From 2008-2011, I used to be a pupil of a so-called school per se, whose name I'll most sincerely want to keep anonymous, because wisdom, as they say, is profitable to direct.

P.S. Of course, after watching that video of Chioma Okoli, the hot-taker, who gave her "as e dey hot" review about Eris tomatoes, shedding hot tears on Arise TV while pleading for Mercy, and after reading through the law suit filed against the persons who seemed to have an idea of the room number of the hotel Mercy and Chinwo and Nathaniel Bassey lodged to commit the adultery that produced Charis [Mercy Chinwo's son], I now know that even though there is freedom of speech, going Scott free after each speech is directly proportional to how freely you spoke. So please forgive my cowardice, but I won't be mentioning the name of this school. But by my description, anyone familiar with this place should know!



This school, as at the time I attended, was located near a riverine area, close to a forest, opposite a swamp, and adjacent to a dustbin. Located in an entirely disgusting environment that is unfit for even wild animals. Let me not even talk about the outlook of the building structure of the school, because if at least the standard of teachers and teaching compensated for the thatched, uncompleted building, there would be no need for this post. But that, brethren, was the actual wonderful wonder.

The kind of teachers we were cursed with were the lowest of the NCE teaching practice students, probably struggling with a CGPA of less than 1.7

Teachers who spoke more vernacular than actual English. Teachers who, in a sane country, would themselves be demoted to Nursery 3.

The kind of teachers that our school management could afford, because those ones were seeking the cheapest alternative to a high-quality, standard education.

Well, in the end, if we were to be just and fair, the huge chunk of blame should be on our 'Ojukokoro' parents, who were seeking to secure a very bright future for their children on a 'Dark Friday, abi black Friday discount price. 1,650 per term. How possible!



Unfortunately, after the three elephants [i.e., our selfish, wicked, and illiterate teachers, our funds hoarding school management, and our at 'a cheap rate' parents] were done fighting for their respective interests, it was us who suffered the perspective consequence.



It was us that would be chalked in two straight lines to dance choreography when our class chalk would finish. It was us that would be INSTA-lled with GRAMS of egusi to peel, while our classroom teacher would be on Instagram.

For one other class that I knew, their class room teacher made sure to give them one hour of high-quality, half-baked early morning lessons, and they, in turn, would use the remainder of school hours to assist her in baking the cake and doughnuts that the teacher's young sister would sell the next day.



This particular teacher literally had cooking gas and a frying pan in one section of the class. And of course, how would the school management know when they are never around and don't care at all?

Brethren, these and more are the features of the primary school I attended. Actually, the exceptional, beautiful, and advertiseable features of my school. Our first and second term school calendar schedules.



The third term was a different ballgame! That particular term was specially, fundamentally, crafted and designed for extra-cirriculum activities.



The only 'education-like' kind of thing we did during 3rd terms was class attendance rooster. Before anything, our class teachers would take the attendance of the pupils that came each day. After this, future leaders of tomorrow would be asked to match to the assembly ground, where we would be shared into various orders of stupidity.



Each person according to the style of stupidity he or she is most passionate about: choreography, dance, drama, recitation, debate, and cultural dance groups, all in preparation for our end-of-session speech and prize-giving day. That's all we did throughout the term.



In this particular session [2010/2011], unlike other sessions where I would usually join the Igbo cultural dance group where I tie a wrapper and hold a handkerchief, I decided to raise my hand to the chief of all the varieties; debate. So I joined my school's debate group, intentionally and free-spiritedly. Nobody forced me. I joined brethren even when I knew that my brain was like the battery voltage of a 1968 Mercedes Benz, which has to be religiously warmed three times a day [morning, afternoon, and night] for optimal function.

Even when I knew that, just like the engine of a 1995 grinding machine , the kind of brain I had was one that, once it got knocked, either eighteen gallons of engine oil were poured into it or the entire carburetor would be changed.

I still joined the debate/cramming group. And I was accepted!



The title of the debate that year, as usual, was some archaic, useless, 'non-profiting to the 21st century' topic, "Teachers are more important to society than doctors," and I was on the opposing side. Now the horrible part was that it was us, the debaters, 8–10-year-old kids with no smartphones, that were asked to research and develop the topic, then submit it to the debate director, Miss Patience, for editing and approval.

I developed mine, submitted it, and it got approved one time. Of course, why not? When I had traveled the length and breadth of my then-street, seeking input from the intelligent uncles and aunties I knew, all those who said that they were at the top of their class while growing up said that the only reason they didn't go far in life was because their families didn't have enough money to sponsor furthering their education.

I met all of them one by one, went shop to shop, house to house, and had all of them pour in their most "bragged about" wealth of knowledge. In fact, it was our then pastor's wife who assisted me with that finishing line. "With these few points of mine, I hope I have been able to convince and not confuse you."

So, of course, it wasn't surprising that while my other fellow debaters rewrote their own debate speech script several times, mine had once-and-a-time approval.

Normally, dem no born our debate director well to disapprove wetting dey beyond her own scope of knowledge; what over ten good heads contributed in writing".




Approval done, now it was time to sanproof everything I have read into my brain and pour in that wealth of knowledge into the wells of my brain.



I almost ran mad, brethren. Sugar-coating apart, I actually went mad, because what else would you call someone who was reciting and reciting everywhere: at school, at home, in the market, when I wake up at night to urinate, when I'm taking my bath, in the middle of a meal, in the middle of a conversation, everywhere, every time?

Any errand or chore anyone was assigning me during that period should definitely not contain the "Do am now, now" instruction, because it averagely took me about 16 hours to be done with a "Five plates, five cups, and six spoons" washing project.

It was like one hour for each utensil—actually, one minute for the utensil—and then the remaining fifty-nine minutes for my recitation and cramming. My mom would quarrel, quarrel, and sometimes even beat. Tchwee! I no send am. I knew what I was up against. I knew that if I eased my brain for too long and a word as simple as "is" eased its way out, my whole brain, recitation, and cramming would freeze.

So I was not taking chances, nor was I giving my brain any chance. Steady cramming! Steady recitation in front of a mirror

Until

July 31st, 2011, was our speech and prize-giving day, the day my mom had anticipated would be fast-forwarded, the day I was going to outstalled every cramming I had installed in my brain.

That morning, I woke up the earliest I have ever done in my entire life. I stood in front of my mirror and recited from that time until my dad called everybody up for morning devotions. Of course, I devoted the morning devotion period to "moaning' and humming the crammings in my head, and even while having breakfast that morning, I took intermittent breaks to quickly run through.



Getting to school that morning,.....https://www.arealproblemkid.com/2024/04/embarrassing-moments-ep-2-most.html?m=1

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