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I was a boy once.
In Catholic boarding school. I survived the experience, I think. The
boarding school I attended as a little boy in the 70’s would be deemed
a place of abuse here in the West. Our parents thought we were getting
an education. I was about to turn 11-years-old when I started Form One.
I had skipped Primary Six because I passed the concessional entrance
examination to a highly sought-after secondary school. My mother felt I
was too young to leave the nest. My father would have none of it; once
I scaled the interview, I was sent off to go spend a nerve-wracking
five years in this school about an hour away from the city where we
lived. I did not like it, I missed my mom a lot and I just wanted to go
home.

Our boarding
school was organised around several ‘houses’, each of which
accommodated dozens of boys. There was a hierarchy of juniors, seniors
and prefects. The seniors lorded it over the juniors and the prefects
lorded it over everybody. There was an infirmary where the sick went. I
was a frequent visitor to the infirmary because malaria was my constant
companion. There was the local hospital, Zuma Memorial, owned by the
late legend, Christopher Okojie. If you had a bad case of malaria, you
went to see Dr Okojie, a compassionate but stern father figure. Many of
us would be dead today without his pioneering work. There are several
myths and tales about the good doctor. Like: this day student went to
see Dr Okojie and when he asked what he’d had for breakfast, the yeye
boy recounted imaginary stuff he’d read about in books. “Em, nothing
special sir, eggs sunny side up, two slices of toast, crumpets,
marmalade and tea!” Well, he proceeds to vomit right there and then,
come and see miracle of Galilee: hot toast and eggs sunny side up had
turned into long coils of eba and okro!

There was a
student riot. We did not like the food. The tea was weak; coloured
water, we called it. This one evening, some hot heads decided we had
had enough of the abuse. We all marched to the teachers’ quarters
chanting something revolutionary along the strains of “Beasts of
England! Beasts of Ireland!” We had been reading George Orwell’s
‘Animal Farm’ in class. We all headed to the senior tutor’s house, the
most hated man in our universe, just in time to see him flee into the
woods half-dressed. The police came and we were herded into the dining
hall where our ring leaders read the list of our demands: we wanted
bread, real tea, tins of sardines, really important stuff that would
stuff our stomachs. We also wanted the beatings to stop. And yes, no
more exams, we really, really hated those. We ate well that night. The
next day, all our ring leaders were sent packing. They never came back.

Once, our dinner
goat escaped from where it was tethered, and I have a vivid memory of
all of us chasing this cowardly goat. We caught and ate it, of course.
Juniors served the food. We got the food from the cooks and served them
in numbered dishes. The seniors always demanded more food than we were
able to provide. Once, one senior got enraged that I served him the
bitter end of yam. He chased after me as I raced away in terror and he
broke my ankle by kicking me off the ground like a soccer ball. There
were many things that happened to little boys in those hostels. Sexual
abuse by older boys was prevalent. Stubborn boys like me who fought
back were beaten or severely punished for not toeing the line. Even in
those days, I was a fighter.

Kerosene lanterns remind me of the pain of darkness. Our principal
was an Irish priest. We lived in mortal fear of him. He was built like
an angry boxer. Lights out and we had to go to bed. We preferred to
continue reading with the aid of kerosene lanterns. In his white
cassock he moved around like a spirit, you never knew when he would
steal behind you and make mincemeat of you for some infraction. There
was always an infraction; it was the Catholic Church. He was powerful.
He could beat a little boy into a pulp. For all these reasons, we
called him Akhu, the Powerful One. Akhu would surprise a little boy by
climbing into a dorm’s window and if he caught the boy reading, he
would lift him up with one arm and pummel him to sleep. The boy’s wail
would be carried from dorm to dorm: St Andrew’s, St. Mary’s, St.
Augustine’s, St. Joseph’s – these houses were named after saints. We
would hear the plaintive wail of a boy warning of the coming hell. “The
Powerful One is here! The Powerful One is here! Hide your lamps!!”
Dominus Vobiscum. Let us pray.