‘Oh,’ Jimi was flustered. ‘I don’t recall ... ’ ‘Yes—but you were
just kids,’ said Efua. She turned to Nene. ‘Can you show me round a
bit?’ T hey both walked off, and Ansa decided he didn’t like her at all.
Snooty, just who did she think she was? But Jimi still had that dazed
expression on his face. At that moment, the bell rang. *After classes at
the end of the day, Efua walked slowly to the principal’s office.
It had not been a pleasant day. In the first class, the teacher, a Mr
Bade, came in and stopped short at the sight of her.
‘Who are you?’ he barked. She stood up and said, ‘I’m Efua Coker, sir,’ in her best lady-like manner, the way girls at her former school were taught to speak. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘What—excuse me sir, I don’t understand.’ ‘Are you supposed to be in this class? A new student in SS3?’ ‘Ye—es.’ He gave a snort and ignored her for the rest of the lesson. Each teacher kept saying the same thing: ‘What is your name?’ and ‘You are new in a senior class?’ until she thought she would scream. The maths teacher, a portly middle-aged woman added, ‘I suppose you know what being in this class is all about?’ They didn’t like her because new students didn’t normally come into school at the senior class. They thought she might lower their results. They must have thought she was a bird-brain who had managed to buy her way in. What could she answer to that? T he students giggled or whispered and nudged each other. Now, she was supposed to meet the principal and she wasn’t looking forward to what he had to say.
Mr Mallum was seated behind his table piled with bulky but neat files. He wore small glasses. ‘Miss Coker, you know why you are here?’ he began abruptly. Yes, because my mother gave this school an endowment, she said to herself. ‘It was difficult for us to accept you and register you for this f inal year, but we took some factors into consideration. You are a straight-A student and your former headmistress gave you a glowing recommendation, even though she had to expel you after you ran away from school.’ Efua bowed her head a little. ‘I find it difficult to believe an obviously intelligent young girl like you could …’
Efua knew where this conversation was going and decided to take drastic action.
‘Oh sir,’ she said quietly. She tried to make her voice as meek as possible. ‘I’m not a bad girl. I’m really not. I was going through a rebellious phase. I promise you I’ll never do anything to make you regret taking me here.’ She sniffed a little, hoping it sounded real. The principal stared at Efua. There was something that was not quite right about her, but he could not decide what it was. ‘You are under probation for this term. We will be watching your marks closely to know if you can cope and you are to meet the guidance counsellor once a week. Good luck in Forcados.’ ‘Thank you,’ Efua said and went out. Once outside, she dropped the meek act. She found a shady spot beneath a mango tree and leaned against the rough bark. The school grounds were deserted now and a small flock of grey and black pigeons strutted and fed on the grass not far from where she stood.
Mr Mallum hadn’t been too bad, though she would never have thought he would speak to Mrs Obange, her former principal. She thought of Mrs Obange, a large woman, with a gruff, friendly voice so different from thin, stuffy Mr Mallum. The principal hadn’t wanted to expel her. ‘What is wrong, Efua? Why did you run away?’ Mrs Obange had asked after Efua had been brought back to the school. But Efua hadn’t been ready to open up. ‘You can tell me to leave if you want,’ she had replied, defiant. Mrs. Obange had had flared at that.
‘Very well, if you want to leave, then leave you shall.’ She had got what she wanted, hadn’t she? She had left Abuja; she was away from her mother and stepfather, and all of them. Suddenly, she couldn’t help thinking of her former school, St Catherine’s, an all-girls boarding school. She thought of all her friends and clubs, and the busy life she used to lead. At this moment, she thought, the girls would be on their way to the dining hall, forming a long row of blue in their school uniforms… I was a fool, she thought. I only hurt myself. A tear trickled down her face and, suddenly overcome by regret, she burst into tears. The pigeons, startled by the noise, took to the air in a flurry of flapping wings.
‘Who are you?’ he barked. She stood up and said, ‘I’m Efua Coker, sir,’ in her best lady-like manner, the way girls at her former school were taught to speak. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘What—excuse me sir, I don’t understand.’ ‘Are you supposed to be in this class? A new student in SS3?’ ‘Ye—es.’ He gave a snort and ignored her for the rest of the lesson. Each teacher kept saying the same thing: ‘What is your name?’ and ‘You are new in a senior class?’ until she thought she would scream. The maths teacher, a portly middle-aged woman added, ‘I suppose you know what being in this class is all about?’ They didn’t like her because new students didn’t normally come into school at the senior class. They thought she might lower their results. They must have thought she was a bird-brain who had managed to buy her way in. What could she answer to that? T he students giggled or whispered and nudged each other. Now, she was supposed to meet the principal and she wasn’t looking forward to what he had to say.
Mr Mallum was seated behind his table piled with bulky but neat files. He wore small glasses. ‘Miss Coker, you know why you are here?’ he began abruptly. Yes, because my mother gave this school an endowment, she said to herself. ‘It was difficult for us to accept you and register you for this f inal year, but we took some factors into consideration. You are a straight-A student and your former headmistress gave you a glowing recommendation, even though she had to expel you after you ran away from school.’ Efua bowed her head a little. ‘I find it difficult to believe an obviously intelligent young girl like you could …’
Efua knew where this conversation was going and decided to take drastic action.
‘Oh sir,’ she said quietly. She tried to make her voice as meek as possible. ‘I’m not a bad girl. I’m really not. I was going through a rebellious phase. I promise you I’ll never do anything to make you regret taking me here.’ She sniffed a little, hoping it sounded real. The principal stared at Efua. There was something that was not quite right about her, but he could not decide what it was. ‘You are under probation for this term. We will be watching your marks closely to know if you can cope and you are to meet the guidance counsellor once a week. Good luck in Forcados.’ ‘Thank you,’ Efua said and went out. Once outside, she dropped the meek act. She found a shady spot beneath a mango tree and leaned against the rough bark. The school grounds were deserted now and a small flock of grey and black pigeons strutted and fed on the grass not far from where she stood.
Mr Mallum hadn’t been too bad, though she would never have thought he would speak to Mrs Obange, her former principal. She thought of Mrs Obange, a large woman, with a gruff, friendly voice so different from thin, stuffy Mr Mallum. The principal hadn’t wanted to expel her. ‘What is wrong, Efua? Why did you run away?’ Mrs Obange had asked after Efua had been brought back to the school. But Efua hadn’t been ready to open up. ‘You can tell me to leave if you want,’ she had replied, defiant. Mrs. Obange had had flared at that.
‘Very well, if you want to leave, then leave you shall.’ She had got what she wanted, hadn’t she? She had left Abuja; she was away from her mother and stepfather, and all of them. Suddenly, she couldn’t help thinking of her former school, St Catherine’s, an all-girls boarding school. She thought of all her friends and clubs, and the busy life she used to lead. At this moment, she thought, the girls would be on their way to the dining hall, forming a long row of blue in their school uniforms… I was a fool, she thought. I only hurt myself. A tear trickled down her face and, suddenly overcome by regret, she burst into tears. The pigeons, startled by the noise, took to the air in a flurry of flapping wings.
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