I remember coming home, when I was in Primary 4, with my face drenched in tears and my uniform torn all over. I was angry, bitter and felt cheated. My mom ran to me from the door and began to create a fuss. She knelt down, touched my chest, touched my head, pulled my limbs, all the while asking me what was wrong and who had done this to me.
I am a literature teacher in a deceptively tacky school. I don’t care much for my job and trust me, my job doesn’t care much for me. The students I teach? Average. Okay English. Okay Diction. Okay willingness to learn. Just Okay everything. Sometimes, I think my average unprogressive life might actually be rubbing off on them. But hey, I’m not here to talk about my trials, tribulations, worries, sorrows,
When I was younger, I misconstrued a lot of things, and I grew up with a lot of misinterpretations. This was partly because Nigerians, generally, are sarcastic people and partly because I was a little awkward as a child. For instance, up until I was about 12 years old, I honestly thought the word ‘indeed’ meant ‘you’re lying’. Because, if I said ‘I’m serious, I didn’t do anything’ the reply