Bittersweet 8

It’s funny how time suddenly grows wings when you’re having fun… especially school fun.


One sunny afternoon, we were meant to have our Biology class, but strangely, our teacher, Miss Swartha, a Pakistani woman, was nowhere to be found. Ten minutes passed. Nothing. The class started getting restless.


One of my friends and I decided to go and look for her. After all, we had “waited long enough.”


We found her in the staff room, her head resting on the table.


We paused.


I exchanged glances with my friend. Then, being the slightly bolder one, I stepped forward and gently tapped her shoulder.


She stirred, sat up slowly, and let out a long yawn.


“Good afternoon, ma. It’s time for our English class, ma,” I said, adding a small curtsy for effect.


She sighed deeply and replied in her thick accent,

“Ayam veyi veyi tayaaaad.”


“I am very, very tired.”


We thanked her and left.


The moment we stepped out of the staff room, we looked at each other, and burst out laughing.


“Ayam veyi veyi tayaaaad!” we both chanted, mimicking her voice perfectly.


By the time we got back to class, we were still at it. It didn’t take long before others picked it up. Like wildfire, it spread across the room.


“Ayam veyi veyi tayaaaad!”

“Ayam veyi veyi tayaaaad!”


The whole class was chanting and laughing, completely carried away by the moment.


What we didn’t know… was that Miss Swartha had managed to gather herself and decided to come teach us after all.


She walked into the class, and met a room full of students mocking her.


The laughter died instantly.


Before anyone could say a word, she burst into tears… and ran out of the classroom straight to the principal’s office.


Silence.


Heavy, uncomfortable silence.


Less than thirty minutes later, the principal, Miss Evans, stormed into our classroom looking like thunder itself.


“You animals!” she barked. “You dare make fun of your teacher? Disrespecting her like this? Absolute nonsense! All of you—you’re going to be suspended!”


“Ah!”


Just like that.


It felt unreal.


Before we could even process what was happening, the secretary had already prepared our suspension letters. We were ordered to leave the school premises immediately.


No negotiation. No second chances.


I was sorry… but not entirely for the right reasons.


My biggest concern was that I would now have to return to my uncle’s house, to the endless chores, the rigid routine, the heaviness that place carried for me.


The others, whose homes were scattered across Ondo State, began to go their separate ways. About five of us were heading toward Akure, so we boarded a bus together.


When we got there, Moni led us to her mother’s buka at the Akure garage.


Her mother, a simple woman who couldn’t read or write, looked at us with curiosity.


“What happened?”


Moni explained everything, speaking as if she were presenting a well-rehearsed argument.


Her mother listened, then shook her head lightly.


“So they couldn’t wait till morning before sending you children away?” she said, more puzzled than angry.


That was the end of it.


No shouting and thankfully, no judgment.


She simply turned to one of the servers and said,

“Give them food.”


Soon, plates of hot pounded yam arrived, soft, steaming, perfect, served with richly seasoned bush meat, grilled to perfection.


We ate.


And ate.


And ate.


For that moment, nothing else mattered, not the suspension, not the trouble waiting for us at home.


Just food. Warm, generous food.


Afterward, I took another bus home.


Home.


A word that felt completely out of place when used for my uncle’s house.


I walked in quietly, wearing my best “something-is-wrong” face. My uncle and his wife were surprised to see me.


I handed him the letter.


He read it, nodded, and didn’t seem too bothered.


In fact, I suspect he was already thinking about how useful I would now be on his farm.


That night, his wife prepared eba.


I refused to eat.


My stomach was still full of pounded yam, the king of all foods, and bush meat. Why would I spoil that with eba of all things?


Later that night, my uncle returned from the forest behind the house where he had gone hunting for rabbits.


His sharp eyes immediately noticed.


“This girl hasn’t eaten?”


He called me.


“Why didn’t you eat?”


And just like that, I burst into tears.


“Ah! Is it because of the suspension?” he asked, his voice softer now. “You better eat something. Don’t worry, it will be resolved soon.”


But I refused to be consoled.


A few days later, we heard that the Anglican community had stepped in. They met with the principal and argued that the indefinite suspension was too harsh.


We deserved punishment, yes, but not that.


Thankfully, they listened.


By the next week, we were back in school.


Not as heroes.


Not as victims.


But as students doing menial jobs under the sun, sweeping, cleaning, carrying… paying for our moment of careless laughter.


And just like that, the sweetness and the sting of it all stayed with me.


To be continued...


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