Bittersweet 6

The lesions had virtually conquered my skin. They were relentless. I couldn’t help myself; the itch was a madness that demanded to be scratched. But the relief was short-lived. The scratching only broke the skin, releasing a clear liquid that spread across my body like a slow poison, birthing more lesions where it touched. I was a walking portrait of misery, pain, and despair.

Eventually, the tide turned. Each day found me growing a little stronger. The angry sores dried up, leaving behind a map of scars on my skin—a testament to the battle I had survived.

But survival came with a price. As soon as my uncle's wife saw that I was on my feet, my reprieve ended. The hawking continued immediately. In those days, I cannot say I was anything more than a beast of burden. I felt like a slave, I was worked like a slave, and in my tattered clothes, I looked like a slave.

I continued hawking for three more years before my uncle decided I should resume my primary school education. When he told me, I was unimaginably happy. He bought me a uniform, but handed me a pair of cheap rubber flip-flops, claiming he hadn’t the money for proper sandals. I didn’t mind. I was going to get an education, with or without leather on my feet.

I think I was the only child in the entire school who shuffled into class in bathroom slippers. Naturally, I became the butt of cruel jokes. My schoolmates pointed and laughed. I would put up a brave front, holding my head high, but inside, my heart was crying.

I had thought schooling would ease the burden of my house chores, but I thought wrong. I was still required to complete every task I had done before my admission. By nightfall, I would fall onto my mat, dead tired, sleeping heavily like a log of wood.

And then, a ray of sunshine broke through the gray.

I gained admission to St. Monica’s Girls' Grammar School in Ondo. Because of the distance, my uncle was forced to put me in the boarding house. I was ecstatic! Freedom at last!

To step through the gates of St. Monica’s was to cross an invisible border into a land of terrifying order and serenity. It was a world apart from the dusty, frantic streets where I had hawked my wares. The chaos of the outside world—the blaring horns of lorries, the shouting of market women—seemed to die at the school walls, replaced by the rhythmic tolling of the bell and the synchronized footsteps of hundreds of girls in blue.

The compound was vast, dotted with colonial-style buildings that wore their age with dignity. Tall, ancient trees stood like silent sentinels, their leaves whispering secrets in the breeze, casting dappled shadows over the raked sand paths that we dared not disturb with a careless foot. The air here smelled different—crisper, cleaner, scented with the frangipani and Queen of the Night flowers that bloomed in the well-tended gardens. It was a place where "cleanliness was next to godliness," a maxim scrubbed into the very concrete of the dormitories.

I was assigned a "school mother" from a wealthy home who ensured I lacked nothing. For the first time in my life, I was shown pure kindness, and I lapped up every bit of it like a starving cat. She became my god. She took one look at my flip-flops, trashed them, and bought me proper leather and rubber sandals. I finally walked with dignity.

The teachers were friendly, mostly missionaries. The Europeans outnumbered the local teachers; they had come to Nigeria to set up educational centers for the advancement of God’s kingdom. Yet, it was amazing that among these European missionaries, a few looked down on us, treating us as inferior. I often wondered: the God they claimed to worship—the God for whom they embarked on this long journey—loves us with an everlasting, no-holds-barred love. Yet, they did not. What, then, was the purpose of their journey?

There was one teacher I loved dearly, second only to my school mother. Her name was Miss Dicks, an European woman.

She lived in a bungalow set slightly apart from the noise of the classrooms and dorms. We called it "The Lodge." The approach to the lodge was a test of nerve, a pathway lined with flowers that looked too perfect to be real, their colors vivid against the whitewashed walls. The veranda was wide and cool, shaded by the overhang of the roof, with rattan chairs that looked like they were made for sipping tea, not for resting weary bodies like ours.

One afternoon, she invited me and some other girls in my class to this sanctuary. We went in the evening, shy and excited.

Inside, the ambiance was intimidatingly domestic. While we slept on iron beds and kept our belongings in metal lockers, Miss Dicks’ lodge was soft. There were rugs that swallowed the sound of your sandals. There were bookshelves lined with volumes that smelled of old paper and foreign lands. The windows were draped with lace, filtering the harsh African sun into a gentle, golden glow.

She served us creamy tea and sweet cookies, sharing the word of God and encouraging us to be the best versions of ourselves. We sat on the edge of the soft furniture, terrified of making a mess.

About half an hour later, we rose to leave, thanking her profusely for her hospitality. But she stopped us, calling our attention to the refreshments still sitting on the table.

“And who are you expecting to drink the tea and eat the cookies left on your plates?” she asked, her tone mild but firm.

We looked at each other, fidgeting, nervous. I was the only one bold enough to speak up—perhaps my experience insisting on collecting money from stubborn customers while hawking soda on the streets of Akure had given me a unique courage.

“Ma,” I stammered, “we didn’t finish it because we do not want you to think we are ara oko... I mean, local people. ”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening. “But you have just shown you are local by leaving leftovers! When someone serves you anything, you eat and drink it all up to show you are learned and appreciative. You leave nothing behind!”

“We are sorry, Ma,” we chorused.

We hastily sat back down, devouring the creamy tea and the sweet cookies until the plates were clean, surrounded by the quiet elegance of the lodge.

I learned a lesson that day: leave nothing behind.