First Day Of School

The excitement of going to school on the first day, died the moment I stepped into the building. The thought of me being alone with strange faces, in a new environment was overwhelming. I literally died inside. As I watched my father who brought me to school walk back to his car. He turned and waved to me with a beaming smile from a proud father.

I, on the other side managed to crack a smile: a very uncertain and scared smile, as I waved back to him. I saw it in his eyes, that he saw it in my eyes the fear and panic that was evident. He probably shrugged it off as perhaps the first day of school feeling. He wasn’t far from the truth, but close enough to the lie, that I was going to be fine.

The proprietress of the school was South Asian: Either of Indian or Pakistani descent can’t quite remember now. The student population comprised of about  45 % made up of South Asians and Orientals. The remaining 55% were Nigerians and other African Nationalities.

It was a Nursery School for the privileged in the State, located in one of the Federal Secondary Schools. You can count me lucky, but I prefer the word favoured, to be worthy of the education. Thanks to my parents both of blessed memory for their vision and sacrifice.

The Indian kids were far prettier and handsome than the Chinese kids, as we used to call them. And yes, their hair texture was dark, silky and stretched from side to side, simply beautiful just like I saw in the movies.

We settled in a class and I observed that the black kids like me sat on the row by the left, and the white kids by the right. Racism was experienced firsthand, but I was too young to understand what was going on. It’s not like I would have done anything about it, I just felt something was wrong about the whole thing. Later as the days and weeks went by I saw and felt the preferential treatment exhibited by the proprietress.

They could access their lunch boxes anytime, go to the playground anytime and come to school anytime…it doesn’t matter. As long as your skin tone is white and your hair isn’t wavy or coarse like mine. And guess what? She dares not spank any one of them, no matter the gravity of the problem.

We the black kids get smacked upside the head all day, every day. If you are unlucky she will introduce the “bulala” meaning cane.

I wasn’t going to like this place, I told myself, feeling lost, scared and confused. Where is mummy ? And when is Daddy coming back ? What  about my brothers and sisters? I miss them…I want to go home…What am I doing here? All this thoughts were running in my head.

 I was brought  back to reality by a sharp heart rending cry from the girl sitting beside me. She got the “bulala”…Now i am very afraid. Is this how this woman will be treating us? My heart beat rate trebled, there was really no word to describe how I felt. Okay! maybe a feeling…the night we watched “Zombie the flesh eaters” as a kid.

The other kids stretched their hands in unison, two from the sit in front and one from the back. All of them saying “Sorry you hear”, “Sorry you hear” repeatedly like a chant, as they made a gesture with their hands on her  head. “I swear if I go house today, I no go come back again” I said to myself. Then I joined the chorus as i stretched my hands over her head “Sorry you hear”, “Sorry you hear”…