6 hours Ago By Samson Folarin
Last Saturday, I made a nostalgic visit to my alma mater, Mainland Senior High School. As I parked my small car by the roadside and stepped inside the school building, memories came rushing back like a tidal wave. It’s been about two decades since I left.
I made a beeline for the first floor of the admin block where I once conducted the morning devotion as the Assembly Prefect. I could feel my younger self brimming with energy and steering hundreds of uniformed schoolmates in worship songs and fiery messages. I shut my eyes and swung my hands at an imaginary audience on the assembly ground.
I was momentarily lost in those blissful moments I always looked forward to. I did not want to recover from the reverie. I made my way to the principal’s office, a few metres from where I stood for the assembly.
There I found the framed picture of Mrs. O.A.
Olatunji with her signature smile. I smiled back, as I recalled our relationship. Whenever she saw me back then, she’d giggle softly and ask about my welfare.
She was my principal. I think our bond was cemented the day I wrote her a ‘love letter’. It was the end of the term, and as the school fellowship president, I wanted to organise a programme for my members.
But I was scared; Mrs Olatunji had given strict instructions forbidding students from staying behind after school hours. She said she got reports of school property being vandalised by some miscreants. She warned that there would be no gathering of any association after the closing bells.
What will I do? So, I thought I should write a letter filled with praises for all the incredible work she’s been doing as our principal, both real and imagined. I planned to drop the letter on her table and disappear before she could confront me with any questions. But fate had other plans.
“Don’t run away!” she said, as I tried to slip away unnoticed. “I want to read what you have written while you’re here,” she added, with a smirk of distrust on her face. My heart sank.
My hands were clammy. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me as she ripped through the envelope and unwrapped the carefully folded letter. The silence was excruciating as she read.
Then, a smile crept across her face. She smiled! I felt relieved. While still smiling, she nodded in acknowledgement of my fine English and sweet words.
She was happy someone recognised her efforts. Then she got to the last line where I asked for “permission to complement” her efforts with a fellowship programme; a programme to pray for the school. I must say that the inspiration behind that letter was divine! She said I could go ahead with it! “In fact, wait!” she added, with sudden excitement as she searched for her pen.
“Let me sign and stamp it.” “Approved!” she declared while hitting the stamp face on the letter. I couldn’t believe it.
I remember how excited I was to share the news with my deputy, Mercy Usang, and other fellowship officers. I felt on top of the world. Mrs.
Olatunji always had a special bond with my set. She was the principal at Jibowu High School, which is a stone’s throw from the WAEC head office at Yaba. Yabatech is also in that neighbourhood.
My set was the first affected by the government’s decision to split public schools into junior and senior. We were in JSS 2 when it happened, and our principal at the time was Mrs. H.
J. Oyedeji, another disciplinarian. When Mrs Oyedeji stood on the assembly ground those days with her glasses perched perfectly on her nose ridge, the entire school would fall into eerie silence.
She was in charge and did not leave anyone in doubt of her authority. But that quiet was shattered the day our head girl slapped a male teacher, I can’t remember his name now. The slap echoed like thunder, as the school exploded into chaos.
I’ll never forget that day. The teacher had slapped the lady for an offence when she decided to massively return the favour. Many students were excited because they felt a tinge of schadenfreude due to the highhandedness of that particular teacher.
The last time I witnessed such a cathartic episode was when I was in Primary 4 at the Army Children School, Myhoung Barracks. But this one was sad. A female teacher had flogged the daughter of a soldier, who came rushing into the school compound in a fit of rage.
The teacher was heading towards the headmistress’ office for another reason when the child pointed her to her father. The next thing we heard was a deafening slap that disrupted our afternoon classes. There was confusion everywhere.
As I peeked out of our wooden window, I saw a thin stream of water run down the woman’s flowing gown to her shoes. She had peed on herself! “Somebody save me from this devilish man,” the teacher cried out as she hastened to the headmistress’ office for protection while the military man chased after her. Sorry, I digressed.
Back to Mrs. Olatunji. After the government split secondary schools into junior and senior, we were transferred from Mainland to Jibowu High School, which then became Jibowu Junior High School, where Mrs Olatunji was the principal.
By the time we were ready to move from JSS3 to SS1, we returned to Mainland, which had become Mainland Senior High School. Not long after, Mrs Oyedeji left and Mrs Olatunji was brought in from Jibowu. Her presence was commanding.
Anytime she wanted to address the assembly and there was noise, we all knew the control lever she would pull. Related News Principal lauds FGC Kaduna robotics team for sub-regional contest's feat ‘One-day principal’ seeks abducted schoolchildren’s release Ogun to prosecute parents, student for assaulting principal, teacher “When I say hold your lips, I mean..
.” “..
.hold your lips!” we would chorus in unison to complete her refrain. She was remarkable.
As I stood in the principal’s office, smiling at Mrs Olatunji’s faded portrait on the wall, where it hung alongside those of past principals, the current principal, Mr. A.A.
Oduntan noticed my admiration. “I will be retiring next Wednesday,” he said, gesturing toward the wall. “My picture will be moved from here to that side as well.
” He sounded a little downcast. He has been in the school for over five years, which is a long time. “Most principals don’t want to come here.
Your trouble (students) is too much,” Mr Oduntan said with tiredness and resignation. I laughed, thinking about how much he must have endured from those troublesome students. But I also laughed because I am not sure Mainland is anywhere close to students from its meddlesome neighbours: Angus Memorial, Morocco Comprehensive and Igbobi College.
Those days, there would be a free-for-all involving all the schools because an Angus student took the girlfriend of an Igbobi boy. The whole of Fadeyi and Mushin would be in fright and flight, until maybe military officers from the Myhoung Barracks intervened. As for those of us who were focused on books and Bible, we would be at a loss over all the drama.
But we often heard the noise outside and we relied on gossip from those who claimed to know the genesis of the fight. On one of those days, I was hurrying home when I saw a student with a bloodied eye. His friends were frantically trying to stop the heavy flow of blood from his eye socket.
It appeared his eyeball was gouged out with a sharp knife. I was haunted by that horrific image for years. This was why in my early reporting days, I was not surprised that Fadeyi and Mushin led the gang and turf wars that resulted in the gruesome killings of thousands of Lagos youths.
Most of them started early and some of their killer nicknames were acquired in school. So, when Mr Oduntan said Mainland students were troublesome, I thought this generation of students have no clue what real trouble looks like. But the principal, despite the difficulties of his job, seemed to have transformed the school, bringing different agencies to donate computers and gadgets for the use of students.
“We need more support and that is why we are inviting old students to come in,” he said. I took a walk to Uncompleted Building, an abandoned construction site where we used to play football during break time. It’s behind the main school building, hence it was also a rendezvous for all manner of delinquencies.
A student was once found with hemp in that building. Some lovers were also reportedly caught making out there. However, when I got to the site on Saturday, I was stunned to see that the structure had become a brand new block of classrooms and laboratories.
“They are preparing to start using it soon. It has not been commissioned yet,” Segun Raimi, who was my headboy and friend those days, quipped. Despite the sweeping change and clearance, I discovered that an almond tree whose branches rested on a fence bordering the school from the next compound was left untouched.
I remembered that I posed for a photograph with that old tree the day we were moving from Mainland to Jibowu as junior students. As I reached out and touched its rough bark, I wondered if it could still recognise me. Time had truly passed.
I retreated into one of the old classrooms, which was filled with stacked chairs. Standing there, all I could think was how fleeting life is. How many generations of students had come and gone.
Here today, gone tomorrow. Yet, as I reflected on the gift of life and the challenges and opportunities, I couldn’t help but be grateful. While taking pictures with old classmates, I saw how life had left its mark on all of us.
Though many had gone through the vagaries and vicissitudes of life and emerged relatively unscathed, some others sadly, didn’t survive. I remember Timothy, omo iya Blessing the school foodseller. He was a gifted footballer before life happened and he passed on.
And then, there was our adorable Augusta, who was in a Lagos ambulance for many hours without getting medical attention till life ebbed out of her after a mishap in the bathroom. Though I couldn’t stay long enough to fully soak in the moment because it was a production day for me as a journalist, I was glad I came. Seeing the faces of those who had returned to the place our friendship began filled me with a deep sense of pride.
Raimot Ajenifuja, a Muslim classmate, was a worthy ‘adversary’ in those days. She wanted to convert ‘Pastor Folarin’ who had cheekily prophesied she would become an alhaji’s third or fourth wife in the future unless she converted to my faith. When she saw me on Saturday, she ran and excitedly jumped on me like a child, and I caught her like a long-lost friend who just reunited with a playmate.
We are warriors, all of us, and this was where our story started. Up Mainland, up School! •Folarin, the Editor, Weekend Titles, can be reached via [email protected] •Have fond memories you wish to share with our readers? Get in touch with Victor Ayeni through +234815 785 5466 [email protected].
