THE DAY 1 WILL NEVER FORGET
The day I will never forget is the day my school teacher died. His name was ChimaJiuwa. He stood at about 5.8 feet, very dark in complexion — the type referred to as jet or ebony black. With a solid physic: better described as athletic, rather than stocky; slightly big head proportionate to his body, prominent forehead, flat nose, thick lips and shiny brown eyes. He could neither be described as ugly nor handsome. However, his athletic physic and skills, and his enthusiastic spirit were notable qualities that endeared him to the students. Always exuberant, bubbling with life, he doubled as our sports master and led us on our monthly cross
country. This was always a fun time for students, (especially we the boys) as it afforded us the opportunity to socialize with the female students. Come to think of it now, I believe this went for the girls too, even though they did not betray their feelings as much as we did. Ours was a co — education or mix school but the school maintained a high level of discipline which did not give room for much interaction or what could be deemed as inappropriate behavior between opposite genders.
I may not recall exactly when or how ours moved from student teacher relationship to that of mutual friends despite the differences in age and position. But I am pretty sure why. This was during my second and third year in high school and I was about 14 and 15 years old respectively. Mr. Jiuwa, as he was known and called, taught us Literature and History which happened to be my best subjects. I was always active in class — answering questions and reading passages when asked to - and my performance or score in those subjects was always high and commendable, hence I became his favorite student. Mr. Jiuwa himself, was still a very young man at the time, about 23, (he was 25 when he died) though I did not realize it then. Perhaps, the reason was by that time l, as a teenager and due to his affection towards me, had come to look up to him as a mentor; sort of a role model; a big brother and friend. And he was, I believe, more than glad and willing to be so regarded.
By the way, it all began, one afternoon, after classes, when Mr. Jiuwa asked me to help carry his books home. Actually, these were students' exercise books; he had previously given us an assignment and was taking the books home to mark. I was obviously elated to be seen as the teacher's boy. We had gone to his house and ate lunch together. From that day, we were good and I even strove to excel in my preferred subjects to gain his commendation, and he did not disappoint.
Even though my parents at the time could not be described as being rich, but since most of the folks in our community were generally poor by all standards and illiterate, we were regarded as the elite and envied. My father had a diploma in accounting, and worked for an oil company in Lagos, about 500 miles from home; while my mother ,who doubled as house wife and a seamstress, shouldered the onerous burden of raising us at home, all seven children. Mother was, at least literate, having gone on to primary five, the equivalent of 8 grades here, I think. At that time in my country, Nigeria, even primary education was not free and high school was relatively expensive, (my father had vowed to train all his children up to high school level) and training seven children, with 3 or 4 in high school at the same time, was no mean fit. Still my father ruled that we must leave in dormitory. Despite the attendant financial burden, he made this decision, knowing the challenges and distractions living outside the school premises (as a day student) could pose. So he used to send our tuition before the beginning of each term.
But it happened in one occasion, at the beginning of my third year, my younger sister gained admission into high school. The first year always required more money to fix up a new student: new school uniforms, portmanteau chop box, school locker, reading desk, toiletries, provisions and pocket money etc. Then, certain additional (one time) fees to be paid. Add this to the fact that she_was the last born of the family and her case merits a preferential treatment. My second sister was in her final year (another priority case) and my immediate older brother was also in school with our dad in Lagos, and there was no way he could quit school or wait at home for Dad to come up with the fees. So that leaves me as the odd man out. Therefore, I had to wait till the next month for Dad to eke out my school fees. Meanwhile, the rule was, while you could attend classes for a while until you came up with school fees, no one would permit you to live in the dormitory without paying first. And since I could attend classes until my Borden house fee arrived, I stayed with Mr. Jiuwa during this period, which brought us closer, too.
I had also at this time become acquainted with Mr. IbeNwankwor, a teacher in a neighboring school, and Mr. Jiuwa's best friend. Mr. Nwankwor taught Mathematics at St. Anne's Girl School, about eight miles from ours. Actually, they were childhood friends and grew up together in the same village. In fact, they were relations, I think third cousins or so! Even though, they were separated by a relative distance in a rural setting, at a time when the major mode of transport was bicycle, they were often found together. This was because Mr. Nwankwo had a little motorcycle and he visited often mostly during weekends. Both were young and brilliant ( Ibe was a year younger), and a shared many experiences and similar choices together. For example, they had attended the same schools, right from primary to teachers training college, (TTC). They had chosen the same career: teaching-and they both taught in high school, in the same state and local government area.
And, perhaps, that was where the comparison ended. Every other thing about them was in contrast. Ibe (as his friend called him), was tall, (about six feet three), fair in complexion (referred to as yellow), with a narrow, somewhat broody face and a pointed nose. Unlike his friend, he appeared very reserved and shrouded in such aura or demeanor of placidity that it took some effort to excite or draw him out in an unfamiliar setting. But it is a different thing when he was in the company of friends, especially his best friend, Chima. Not that he was shy, not really. Even though he was the younger, he appeared more composed, and calm, not given to exuberance. They were always seen together, more especially during the holidays after schools had vacated and they had more time to spend. And so it was, on that fateful day.
It was during the December holidays, a few days before Christmas. This was the Harmattan season, my favorite period of the year. It was festive period and most people, especially we children, were always in a blissful mood, expectant of good happenings, very excited. It was a bright and sunny day, and that particular afternoon the sun was at its zenith and were it not for the Harmattan wind that blew it's breeze to cool the atmosphere, it would have been a very discomforting and frustrating day. But now, the breeze was blowing, the sky blue and radiating so much brightness with such intensity that blinded your eyes when you gazed at it.
Earlier, that morning, I had little problem convincing my mom to allow me go to the stream, about seven miles from home, with my mates ostensibly to fetch water. She had been a bit reluctant knowing my real motive was to go swimming since I could go to a nearer location to fetch from the tap; and moreover, she was apprehensive for my safety. But I finally succeeded in convincing her I would not drown. By the way, I was neither going alone nor was I the only one that did not really know how to swim. She had caved in, but warned I should not spend the whole day there and I agreed. Although, it often happeneg,buWpfanned to go watch a football (what America calls soccer) match later that afternoon, so surprisingly, I did not disappoint. And my mom was glad.
I had dosed off, a few moments before, while resting in my room when I woke up abruptly; perhaps, after overhearing some people talking loudly and excitedly, still in my subconscious state. What alerted me, I believe, must have been the ominous tone of their conversation. They sounded alarmed or disturbed by whatever they were discussing. And Sunday, my cousin, obviously the bearer of the news, (l recognized his voice) had inquired whether I was at home. That was enough to bring me out. No doubt, knowing my relationship with the victim, he thought it very pertinent to come break the news to me. He gave it to me quickly, without even considering the resultant impact. Summary, my teacher had been involved in a fatal auto accident, of course, together with his best friend, and it was feared that both were dead. They died on the spot. The scene was about three and a half miles from my home on a main road that led to our school.
Without sparing one moment to think, I had jump on my bicycle and began to pedal furiously to the scene and arrived in no time. I had jumped down, threw aside the bicycle and began to push my way through the great crowd that had gathered, to behold the terrible sight. The was the mangled body of Mr. Jiuwa lying in a pool of blood with his head crushed, beyond recognition, and his brains spattered on the tarred road. A little further away, was the body of IbeNwankwor, his inseparable companion, even in death, also in a pool of blood, but not so much mutilated. But dead anyhow; both died on the spot. They were on their way to the school to collect their salary. Actually, it was rather Mr. Jiuwa who had gone in company of his friend to collect his pay. It was few days before Christmas. He needed the money. In those days, during the 1980"s, there were no rural banking. Banks were only found in the town and ours was about fifteen miles from the school. The school bursar would go withdraw the money and return to school and teachers would line up to receive their pay, or come whenever they want but it must be within certain period oftime. They were riding on Ibe's motorbike when a motorist came behind and hit them, knocked them off in the middle of the road while an oncoming car finished them off in gruesome style. Of course, those evil men had escaped before people could arrive.
I had stood, gazing at the bodies, transfixed, mortified. I a couple days after that I was told what had happened. I had suffered from shock and was admitted in the hospita . By the time had recovered, the funeral had already taken placed and of course, I missed it. Many years had gone, since then, about thirty years ago, and I am now a grown man. My memory has waned, and my recollection of so many events that occurred both before and after then has faded. Yet there is one day I will never forget. That horrible spectacle in December along the roadside , thirty years ago, that marked the end of my school teacher ,