Expo
I have always loved getting up on Saturday mornings with the whole weekend stretching invitingly before me. Here in the rainforest of southeastern Nigeria, in my house on the Udong Community School compound, I do not consider mowing the lawn. There is no lawn. My compound is landscaped in the scorched earth style preferred here. The flat bare ground is not inviting to snakes and is swept early every weekday morning by students. Akpan keeps it clean on weekends and during school holidays. In the midst of the luxuriant greenery that normally fills every vacant space, this smooth brown area is oddly attractive. Nor do I plan a trip to the mall or supermarket. Neither is to be found within hundreds of kilometers. While I drink my morning coffee and ponder whether to weed the peppers or transplant some banana suckers, there is a knock on the door. A small boy informs me that the principal of our school wishes to speak to me in his office, across the playing field from my house.
When I arrive at the principal’s office, he hands me a sheet of paper. It is in my handwriting. “And here’s some copies we have recovered,” he says, sliding two more sheets over his desk. The original is a draft version of my final examination in English that students were to write next week. “Of course, we don’t know how many more copies there are, so....”
“Yes, I understand. I’ll have to do a completely new exam. But who....”
“We don’t know,” says the principal and meditates while tapping a ruler on his desk, “Not yet. But we will find out. The boys we discovered with these papers are lying, of course. They say they found them.”
“That’s impossible. I would never just throw a draft exam away before the exam. It should still be in my desk at home.”
“You have no suspicions?”
“No, I can’t think of anyone.”
“You didn’t notice that it was missing?”
“No. After I completed this draft, I made a clean copy to give to the typist on Monday and put them both in my desk drawer. I haven’t looked at them since.”
“When was that?”
“Last Wednesday afternoon.”
“And who’s been in your house since then?”
“Oh, many students. You know I had a small end-of-term party for my class on Friday.”
“What about those boys that are always hanging around your compound, Effiong and Asuquo, and that little one?”
“Oh, I’d never suspect them. They’re very good boys. This is far more likely to be someone who doesn’t know me well. It could just as easily be any of the students in my class. And I often leave the door unlocked when I am out. It could be almost anyone.”
With a look of profound contemplation on his face, the principal taps the ruler, then places it on his desk and looks at me over tented fingers. “This kind of expo is very serious,” he says. Expo is the term for leaked exam papers. “We must nip it in the butt!”
“Yes, get to the bottom of it,” I add in support.
He puts both hands palms down on his desk with careful precision and rises. “I will keep you informed of any new developments.”
This is distressing. Never before has anything been taken from my house. I cannot imagine any of my students doing such a thing, yet it is clear that someone has. Theft always leaves such a sense of betrayal. Someone I trusted has taken advantage me. At home I put these sad thoughts aside and begin to draw up another exam. Three hours later I am summoned once again to the principal’s office. He motions me to sit down.
“We have found the culprit,” he says gravely. “And I’m sorry. I know it is going to hurt you to find out who it is.”
“Who?”
“Effiong Abakpa Antai.”
This does hurt. This is Effiong, little Etim’s big brother, a boy I would trust with anything. I cannot believe it. “There must be some mistake. Effiong would never do such a thing.”
“No, there’s no mistake. Those other boys eventually told me they got the paper from Effiong. I went to see him and he confessed to stealing it from your house.”
“But he’s a top student! He has no need to steal an exam paper before the exam.”
“Oh, these boys are too bad. They will steal anything. You must punish him severely or you will never be safe from any of them again.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes.
“Or, if you prefer, I can just expel him and we can refer the matter to the police.”
“No, no. Just give me a little time to think about it.”
“Of course. But don’t take too long. We want to resolve this matter as quickly as possible.”
I go home to think, but as the day wears on I continue to feel miserable without coming up with any solution. When Effiong arrives in the late afternoon I am relieved to see him, but not happy. He comes into the parlor and kneels on the floor in front of me.
“Sah, I am very sorry for what I have done.”
I look at him and suddenly I am so hurt and angry I want to beat him. How could he do this to me? I have got nearly through an entire school year without punishing a single child, without once raising my voice in anger, in an environment where other teachers find it necessary to inflict corporal punishment every day.
I ease the story out of him. He didn’t want to steal the paper but many other students pressured him because he was free to come into my house and visited often.
“They said, ‘We are your brothers. Who is this mbatang? He is here now but in another year he will be gone and you will never see him again. He doesn’t need anything from you but we need your help if we are to pass these exams. It’s only a piece of paper, not like stealing his camera or money.’”
They are right, of course. I will be gone in a year. Effiong will have to live with his fellow students in these seven villages for the rest of his life. While they may not be his brothers in the English sense of the word, they are in the African sense and many are related to him. In important ways his future happiness will depend on the relationships he builds and strengthens during this time.
“You had to do it.”
“Yes.”
“But what am I going to do? The principal says he will expel you if I do not punish you severely.”
“You must beat me, Sah.”
“Effiong, you know I never beat, and I am not about to start now.”
“You must, Sah.”
“No. Now go away, please.”
He leaves and I sit and brood. I feel even worse than before he came.
In the evening, despairing of worrying my way to a solution, I decide to take some air and go down to Junior’s store. After we have exchanged greetings and I have had a chance to sip a little of the warm beer that Junior sells, he opens the conversation with the subject that is troubling me.
“So that Abakpa Antai boy stole something from your house.”
“Yes.”
“At this time of year it is all you hear, ‘Expo! Expo! Expo!’ These students talk of nothing else. Instead of studying they just want to steal the answers or buy some juju charm that will give them top results. There is one man in Uduko who sells a certain kind of leaf. If you put it in your book and then sleep using the book as a pillow all what is in the book will go into your brain during the night.” Junior shakes his head.
“I’m trying to think of a suitable punishment. Effiong is not a thief or a cheater.”
“Yes, but it’s very bad to steal something from your house. It’s not just a school discipline problem. This is much worse. You must beat him severely.”
“But where I come from, we don’t do that. We don’t beat children. For us, it’s wrong.”
“If you don’t punish him, everyone else will punish him. People have got to know he has been punished. No-one likes a thief.”
On the way back to my house I stop briefly at the night watch’s hut to greet Akpan Udo and seek his advice. He agrees with Junior and offers me a stick he says will be good for beating Effiong.
I fall asleep in confusion. I am determined not to beat Effiong, but part of me wants to strangle him for putting me into this situation.
Sunday morning, when little Etim stops by to invite me to go with him to the stream, I ask him what he thinks I should do.
“Oh, you must beat him, Sah. Very seriously! Everyone in our compound is very angry with him. If you do not beat him, they will, and it will be much worse. My father knows how to beat very well.”
After returning from the stream, when we part at my doorstep, I have formed my plan.
“When you get back to your compound, tell Effiong to come here. But tell him first to go to the forest and cut some good switches so that I can beat him properly.”
“Yes, Sah!” says Etim and trots happily away.
An hour later, Effiong arrives with three whippy saplings tied together. He is wearing only a wrapper around his waist. I beckon him into the house and close the door.
“We’re going to do it like this,” I say and thrash the coffee table with a long lathe I have been using for a ruler. This makes a very loud smack, loud enough, I’m sure, to be audible down in the village.
“No, Sah,” says Effiong, “you must really beat me,” he points to his bare back, “here.”
“But if we make enough noise, people will think you’ve been punished.”
“I must have some marks on my back for people to know.”
“I can’t do this.”
“Sah, you must. Otherwise I can never come to visit you again. Those boys will be after me all the time for expo. If you beat me seriously, they can never ask me again.”
I heft the switches in my hand. “I don’t know how to do this,” I say.
“Just hit me on the back very hard, Sah.”
Effiong turns around so his back is towards me. I raise the switch and bring it down on his back.
“Harder, Sah.”
I lay the switch across his back with enough force to hurt. He shouts loudly enough to be heard in the village and then says calmly, “Again, harder! About ten times, please.”
I follow his instruction. He shouts with each blow and starts to cry and scream, but between blows he continues quietly to advise me where to strike next and encouraging me to put more force into it.
“Can you not shout, Sah?”
“You rotten little turkey!” I yell. “Why did you get us into this? You cretin!”
“Two more,” he says, “very hard, and louder please.” Tears are rolling down his cheeks. Large welts are rising on the skin of his back. I shout and beat him the additional two strokes. He is crying uncontrollably now and I am hoping that we have done enough. But no, he holds up two fingers. I beat him again and he produces a very full-bodied scream with each blow. I yell some more and strike the coffee table. He screams.
“You twisted little runt!” I flail the coffee table. Effiong wails.
I look at him. He is really howling. But when he lifts his eyes to mine he starts to laugh, laughing and crying and sniffling at the same time. I start to laugh too but he raises his finger to his lips, “Sah, shh.” Then we are both convulsed with silent suffocating laughter. Every time I nearly recover, Effiong lets out a horrible gurgling scream, which sets us off again. Tears are rolling down my cheeks now too. When we recover, he runs a hand appraisingly over the welts on his back and nods.
“I must go now, while I am still wounded,” he says.
I thrash the coffee table with the switches again and shout, “You brainless noodle!” Effiong obligingly screams.
“You twit!”
“Thank you, Sah,” he says and exits on a great moan.
“You’re welcome!” I shriek, managing finally to achieve a genuinely psychotic tone of rage.
I break the switches in half and follow him out the door. “You troglodyte!” I scream, throwing the busted switches after him. They flop onto his head before falling to the ground. He dramatically winces and stumbles on the path and I can see by the shaking of his shoulders that I have set him off again.
“Waahhh!” he cries, motioning me with one hand held low to have mercy and stop.
I shake my fist at him and storm back into the house, slamming the door loudly. Then I collapse on the couch, once again overcome with tears and laughter that every attempt to stifle makes worse. Oh Africa!
When I arrive at the principal’s office, he hands me a sheet of paper. It is in my handwriting. “And here’s some copies we have recovered,” he says, sliding two more sheets over his desk. The original is a draft version of my final examination in English that students were to write next week. “Of course, we don’t know how many more copies there are, so....”
“Yes, I understand. I’ll have to do a completely new exam. But who....”
“We don’t know,” says the principal and meditates while tapping a ruler on his desk, “Not yet. But we will find out. The boys we discovered with these papers are lying, of course. They say they found them.”
“That’s impossible. I would never just throw a draft exam away before the exam. It should still be in my desk at home.”
“You have no suspicions?”
“No, I can’t think of anyone.”
“You didn’t notice that it was missing?”
“No. After I completed this draft, I made a clean copy to give to the typist on Monday and put them both in my desk drawer. I haven’t looked at them since.”
“When was that?”
“Last Wednesday afternoon.”
“And who’s been in your house since then?”
“Oh, many students. You know I had a small end-of-term party for my class on Friday.”
“What about those boys that are always hanging around your compound, Effiong and Asuquo, and that little one?”
“Oh, I’d never suspect them. They’re very good boys. This is far more likely to be someone who doesn’t know me well. It could just as easily be any of the students in my class. And I often leave the door unlocked when I am out. It could be almost anyone.”
With a look of profound contemplation on his face, the principal taps the ruler, then places it on his desk and looks at me over tented fingers. “This kind of expo is very serious,” he says. Expo is the term for leaked exam papers. “We must nip it in the butt!”
“Yes, get to the bottom of it,” I add in support.
He puts both hands palms down on his desk with careful precision and rises. “I will keep you informed of any new developments.”
This is distressing. Never before has anything been taken from my house. I cannot imagine any of my students doing such a thing, yet it is clear that someone has. Theft always leaves such a sense of betrayal. Someone I trusted has taken advantage me. At home I put these sad thoughts aside and begin to draw up another exam. Three hours later I am summoned once again to the principal’s office. He motions me to sit down.
“We have found the culprit,” he says gravely. “And I’m sorry. I know it is going to hurt you to find out who it is.”
“Who?”
“Effiong Abakpa Antai.”
This does hurt. This is Effiong, little Etim’s big brother, a boy I would trust with anything. I cannot believe it. “There must be some mistake. Effiong would never do such a thing.”
“No, there’s no mistake. Those other boys eventually told me they got the paper from Effiong. I went to see him and he confessed to stealing it from your house.”
“But he’s a top student! He has no need to steal an exam paper before the exam.”
“Oh, these boys are too bad. They will steal anything. You must punish him severely or you will never be safe from any of them again.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes.
“Or, if you prefer, I can just expel him and we can refer the matter to the police.”
“No, no. Just give me a little time to think about it.”
“Of course. But don’t take too long. We want to resolve this matter as quickly as possible.”
I go home to think, but as the day wears on I continue to feel miserable without coming up with any solution. When Effiong arrives in the late afternoon I am relieved to see him, but not happy. He comes into the parlor and kneels on the floor in front of me.
“Sah, I am very sorry for what I have done.”
I look at him and suddenly I am so hurt and angry I want to beat him. How could he do this to me? I have got nearly through an entire school year without punishing a single child, without once raising my voice in anger, in an environment where other teachers find it necessary to inflict corporal punishment every day.
I ease the story out of him. He didn’t want to steal the paper but many other students pressured him because he was free to come into my house and visited often.
“They said, ‘We are your brothers. Who is this mbatang? He is here now but in another year he will be gone and you will never see him again. He doesn’t need anything from you but we need your help if we are to pass these exams. It’s only a piece of paper, not like stealing his camera or money.’”
They are right, of course. I will be gone in a year. Effiong will have to live with his fellow students in these seven villages for the rest of his life. While they may not be his brothers in the English sense of the word, they are in the African sense and many are related to him. In important ways his future happiness will depend on the relationships he builds and strengthens during this time.
“You had to do it.”
“Yes.”
“But what am I going to do? The principal says he will expel you if I do not punish you severely.”
“You must beat me, Sah.”
“Effiong, you know I never beat, and I am not about to start now.”
“You must, Sah.”
“No. Now go away, please.”
He leaves and I sit and brood. I feel even worse than before he came.
In the evening, despairing of worrying my way to a solution, I decide to take some air and go down to Junior’s store. After we have exchanged greetings and I have had a chance to sip a little of the warm beer that Junior sells, he opens the conversation with the subject that is troubling me.
“So that Abakpa Antai boy stole something from your house.”
“Yes.”
“At this time of year it is all you hear, ‘Expo! Expo! Expo!’ These students talk of nothing else. Instead of studying they just want to steal the answers or buy some juju charm that will give them top results. There is one man in Uduko who sells a certain kind of leaf. If you put it in your book and then sleep using the book as a pillow all what is in the book will go into your brain during the night.” Junior shakes his head.
“I’m trying to think of a suitable punishment. Effiong is not a thief or a cheater.”
“Yes, but it’s very bad to steal something from your house. It’s not just a school discipline problem. This is much worse. You must beat him severely.”
“But where I come from, we don’t do that. We don’t beat children. For us, it’s wrong.”
“If you don’t punish him, everyone else will punish him. People have got to know he has been punished. No-one likes a thief.”
On the way back to my house I stop briefly at the night watch’s hut to greet Akpan Udo and seek his advice. He agrees with Junior and offers me a stick he says will be good for beating Effiong.
I fall asleep in confusion. I am determined not to beat Effiong, but part of me wants to strangle him for putting me into this situation.
Sunday morning, when little Etim stops by to invite me to go with him to the stream, I ask him what he thinks I should do.
“Oh, you must beat him, Sah. Very seriously! Everyone in our compound is very angry with him. If you do not beat him, they will, and it will be much worse. My father knows how to beat very well.”
After returning from the stream, when we part at my doorstep, I have formed my plan.
“When you get back to your compound, tell Effiong to come here. But tell him first to go to the forest and cut some good switches so that I can beat him properly.”
“Yes, Sah!” says Etim and trots happily away.
An hour later, Effiong arrives with three whippy saplings tied together. He is wearing only a wrapper around his waist. I beckon him into the house and close the door.
“We’re going to do it like this,” I say and thrash the coffee table with a long lathe I have been using for a ruler. This makes a very loud smack, loud enough, I’m sure, to be audible down in the village.
“No, Sah,” says Effiong, “you must really beat me,” he points to his bare back, “here.”
“But if we make enough noise, people will think you’ve been punished.”
“I must have some marks on my back for people to know.”
“I can’t do this.”
“Sah, you must. Otherwise I can never come to visit you again. Those boys will be after me all the time for expo. If you beat me seriously, they can never ask me again.”
I heft the switches in my hand. “I don’t know how to do this,” I say.
“Just hit me on the back very hard, Sah.”
Effiong turns around so his back is towards me. I raise the switch and bring it down on his back.
“Harder, Sah.”
I lay the switch across his back with enough force to hurt. He shouts loudly enough to be heard in the village and then says calmly, “Again, harder! About ten times, please.”
I follow his instruction. He shouts with each blow and starts to cry and scream, but between blows he continues quietly to advise me where to strike next and encouraging me to put more force into it.
“Can you not shout, Sah?”
“You rotten little turkey!” I yell. “Why did you get us into this? You cretin!”
“Two more,” he says, “very hard, and louder please.” Tears are rolling down his cheeks. Large welts are rising on the skin of his back. I shout and beat him the additional two strokes. He is crying uncontrollably now and I am hoping that we have done enough. But no, he holds up two fingers. I beat him again and he produces a very full-bodied scream with each blow. I yell some more and strike the coffee table. He screams.
“You twisted little runt!” I flail the coffee table. Effiong wails.
I look at him. He is really howling. But when he lifts his eyes to mine he starts to laugh, laughing and crying and sniffling at the same time. I start to laugh too but he raises his finger to his lips, “Sah, shh.” Then we are both convulsed with silent suffocating laughter. Every time I nearly recover, Effiong lets out a horrible gurgling scream, which sets us off again. Tears are rolling down my cheeks now too. When we recover, he runs a hand appraisingly over the welts on his back and nods.
“I must go now, while I am still wounded,” he says.
I thrash the coffee table with the switches again and shout, “You brainless noodle!” Effiong obligingly screams.
“You twit!”
“Thank you, Sah,” he says and exits on a great moan.
“You’re welcome!” I shriek, managing finally to achieve a genuinely psychotic tone of rage.
I break the switches in half and follow him out the door. “You troglodyte!” I scream, throwing the busted switches after him. They flop onto his head before falling to the ground. He dramatically winces and stumbles on the path and I can see by the shaking of his shoulders that I have set him off again.
“Waahhh!” he cries, motioning me with one hand held low to have mercy and stop.
I shake my fist at him and storm back into the house, slamming the door loudly. Then I collapse on the couch, once again overcome with tears and laughter that every attempt to stifle makes worse. Oh Africa!
posted by Benjamin Madison | 10:49 AM
1 Comments:
Excellent.
(Amazon has yet to deliver your book.)
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