PLAYING BY THE RULE

A Fun Day Any child who missed school any day must have been terribly ill, for no child was eager to miss the fun-packed school day. Staying home was full of problems, including millions of instant errands and tedious work on the farm under the scorching heat of the sun or the pounding tropical rain which didn’t mind pushing down any weak clay house in the village. School was full of fun. There was the early morning parade with the famous school marching band. It was like soldiers of war, singing war songs in squads. Even the kindergarten schoolers, who couldn’t pronounce one word of English, sang their hearts out with their birdlike clarinets as they imitated the upper grade grownups. And while their rhythm and melody synchronized with the grownups’, their words were unique. They waited for the school band, which sounded like a military band anyway, to create the beat, rhythm, and the melody of the lyrics before they took over: Merri, merri machala, machala, machala, Merri, merri, machala, Oh appi ho! That was their unique way of singing the same lyrics of the upper grade students: Merrily march along, march along, march along, Merrily march along, Oh happy home. School was really a happy home. The morning parade, as they called it, gave me a chill on my first day. I admired the little ones who were so happy and proud of themselves and their school. Barefoot or not, they raised and landed their broomstick-like legs like a military squad expecting the sergeant’s inspection. Each foot landed on the hard February ground like a javelin, but all together, the sound was like a ten-pound mortar shell. The grownups were something else. Only people who had seen quite enough of the world could describe that scene; for me, there was and is no word in Igbo or English language to describe it; it could overwhelm the most stubborn child who wasn’t part of the magic; as far as I was and am concerned, it was indescribable, and I moped with mouth agape. As each squad came to its designated spot, the inspection of hands and feet, teeth and clothes began; everything had to be in perfect, or close to perfect order. While the grownups sang no songs during their teachers’ inspections, the little ones, with angelic faces of innocence and simplicity, sang as they showed their hands, feet, teeth, and clothes. Onye nkuzi, lele aka m, lele ukwu m, lele eze m, Onyenkuzi lele uwe m, Lenu m’odi ocha! (That was their way of asking their teachers if their hands, feet, teeth, and uniform were clean.) In their stiff white shirts on khaki shorts with full white hose and Bata shoes, the male teachers walked through the rows, inspecting each student’s physical appearance. The female teachers, who were the models of excellence and perfection, looked like Holy Rosary School girls going for an interview before a nun-school manager; they had freshly polished white low-heel Bata, black silk socks, white blouse on blue skirts, and a silky head scarf. Any class that had a female teacher knew that nothing less than “perfect” was good enough. The school band continued with its military tunes, making absentee students, who nervously peeped through the fences in their homesteads, regret their absence. The school day began officially with morning prayers in the big school hall. The school Mission-Teacher led in the prayers and songs. For almost thirty minutes of the school day, no formal education took place. It was all fun already, from marching to prayers and songs.