Starting primary school was a unique, and unforgettable experience. As a little boy of 6, my father had taken me to Bata at the time situated on Forestry Road in Benin City to buy me a pair of sandals, and a tin box for my books. For a child, there’s nothing like the smell of a new exercise book, a new pair of sandals and sparkling khaki and white uniforms. My school was Holy Cross Primary School on Mission Road, Benin City.
Reading was never a problem for me. My father had adequately prepared me for that with a cane in one hand, and the Queen’s Primer in his other hand. It is difficult to forget that picture of a father in a poise of love and discipline for a child he had brought into the world. I did not have to eat much of the cane as I was enthusiastic about reading in the first place, having been denied the ability to play with my friends due to the plague of illness. Whatever disease a child could contract, I contracted. This left me with no option but to bury myself in picture books from a very early age. I loved Cinderella. I loved Alibaba and the 40 Thieves. I also loved Arabian Nights Tales, and the Daily Times. I remember vividly reading the story of the impending Nigerian Civil War at the time.
I wondered what Christ had to do with Crisis, and also wondered how a war could be civil when people were going to die. I would always take these questions to my dad and he would carefully explain everything to me.
Papa was a good man.
The whole learning process and excitement of school changed for me in Primary Three when for some reason, some fellow in my class decided to pick on me. I was fragile. I hated fights because I thought if I got into a fight, someone might just kill me. I was that consumed with fright that I did everything to avoid (Ovbiakpo), a name which in English translates to Short man devil or miserable short man or the son of a short man, and a diminutive man himself.
Pick one and make it fit.
In class, he took pleasure in staring at me and warning me that we would see after school. At the sound of the last bell, I would just take off and run home. I was terrified of him for two years until Primary 5 when a boy also named Michael transferred from out of town to my school. He was big and strong. Because he was also named Michael, we struck an instant friendship.
When he noticed my fear of the bully, he promised me that it must stop, and that he would stand with me, but first, I must stand for myself. He said step number one was for me to strike doubt and fear in the mind of the bully by strolling towards him to stare him down.
I was scared at his suggestion, but at this point, with his promise to stand with me, my fear had mostly evaporated.
At the end of class that day, I did as I was told. To my great fear and consternation, instead of backing down, short man devil challenged me to a fight right away. I was 10 years old.
Let’s do it!
Boys are interesting. Our parents sent us to school to study. If only they knew half of the things we did in school, our mothers would never let us out of their sights.
And so, we went in a group of about 10 kids, and jumped the school fence to the backyard of a house. There was a very conspicuous arrangement in the backyard for the juju that the family had set up with some red oil and dead chicken as sacrifice to their gods.
As was the custom at the time, in order for a fight to begin, a person would appoint himself the referee or umpire by holding sand in both hands. The fighters would have to knock off the sand in the hand closer to them to indicate the start of the fight. Short man devil, being very confident, he went for the sand. I did not see the sand. My eyes were focused squarely on him. The moment he hit the sand, an adrenaline rush took over. I rushed at him and pushed him into the juju. I started to rain blows on him as he tried to free himself from the stench. He lost his ability to fight back. The crowd carried me up in the air and declared me winner. He was not going to concede defeat because he said I cheated by not knocking off the sand. He challenged me to another fight. For some reason, everyone thought he had a point, and we set a challenge for the following week. This time, we went across the road from the school by a sand mound.
We both hit the sand and he started to bounce around like he was Muhammad Ali. I went after him with my renewed confidence. We exchanged punches until he fell to the ground. I jumped on top of him and fed him sand in his mouth, and his eyes until the fight was stopped as he cried out in distress.
For the next year in Primary Six, he never as much as glanced in my direction. We graduated from Primary Six, and I went on to Secondary School at Annunciation Catholic College, Irrua, then, Edo College for Higher School Certificate, and the University of Lagos for my undergraduate studies. In January 1989, I ran into Johnbull, (not his real name), at Tejuosho market in Lagos.
We recognized each other immediately, 19 years after leaving Primary School.
He was no longer short. He was by then quite a tall and good looking fellow. He had become a medical doctor. We had a good laugh about the good old days.
Michael Ovienmhada.
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Very interesting story.
I advise you don’t go to him for anything medical, he might remember the defeat he suffered🤪