THE UNIVERSITY OF LIFE
CHAPTER TWO: BLISSFUL TIMES
Thatcher College was a private secondary school, established by a female educationist, famously called 'the mummy of multitude'; though she was a biological mother of one. She had resigned from the government employment as an educational administrator after many years of meritorious service, to establish her own school. The name of the school had been borne out of the pseudonym, 'Lady Thatcher', given to her during her service years in the government, because of her uncompromising stance on the issues of values and ethics. The school fast grew into renown due to its enviable standard, built on a sustained culture of rigid discipline. She had managed the school for just five years before she died. After her death, her daughter, who had been based abroad, returned home to assume the control of the school. Her assumption of control coincided with the enrolment of the triad of Abike, Hubert and Ebube arrived at Thatcher College.
The school was often referred to as ‘the cream school’, because of its traditional colour, cream, dominantly used for virtually everything there: the buildings, the uniform, the walls, the gates, etc. each of which also bore touches of brown. The extremely beautiful school comprised a set of three cream-painted single-storey buildings, connectively constructed in a U-shape. The capacious space between them had a carpet of lush lawn beautifully laid across it. The trimmed edges of the lawn were paved, and had tubs of flowers lining them. The capacious space did host different events such as the morning assembly/devotions, various sporting activities, and some other open-air academic programmes. From the gateway, a pathway stretched leftwards down to a spacious backyard, filled with short grasses.
The three buildings were labelled blocks A, B and C, and each of the blocks had four rooms with two restrooms on each floor. Block A, which had its side facing the school entrance, had the laboratories, as well as the library, on the top floor, while the ground floor had the reception room, neighboured immediately by the school head's office. The bursary office and a big staff room also stood on that same floor. Block B, fronting the school entrance and abutting on the first and the third blocks had the junior classes occupying all the four rooms on the ground floor, while the first-year seniors occupied the top floor. Block C had the second-year seniors on the ground floor and the final year students on the top floor. A sentry box stood to the right of the gate for the gatekeeper, and a detached building stood beside it, stretching behind the wall of the first block. The detached building comprised a well-equipped sick bay, a store room and a very large hall.
Abike, Hubert, and Ebube were inseparable friends, and because of the similar kind of weird intelligence they possessed, they were nicknamed 'the three wise ones' by other pupils in the school. Abike had very stunning looks, accentuated by her very light complexion; and added to her physical endowment was her great intelligence. But her major minus was her reservation. Ebube was equally very light and beautiful, and was also very brilliant. She was reserved too, but not as reserved as Abike. They both were in the Arts. Hubert was the most brilliant of the three, but obviously the least blessed in looks. Majoring in science, he had always brilliantly stood out in the whole of the school, with his brilliance cutting across all the subjects he was taking. He was the most reserved of the three. Ebube had an uncanny passion for History and Literature, while Abike's mastery of English had no parallel in the entire school. Their similar dispositions had brought them together. The triad had, at different times, represented their school, collectively or individually, and had won for the school, several laurels.
The exigency to return to her business and her family abroad made the proprietress, who had also doubled as the principal of the school, shop for a replacement for herself. She painstakingly searched for and got a very competent hand, a male, named Mr. Nuttal Wolsey. The triad just got into their fourth year at Thatcher College when the new principal arrived. Many students and teachers alike, who had moaned and groaned about the high handedness of the former head, heaved sighs of relief at her departure. But they were soon jolted when Mr. Wolsey first unveiled a bit of his core personality, by strengthening the existing Code of Conduct for teachers and consolidating the rules and regulations for students. He aimed to stem the tide of the growing trend of uncensored relationships among the teachers and the students. Everyone in the school soon realized that a pinch was better than a punch after all! Mrs. 'Thatcher', as the proprietress was being called – the same way her mother was called – was a better evil than Mr. Nuttal, who also soon got tagged as Mr. 'Nettle'.
Mr. Nuttal Wolsey, a very handsome middle-aged man, was of mixed race. His mother was English, while the father was Nigerian. The father had married the mother in England. During the colonial times, his father had been one of the very few Nigerians that got the rare colonial grace to study abroad. After his graduation and having proven himself deserving of the investment, he got placed in one of the British companies in England. He later got married to a British woman who bore him his only child, Nuttal Wolsey. Wolsey had returned with his father to Nigeria, at ten, a few years after his mother's death. He grew up in the protestant church, for his father later became a protestant priest. He strongly determined to be an educator, and he trained in America, where he got his first and his second degrees in education before returning home. He had taught for ten years before his assumption of control at Thatcher College. His rigid ideals were informed by his strict Christian parentage and his protestant background.
Shortly after his arrival at the College, he made sweeping changes. Aside the Code of Conduct he strengthened for teachers and the rules and regulations he consolidated for the students, he raised the pass mark higher, from the traditional 50 percent to 60 percent. He also reviewed the scoring system, changing the score allotted to continuous assessment from 30 percent to 40 percent, and that allotted to examination, from 70 percent to 60 percent. He explained he observed that students had always paid more attention to examination than to the daily class works constituting the continuous assessment, making many of them score woeful marks in their continuous assessment and better scores in their examinations. The most scorching part of the policy was that any students who didn't scale the pass bar in their core subjects, at the end of a session, would be asked to repeat their current classes. While many students dropped out of the school because they could not obtain the pass mark and would not want to repeat their classes, some new students got enrolled in the school, and many of the new parents confessed that the school's strict emphasis on standard had endeared the school to them, and advised the school not to relent. Also, he introduced some democratic ideas in the school, by encouraging the election of school prefects through secret balloting by the teaching staff and the senior students; in contrast with the previous policy whereby prefects were imposed on the students as well as the teachers by the school.
He recommended some of his teachers for retraining and saw to the comfortable retrenchment of two poorly trained and unsure teachers. He ensured a rise in their pay, and ensured the provision of other important benefits, all in a bid to spur them to give their best. The unprecedented dedication he showed towards the welfare of his teachers silenced the teachers' groaning about his highhandedness, and soon, they personalized his creed that “what is worth doing is worth doing well”. The college totally wore a new look.
It was a blazing Thursday afternoon and closing time at the school, and the accompanying rowdiness of such time was heightened apparently by the ecstatic feeling among the students about the four-day mid-term break that was to commence the following day. Many students would even wish the break was longer, for only at such times would they have some respite from the choking standards of Thatcher College. The four-day break was a welcome relief nonetheless!
As vehicles of different sizes, shapes and colour drove in and out of the school compound, picking up students, the triad were standing at the front of their classroom on the balcony of the top floor, chatting, as they waited for Abike's father's driver to arrive. It had been the ritual that the driver would come to pick the three at closing times. Because Hubert's house was close to the school, and being a slave to punctuality, he never rode to school in the car with the girls, as he always wanted to get to school earlier; though he did ride with them in the afternoons after closing. Many in the school nicknamed him 'the early bird'. His father, a strict disciplinarian, had trained him to be an early riser. Abike's father's driver would always stop by at Ebube's house in the mornings to collect her, and would later drop her off in the afternoons.
From all the top floor balconies of the buildings, one could see, though from different angles, the happenings on the street. The girls, leaning on the balustrade, were gossiping about whatever caught their fancy: the multifarious vehicles driving in and out; the motley groups of students trickling out of the school in their cream and brown uniforms, and making their ways home; the different sets of students from other schools, strewn on the street, making home in different tempers of motion – some strolling, some hurrying, and some padding out of exhaustion. Hubert was sitting a short distance away from the two girls, and was flicking through a book, rather absent-mindedly.
The girls suddenly had their attention caught by a four-wheel drive, driven into the compound. From its back seat, a man of middling age, besuited, eased himself out. A short distance away, a female student tore herself away from her group of female friends and ran across the lawn, towards the man, who quickly opened his arms wide for her to jump into. She flung herself into his open arms and clung so affectionately to him. He kissed her lovingly on both cheeks.
“That would be the father based in London,” Ebube presumed.
“How did you know?” asked Abike.
“Know what…? That he is the father or that he is based in London?”
“Both!” Abike curtly said. She knew how naughty and childish Ebube could get at times.
“Haven't you got eyes to see?” Ebube snapped. “Can't you see the glaring resemblance on their faces? Doesn't that tell what or who he is? That adds to the fact that the preppy, arrogant motor mouth of a girl had been shooting her mouth off about the 'very rich' father staying in London, and about the same father coming home today. So, read between the lines.”
“You and your peppery mouth!” Abike twitched her left ear.
“Ouch, that hurts!” She grimaced. “Wait a minute! Look at the man. Can you see what I see?”
“What?”
“The man; he bears a close resemblance to your father.” The man in question was now warmly shaking hands with the daughter's friends, who had walked up to him to greet him.
“You always see things, Ebube!” Abike snapped
“Joking aside, look deeply.”
Abike fixed a deep look on the man.
“For the first time in a long time, I think you are right,” she giggled. “He's my father's lookalike; even in the way he kissed the girl a short while ago. That is the exact way my dad kisses me too.” She said and Ebube gave her a weird look.
“He's so fond of me that he re-christened me Eyinbabi and Oluwafunto.”
“Eyinba-what? What sort of name is that? Is it a Yoruba name?”
“Yes, it is. According to him, it means 'The child I could have had'”
“Strange! 'The one I could have had'? All that for a single name?” Ebube mocked. “And Oluwafunto means what?”
“It means 'The child God gave me to nurture.' She explained, smiling broadly. “I love the fondness with which he calls the names. He calls 'Yinbabi,' for short, and he calls Oluwafunto with some emphatic fondness. He'll say 'Oluwafunmito'. I love him so much I don't want to believe his exceptional kind exists elsewhere on planet earth.”
Ebube turned her nose up at her, and said, “Haven't you just seen one n-?” But she stopped short as she turned to see the man downstairs in the compound, but found he had left. He had driven off while the girls were engrossed in their gossip.
“No. That man is no match for my father. He may look like him-“
“And kiss like him!” Ebube cut in.
“Even at that, he still is no match for him. My dad is very fond of my mother and me–”
“And who says the man is not fond or even fonder of his own family than your father is, of you?” Ebube interrupted
“He calls mother and me the apples of his eyes.”
“And you think the other man doesn't use more endearing words for his own family?” Ebube cut in again.
Abike gave her a look that seemed to mean she should stop the childish interruptions and taunts.
“I am yet to see any genuinely new man like him,” Abike raved on. “For instance, he passionately insists against gender sentiments, and he will say no house chore is sexually exclusive. It may interest you to know that most times, he does the chores with me, and often, he does them alone.”
Ebube couldn't hide her puzzlement. Hubert had given up his reading and had become drawn into the girls' conversation.
“He is a willing helper in the home, doing some domestic chores that, traditionally, are seen as women's exclusive duties. He often tidies up the home himself, because he is so house-proud. Many times, he does his laundry himself, and he cooks too. He will stubbornly insist on doing them, even when mum refuses to let him do them. Often, she will cry, saying people, especially his own people, will give her names if they get to know he does house chores himself. But trust him; he is never perturbed. He'll tell us not to listen to people's gossip and ranting. Besides, he will never hear of the idea of employing home helps. He says it's a way of enslaving others. He says a task becomes lighter if everybody does his part, and does it well. Though I enjoy the attention and care he gives me, I can't help often feeling stifled by his overfondness. You can't be secretive with him. He is damn gifted at coaxing someone into baring one's mind to him. He will give me one thousand and one reasons why I have to confide in him. I must confess that I enjoy telling him things though.”
“You enjoy that helicopter parenting?” Ebube asked.
“Helicopter parenting; what is that? You and your big words,” Abike said
“That's what your dad does; helicopter parenting, suspiciously hovering over you, wanting to know your every move and action.”
“Whatever! Since he tells me things about himself, I have no fear telling him things about myself. I see him as a trusted confidant.”
“Do you also discuss your very feminine 'stuff' with him?”
“Of course, I very well do. In fact, from him, I have learnt so much about femininity. Can you beat that? He knows a lot more feminine things than many females, such as my mother, do. I remember one of his jokes that menstruation is the uterus weeping because pregnancy did not happen.”
“He's really weird!” Ebube teased. Hubert stifled a smile. “I can't stand the idea of having to reel off the 'very' private feelings of mine to anybody, not even my mother. Secret is only secret when kept by only one person, not by two or by a multitude.”
“You talk as if it's so strange and unwise to confide in one's parents,” Hubert finally spoke. “What are they our parents for if we can't confide in them?”
“Keep quiet, you! You can't understand, because you are a boy! Girls have more secrets and private feelings than boys do, you know.” Ebube defended
“Doesn't God himself sanction confidential talk between our parents and us? There is salvation in multitude of counsellors,” Abike advised.
“Thanks for the sermon, superior sister Yinbabi. Did your dad tell you that too?” Ebube teased.
“Haven't you got a bible in your house, dunce?” Abike lashed out.
“I see. Now it's the bible.”
“Joking apart, Ebube, does it really mean you don't share your thoughts and feelings with your mum?” Hubert asked.
“I do, but very infrequently, I will say.”
“You two don't talk, as in, a heart-to-heart talk?” Abike asked.
“Of course, we do, barrister!”
“Then what do you talk about?” Abike pressed on.
“Interesting issues and lots of other stuff, of course”
Lots of other stuff! Hubert thought. He was obviously bored with Ebube's argument. He cut in.
“My father doesn't need to coax you before you tell him things. He seems to have eyes like a hawk, and will detect your errors and everything. He won't allow just any behaviour under his roof. If you make mistakes, especially silly and avoidable ones, be sure you are in for a storm.”
“My father never beats me,” Abike said, “but mum surely does spank and smack once when necessary, and she will always say smacking and lashing are part of child training. She will say 'he that spareth his rod hateth his son, but he that loveth him chasteneth him.' Daddy will rather counsel me whenever I err.”
“Just like my mother!” Ebube chipped in. 'She never beats me. Before, whenever I erred, she would tell me no one was born perfect, and that I must learn by my errors. She would then have me promise her never to do such things again. Many times, I had erred and had apologized and promised to be of better conduct, only for me to commit same offence again and again. When later, she realized how false my promises had always turned out to be, she began getting a bit tough and harsh, especially verbally. She still doesn't beat me really, except for her bluster.” She searched her friends' faces as if expecting them to rebuke her. “I know I'm guilty,” she quickly added, “for taking advantage of her 'weakness'.”
“You really are lucky,” Hubert said. “Such privilege you so much abuse, doesn't exist in my house. My father can't be bribed such cheaply. Even if he needed your remorse and promises of better conduct, he would rather you give them forcefully in between his hot lashes” Abike peered at her watch again
“I think your dad is a perfectionist!” Ebube said “People like that tend to magnify other people's fault beyond proportion, and they are never easy to please. I don't wish to have such as a father.”
“Ebube, watch your mouth!” Abike cautioned
“I'm sorry if I sounded rude, but I can't imagine myself living in such strained atmosphere as of his house.”
“Yet unrepentant!” Abike said and tickled her. The ticklish Ebube jumped
“Stop it! I hate that thing,” she said amidst laughter
“Then stop harassing Hubert!”
“And what are you? A defender of the defenceless? Can't you see he's enjoying it? Isn't he used to enjoying weird things – the beatings from his father, for instance?“ They all laughed.
Obviously undeterred by Ebube's mocking words, Hubert pressed on. “My father will tell you discipline is training that corrects the mind and heart; that children need it constantly.”
“That’s just a mere excuse for always wanting to hit and spank you at the slightest provocation?” Ebube cut in.
“I disagree with you, Ebube! That the cow steps on her calves doesn't mean she hates them. Rod and reproof are what give wisdom. So, stop sounding so childish and rebellious!” Abike stood in defence.
“I see! But how much of the rod or the reproof do you get?” She snapped in defence.
“And is it a business of yours to question how his father trains him or how my parents deal with me? Does the fact that your parent doesn't discipline you as ours do to us give you the right to question their values? Every parent trains his/her child the way (s)he believes is the best. And as far as I am concerned, whatever values our various parents, including yours, have adopted in training us, have been working. Or haven't we turned out to be good and responsible children? Hasn't the Hubert you so much taunt or I, or you yourself, been an exemplar of what a normal and reasonable child should be? Would you rather one of us be like Paul?”
Abike's words were like blows that slammed shut the peppery mouth of Ebube. The words seemed to make her see how wrong she truly was to question others' values, especially when the values are working well. Two things however yet bothered her: Why didn't Hubert ever fight back whenever she taunted him, and why would Abike always so strongly defend him? For his silence at her taunts, Ebube felt Hubert was too docile for her liking. She felt the silence could simply be that 'male thing', as she had once read that the configuration of the masculine brain makes men less of conversationalists. However, for Abike's constant defence of him, Ebube couldn't help nursing some jealousy towards her, thinking something could be transpiring between them. But whatever her thoughts were, she would rather keep them to herself now. Abike again peered at her watch, and asked rather rhetorically
“What's keeping this man?”
“Traffic, may be. It's very unlike him, you know,” Ebube defended. She faced Hubert, “Won't you put your skates on and start going home?”
“Don't start!” Abike cut in, gesturing to Ebube that she would tickle her if she persisted. Hubert merely smiled diffidently.
“Hasn't he ever told you his father beats him whenever he gets home late? Aren’t I only trying to help him save his neck?”
“Why weep more than the bereaved? Let him worry about his own problems,” Abike defended.
“He knows I care about him. I really wish I could just wave the magic wand and instil some clemency in his father's heart.” Ebube said.
Abike peered again at her watch and now looked somewhat restless.
“Half past three,” she muttered. An hour had flown by since the closing time. A pocket of students could still be seen around, singly or in groups, either waiting some drivers to come take them or still waiting to catch some fun.
“Talking seriously now, Hubert,” Ebube resumed. “How do you always feel whenever your dad beats you? I remember my mum told me that children tend to develop some hatred towards someone inflicting punishment or any other forms of pains on them. I guess that's why she doesn't beat me; for fear that I may hate her if she does.”
Abike suddenly flashed a smile as she espied the long-awaited driver drive a saloon car into the school compound.
“At last!” She heaved a sigh. “Time to go!” They all got their bags and made towards the stairs.
“About what you said the other time,” Hubert said as they all slowly descended the stairs, “such thoughts have never and will never cross my mind. My father always says his beating me is a sign that he loves me, and I think he's right.”
The loud honking of the horn, unmistakably from the waiting saloon car, rent the air, and they quickened their steps, knowing it was the driver calling out to them.
“Look at Paul. I learnt his parents are so fond of him that they allowed him an unlimited indulgence. That's why he's grown so spoilt, uncivil, cruel and unmanageable.”
When they got to the car, the driver apologized to them, pleading traffic for his late coming. They were soon driven away.
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