By Odolaye Aremu
I salute all of those individuals who taught me one thing or many others; from knowing how to bathe myself to tying my shoelace in brisk, secured knots, to understanding the concept of “smelling the approach” of a heavy downpour and precisely predicting it. The trick to training the nostrils to latch onto the shift in the denseness in the atmospheric air is one not mastered by many. I particularly salute my late Grandfather for that. My “Jeleosinmi” Teacher, Mr. Ayoade, the “vertically-challenged”, tribal-marked Ijeshaman who was himself, mere inches taller than his pupils. He was paid in nothing but “loosies”, loads of kolanuts and all the food he could eat in my late grandmother’s roadside canteen-for free. For what he was paid; Baba-jesha, conscientiously prepared me way too much for primary school. Mrs Opabunmi, Mrs Eweje, Mrs Bechi, Mrs Olawunni, Mrs Awoshika- the very brilliant woman who was “hard of hearing”-a condition suspiciously non-congenital, but possibly acquired from too many battering she got from a very moody husband. A man who from a better perspective now, couldn’t possibly handle a certified “Genius” for a wife. She has a Doctorate in Mathematics at the present time. I ran into her a few years ago. Sadly, her only son Tobi, died in a drowning accident. We cried together and I willingly offered myself as a “replacement” son if that to her makes any sense. After all she taught me more than all the others, and I showed her my mother’s trick of how to make a bowl of smooth, lumpless Eba if that helped stay the quick hands of her husband from ever striking her, ever again! Mrs. Opabunmi again, Mrs Otoki, Mrs Olujide, Mr. Sanyaolu, Mr. Akintoye, Mr. Eyiowuawi and the sadistic Mr. Famadewa!
I especially remember Mr. Famadewa, a tall, handsome, lanky, light-complexioned guy who hailed possibly from Modakeke or Ile-Ife; as he spoke the English Language and his native Yoruba language with a heavy accent traceable to anyone of those twin, but rancorous towns. It was he, who in Form 3 brutalized me for an infraction he imagined I committed. He went into a frenzied rage and flogged me till his many canes lost their integrity and whittled away, one after the other like too many overused toothbrushes of kids living faraway from home, and whose overbearing mothers weren’t around to command them to dispose of them. He resorted to kicks and blows afterwards- against me, just a kid that I was- and totally innocent of any crime! He beat me all day till the end of school hours. He later took me to the usually busy, and dreaded Staff-Room- where his colleagues took turns to verbally belittle me, some even threw pointed jabs or deft backhand slaps my way as if to add to the systemic physical abuse initiated by this deranged colleague. My school uniform got ripped in many places from the vicious torrents of “Pankeres” lashes, but my hide was worse for it- with abrasions, bruises, welts and many skin tears. The second day he ejected me from the classroom and led me into an open field of overgrown vegetation. At this point, my mind had convicted me that; I indeed, must be guilty of some “grievous offense” and I deserved it all. He gave me a cutlass and commissioned me to clear a land mass equivalent to about 3 plots. Everyone of my classmate pleaded on my behalf, but this sadistic, egomaniac predictably refused! An Aunt eventually came to my school because I never could found the courage to tell my mother who was bogged down with her own life’s unintended issues. By the time my beautiful aunt came to the school to see Famadewa it was already 3 weeks or more that I have been out of the classroom, slaving away on the emergency farm I had to cultivate- to recompense for my “phantom” crime. The inside of my paIms formed painful calluses, while I became conditioned to the annoying bites of mosquitoes, gnats and other bugs. I remember some of my classmates were sympathetic enough to visit me and took the time out to help me on this hard labor. Of course, the Taskmaster mustn’t get the hint of their kind gestures. Famadewa almost drove me to suicide, but he did manage to drive me into a state of depression. It was only my will that brought me back from the brink of self-immolation. By the time I set foot in the classroom again, the term was almost done. I struggled to copy notes accumulated in hundred pages-from different subjects I already missed! And it was by sheer will again- that insurmountable will never to give up that I managed with to pass my term papers!
This day is not for the likes of Mr. FAMADEWA! A better Boxer than he could ever be a Teacher! A Punk who picked on a pint-sized, defenseless opponent. He’s a man I will never forget, neither will I ever forgive! The welts and the scars of his cane healed long ago. The emotional scar of his abuse and not knowing what I ever did wrong is as fresh as it happened many, many years ago today! My spirit shall continually disturb him, and if I am ever offered an exalted position in a dark Coven- if that would allow me give back to him what he gave to me measure for measure- I would gladly accept! Till he appeases my soul, or make well with my spirit- that’s when- the only time I shall allow him his own desired peace of mind!
I sincerely hope other teachers are paying attention. This is not a feel-good story! This is what one Mr. Famadewa did to me!
