in a gang of paid laborers, was a
bushwhacker. Her work was arduous and dangerous because boa
constrictors and other deadly snakes slithered all over the estate,
feeding on rodents.
With
eight children and several hangers-on who swarmed in from our
extended families, we mostly lived a life of hardship. Since we
scraped through with lean pickings, we often had to stay out of
school (sometimes for up to two-year intervals) because our parents
could not afford the exorbitant school fees. The government that
charged these fees was appalling insensitive to the grueling plight
of a citizenry it had abandoned to ubiquitous poverty.
When
we couldn’t stay in school we tended the land and fed off it,
for without money, ours was a subsistence economy. Failed and harsh
state policies like the brazen absence of support systems for
enterprising students are signal indicators of why governance is a
debacle in my country. They also explain why educational programs
fail to resonate with the people they were designed to serve but
instead yield staggeringly poor results.
From
my personal experience I found that an unsupporting school
environment not only frustrates learning but also leaves some traumas
deep in the psyche of the learners.
As
a youth, school life was a nightmare for me as the corporation that
employed my parents frequently trampled their rights by neglecting to
pay them for three to nine months at a time. Such neglect aggravated
the already dirt poor condition of the workers. We were reeling in
this skinny and skimpy circumstance when I was sent away from school
during a fee drive one day. Sickened by the apathy of the state to
our privation, and the ruckus we caused at home when unengaged,
Mother strictly forbade us from returning home if the authorities
kicked us out. We should, she said, remain right there until school
was over.
That
day the head teacher came with a bundle of switches that he expended
on fee defaulters before kicking us out. Running home and expecting
some sympathy for the welts on my backside I was, however, ordered
back to school by Mother. When I asked what to do with the head
teacher she, fired back, “Who is afraid of your stupid head
teacher? Go ask him when last he was himself paid his salary by the
state. Let him know that any time your parents are paid, he will get
the fees.” Knowing she could add to the already hurting welts
on my back if I delayed further, I scurried away.
It
seemed like being between Scylla and Charybdis. Along the way I
figured out what to do. I would sneak and hide behind the half wall
built to ventilate the class in the absence of cooling systems. In
that position I eavesdropped on the ongoing social studies lessons
but soon blew my cover when the teacher popped a question on who was
the second Secretary-General of the UN and no one volunteered a
response.
I
recalled reading about that in a discarded newspaper I had picked up
on the road. Unable to control my excitement I shouted the answer and
the class went dead. Refusing to go home after being sent away by the
authorities was a serious violation.
And
so when the teacher asked me to get back to class I was predictably
aware of the stiff consequences. Mates who did not like me gloated
and ridiculed me for eventually outsmarting myself. To my utter
surprise, the teacher was apparently appreciative of my fortitude and
sad I was missing classes because I could not afford the fees. He
took me to the head teacher and offered me a scholarship!
Everything
happened so fast that I shed copious tears. When I eventually soaked
in my new fortune, I was so overjoyed I could hardly wait to sprint
home and share the fortuitous development with my parents. After
feting me with what little she scrounged up, mother asked, laughing,
“Who is afraid of your head teacher?”
Imo Ben Eshiet was born in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Raised in his village, Uruk Enung, and at
several cities in his country including Nsukka, Enugu, Umuahia, Eket and Calabar, Eshiet is a
detribalized Nigerian. Although he was extensively exposed to Western education right from
childhood in his country where he obtained a PhD in English and Literary Studies from the
University of Calabar, he is well nurtured in African history, politics, culture and traditions.
Imo is currently a teacher in the high priests group in the Summit Ward of the Greensboro North
Carolina Stake.