Book: Power Doth Come, Like Rum To Some: First 3-Chapters

CHAPTER 1
I am not a fan of very long stories, except when they are exceptionally captivating, or downright scintillating. I was almost tempted to give a few examples of such novels, but since brevity is the soul of wits, I would hasten to tell my own story in a few chapters. These few chapters span a lifetime; a lifetime of questions unanswered, of truths concealed, of cases unsolved, of conflicts unresolved, of a story still unfolding, hence the arduous nature of the task ahead of me.

I will rely greatly on my professional expertise as a once decorated investigator, to summarise my case by narrating only the salient points and my experience as an ex-convict to write in whatever order I like, yet regardless still manouvre my way out of a seemingly disorganized maze of chapters.

Anybody living in the present definitely has a past, and a future which is largely uncertain. Be it good or bad, we leave that to the stars or whatever deity there may be. I’m Mr. Wumpini, or so I was called.

I was at a seminar organized by the United States’ Federal Bureau of Investigations. Since I was the head of the Cyber-crime division of the Criminal Investigations’ Department, I was involved not only in the organization of the programme, but also in delivering the keynote address.

Having risen through the ranks very quickly, I had at the age of 36 become the envy of my colleagues. I owned a brand new BMW 7 series, had an official V10 at my disposal and lived in a plush bungalow at Cantonments. I had recently roofed my own house in a sprawling suburb, and eight months back got married to a pretty lady by name Adisa, who suited me perfectly. After all, with my reputation and public figure status, I needed a woman I would be proud of always, by my side. And her beauty did just that for me.

I was there with my friend and colleague, Mr. Daaman, the only one I could completely trust in the Police service. He was the only one I knew didn’t covet my recent success even though we enlisted together. He had become a truly dependable family friend.

The seminar which was attended by the regional heads of the Cyber-Crime division of the service came at a time when Ghana was ranked 2nd in the world on the list of countries perpetrating cybercrimes. Having assumed office the year before, I had taken us from first to second and was bent on taking us out of the list of first ten countries.

At the end of the seminar, journalists had an opportunity to interact with us informally. After successfully answering a barrage of questions, I decided to take my seat for the 4 hour long programme to end. Just then I was tapped on the shoulder from behind and I instinctively turned. Then right before me was a spectacle I had never beheld or at least that is what I thought. She was about 175cm tall, fair in complexion, and had eyes whose luminance my eyes could not escape. Looking back at her, I tried to remain cool, calm and professionally aware of my surroundings. Yet looking back at her proved to be a bigger mistake. It was as if she had thermal eyes that looked straight into the deepest part of my soul, burning away its content in a way that I would not mind reliving again and again. The veil she wore seemed to match her complexion and the smile that preceded her question sent me into a transient loss of consciousness.

“Good day sir” She greeted.
“Hi, and you are…?” I asked, pausing for a response.

“Aisha”, she replied, as I regained consciousness. “Sir, I want to know whether your outfit is considering spying on us as citizens seeing that you are working with the FBI?”

Rather than listen to her question with rapt attention, I had relapsed into my state of stupor, and couldn’t help but ask for a repeat of the question.

CHAPTER 2
I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Indeed, I was born with no spoon at all in my mouth. My mum told me that my father abandoned us when I was born, because he just could not cater for us all. I was the fifth in the series of malnourished children.According to my mum, even when my dad was around, he was hardly ever present, moving from one business trip to another, which never impacted positively on their financial fortunes.

Growing up in a poverty-stricken household in a poor region was definitely an odious task. My mum worked tirelessly to feed and clothe us. Obviously shelter was not much of a problem, because my dad left behind his compound which we crowded into.

My mum, Amama, kept a farm on which my two elder brothers helped her. I was considered too young to contribute my quota to much needed labour, so I always stayed at home with my elder sisters. I was five. I would beg them everyday to allow me to join them to play, but they would refuse.

‘Mbe Arishetu’, I would say, ‘Can I play ampe with you?’

Arishetu was 12 years old and the older of my two sisters. She had to drop out of school just like my other siblings because my mum could not afford anything else, other than our unbalanced ration of monotonous meals and tattered clothes.

‘No, you can’t play with us. Can’t you see we’re all girls? If you want to play, go to Azu. Boys go to the farm to till the land, grow crops and harvest them, so that girls will cook for them to eat. You should have joined them, lazy boy.’

I would usually sulk or cry till my mum came, but today I decided to make a debate out of my usual lecture.

“Ifyou say ladies cook for boys to eat, why did mum go with Abu and Niendo? Is she a boy?’

Obviously infuriated by what I said, Arishetu chased me around our compound. I knew that since I could not outpace her, I had to run in different directions, in a zigzag manner, turning here and there, to get her off my trail. My plan worked to perfection until I tripped and fell.

‘Mbe Arishetu, I beg!’ were the frantic screams that echoed from my mouth in quick succession. But from the beatings I received, I knew my plea for mercy wasn’t heeded. I had to nurse the pain of both my swollen big toe and that of the slaps I received on my back when I fell.

I sat all alone in the room I shared with my mother waiting for her to arrive so that I would lodge a complaint. Truth be told, I was relieved of the pain within 30minutes of my affliction, but suddenly as I heard the usual sounds that preceded my mum’s arrival, the pain seemed to surge. Mouth agape and clutching onto my foot, I screamed so loud that, my mum came rushing into the compound ahead of my brothers.

‘What is the problem’, was the question she repeatedly asked to which I did not answer for a long time, all calculated at amplifying her sympathy for me, by painting a very sad picture. My plan worked, and my mum left the room screaming out for Arishetu. Even without asking for her side of the story, she started to vent her spleen on her. At that moment, I felt proud of how well I had dramatised.

“When you are supposed to be looking after the house, you engage your sister in kids’ play. Do you think you are still young?” At this point I knew what was to ensue. I had heard this lecture a couple of times and I was abreast of its content.

“At your age, some of your colleagues are getting married and making babies. Have you seen your friend Amina lately? She’s happily married, and fertile as she is, her husband’s compound is always replete with the cries of children”. She paused awhile. Then I thought to myself, how on earth would anybody enjoy the cry of children? I was later to realise that, the cry of children, was testimony of a woman’s fertility.

“Don’t you look at yourself in the mirror? Don’t you see how much you have changed? Instead of investing your time and effort in learning the etiquettes of marriage, you’re still playing ampe. We shall see. I think your uncle is right, you need to be given off in marriage, so maybe you’ll learn in your husband’s house.” At this point my sister was in tears and I now began to commiserate with her.

The issue of marriage always sounded like a threat to Arishetu, so she hated it. Her two friends, who went into marriage as teenagers, were obviously happier as spinsters than as wives. But the joy of every woman was to see her daughter get married to a respectable man, and who was more honourable in our village than Azindow.

The one place girls of my village could talk freely about any topic without fearing any hindrance whatsoever was the riverside. In the evenings, girls would break into groups and walk slowly towards the riverside amidst gossiping. Here terabytes of information were exchanged, and it was at this place that Arishetu learnt about the hardships of marriage. Amina, with whom she studied in class 3, dropped out of school a year after she did, because her parents had found for her a suitable spouse. Amina disproved of it, but who was she to object to a marriage that would bring fame and fortune to her family.

If being the youngest of 5 wives in a household steeped very much in custom and tradition, was the only trouble to contend with, I’m certain Amina would have complained minimally, but having to be maltreated by her cohorts, who usually ganged up against her was the most annoying part. Amina was married to an elder in our village, who like many others of his stature in my community, found pride in possessing many women yet thinking little about their well-being.

Asana, the second of Arishetu’s friends was quite older. She was 18, and at the rate she was making babies, there was little doubt she would hit the 10-babies mark in her third decade. Asana’s husband was a lazy farmer who kept only a small plot of land as farm, because according to him, why would anybody want to keep a large farm, when you can grow just enough to feed your family. Again, who would complain if your family can subsist on the proceeds of your farm? Yet year after year, his crops failed, and as Asana put it,“I sometimes can’t identify the food crops that are inundated in a sea of weeds”.

So how could anybody blame poor Arishetu for not wanting to become the wife of Azindow, a hardworking businessman who traded in cola nuts- the traditional recipe that spices occasions on which men gather? I saw Azindow a couple of times in our house. He wasn’t a very nice man but he was well to do, though.

“Why do you always give my sister gifts, while I hardly ever get anything?”I asked rather insolently while he waited for Arishetu to return from the market.

“Because I need your sister to say yes”, he said.

“So if she says yes, it means she’ll not receive gifts anymore?” I asked.

“I haven’t said that. Look, shouldn’t you be doing your homework now?” He said looking a bit infuriated, yet hiding it with a smile.

“I am going to tell my sister what you’ve just said. I’m sure she’ll enjoy receiving gifts for a very long time. Besides, I know she doesn’t want to get married now.” I said, looking away and sounding cheeky anyway.

“You’ll do no such thing!”He said, visibly angry now.

“Okay. I won’t. Forget about it.”I said, turning round. Just when I was about to leave, I stopped, turned around, then said to him, “You didn’t believe that, did you?”

“Ok. What do you want from me?” He desperately asked.

I enjoyed manipulating people to get what I wanted. It always worked. All that I required was leverage, something I always found.

At age 11, I was in school, not because life was any better, but because my mum saw it as a way of getting me out of trouble. Although I showed glimpses of academic brilliance, it was only my way of staying in the good books of my teacher, for this not only attracted applause in class, but also served as a bargaining chip. It was the leverage I had, that others did not have, and I used it to my advantage.

“Can I sit by you in class after recess?” Alidu asked.

“Why, don’t you have a seat?” Was the cheeky answer Igave.

We had a math lesson after our morning break and would be asked to find the products of certain numbers between zero and twelve. Usually, the whole class would be upstanding, then after answering a question correctly, you’d have a chance to sit down. If you gave a wrong answer, you’d be upstanding till you received an arbitrary dose of corporal punishment. Sometimes, the onus of caning, rested on my shoulders, and depending on who was at the receiving end, I would cane variably.

“I’ll buy you food tomorrow.” He said.

“What food?” I asked.
“Waakye.” He said.
“How much meat’s worth?” I asked with a treacherous smile.

“I don’t have money for meat”. He said with a sad look on his face.

“Then I can’t help you. Ganiyu has offered more, so he’ll sit by me. Next time if you want help, be ready to offer more. Don’t worry, I won’t cane you hard.” I said with a wry smile as I made my way to class.

I gave attention to the highest bidders and during our breaks my colleagues from affluent homes would share their meals with me or better still, buy banana and roasted groundnuts for me.

For my colleagues who found themselves in trouble, to whom punishment was meted, I was in a position to plead for clemency on their behalf. This was the kind of influence I wielded and I was in no position to relinquish it for anything, not even for the latest toy gun around, which only one rich bully had. And as my influence was largely restricted to the confines of our class, I could only dream about it.

Mr Mark was my teacher and he liked me very much. He would give me books to read and reward me for accomplishing assigned tasks. Sometimes I thought it was very stupid of him to waste his money on me. He opened wide the doors of his house to me and treated me like one of his own. I was a rascal, but never a thief. I never stole from him, not even a penny.

“Have you made the list of books you’ve read with their authors yet?” he asked, when I went to his house after school.

“No sir. I have three more books to read. When I finish, I’ll compile the list.” I said.

“You know what: If you bring me that list tomorrow, I’ll give you something special,” was the tantalising offer I received. That evening, I had plans of gathering firewood, for sale on the impending market day. Not knowing what the prize was worth, didn’t stop me from pleasing my favourite teacher.

My school wasn’t a very big one, but it was the nicest in my community. We were privileged to have roofing sheets, rather than thatch over our heads. Some of our teachers had to teach more than one class because of the sheer paucity of instructors to fill our nine classrooms. Pupils of my school had to help our teachers on their farms, especially over the weekends of rainy seasons, and though this was not a written contract between parents and teachers, it was enforced by all and sundry in the community. It was the parent’s way of appreciating the teacher’s contribution to the community.

With no electricity and a few boreholes dotted around, parents had to do a lot more to retain the few teachers who were committed enough to live and work in the hinterlands. So it was no surprise therefore to see parents asking their daughters to run errands for their male teachers especially the bachelors amongst them. Indeed it was a common sight to see pupils helping out in the homes of teachers. But for an incident that took place in my fourth year of school, the interaction between parents and their girl-children on the one hand, and male teachers on the other hand would have gone on unabated.

“None of our daughters shall henceforth be allowed to go near the homes of their ‘sirs’( male teachers were popularly referred to, as such)” Screamed one parent at an emergency PTA meeting.

“As for me, I am going to withdraw my daughter, before anything happens to her o” The mother of Atiwa shouted.

“Please, let us calm down. We are all here in the interest of our pupils, so there is no need for us to put up a belligerent attitude,” said Mr. Atakpa, the headmaster of my school.

“Maybe if you had advised your teachers, this wouldn’t have happened!” Another mother shouted.

The atmosphere at the meeting was tense. Mothers, more than fathers were in attendance and with emotions soaring, only a voice of reason could see the meeting to a successful end.

“Lariba was like a daughter to us all. She was an obedient and hardworking girl. Her death has truly brought sadness to us all, and to her mother, I express my deepest condolences.” Mr. Mark said, as he cleared his throat.

“It is now very clear to me how one bad nut spoils all others, but before anyone of us does anything rush, let us stop for a moment and ponder over the events of the past two weeks. Mr. Dokrugu had been with us in this school for 10 good years without any bad record. We all know how hardworking he was. How could anybody here have suspected that he’d stoop so low as to impregnate Lariba, and not wanting to accept responsibility, attempt to abort her pregnancy. Do you think if anyone of us knew, we would have allowed it? Maybe you did not hear, but in this morning’s news bulletin, it was reported that Mr. Dokrugu was arrested in his hideout and will be tried as soon as possible.”

At the mention of Mr. Dokrugu’s arrest, there was murmuring in the audience. Parents expressed a look of satisfaction on their faces, and Mr. Mark had to wait awhile before he could continue.

“Let us realise that we would destroy the future of our children if we denied them of education. Let not the crime of one man, make you commit even greater crimes against your own children.”

After this speech, the meeting went ahead with fewer hitches, better submissions and fewer emotional outbursts. At the end, it was decided that female pupils’ access to the homes of their male teachers would be restricted. No more washing of clothes, no more cleaning of rooms and definitely no more carrying of books into their houses, since it was the route that Mr. Dokrugu used in luring Lariba into his bedroom. The duty of the male student towards his teacher however remained unchanged.

But for a few parents who had already been looking for excuses to withdraw their children from school, no other parent felt the need to.

At home, my mum didn’t make me work much. She actually encouraged me to study. Mr Mark had passed by a few times to encourage my mum to create a conducive learning atmosphere at home. He told her what I could become in future, and my mum was quick to buy the idea that, if I would achieve my academic aims, I needed ample study time. I had become untouchable at home. I abused the system that had been created.

“Why are your dirty clothing in front of my door?” Arishetu burst out, when I returned from my mango plucking expedition in the wild.

“I want you to wash them for me.” I said, rather impolitely.

“Can’t you wash them yourself? Do you think you’re still a small boy? At 11, you don’t do anything around here; just eating and sleeping and fooling about. Come for your things oh, I’m not going to wash them!” She burst out saying, with arms akimbo.

“If you don’t wash them, I’ll tell mama. I can tell her our teacher asked us to go and study the roots of certain plants in the wild, and you know she’ll believe it. Okay, if you wash them I’ll bring you banana tomorrow.” A promise I would not fulfil.

At this stage, people in my community knew me as the only prospect in the village.I had become the paradigm of academic excellence and my mum would believe anything I said. Arishetu, knowing this was always sulking and complaining, but who cared.

At home, things suddenly improved. Arishetu finally agreed to marry Azindow. Maybe she couldn’t bear the pressure anymore. Maybe she had somehow grown fond of Azindow.

“You see, the longer wine stays, the more expensive it becomes. Arishetu has been undecided for a long time now. But today’s excitement will surely make amends for all the troubles she’s put me through.” This was Azindow speaking at the colourful traditional wedding ceremony.

My mum was a proud woman at the ceremony. She made sure there was plenty to eat and drink at the occasion. Finally her daughter was going to get married, and very soon she was going to have her own grandchildren. The women wore expensive clothing and I wondered where they got them from. I had never seen my mum donning the kaba and slit she wore on that occasion. She looked resplendent.

“Where did you get this expensive looking dress?”I inquired when we got home.

“I’ve had it for a long time now.” She replied

“But where did you get the money to buy it.I thought we were poor”, I asked. Now she stopped folding the dress, sat up and looked at me squarely in the face and said, “We’re a poor family, never forget that. But that does not mean that all the pleasures of life should pass us by. I work very hard to sustain this family, and one expensive piece of cloth to show off on such an occasion as my daughter’s wedding is not a bad thing.”

With Mr Mark’s munificence, I scaled one hurdle of basic education after another and at age 16, I was preparing for my Basic Education Certificate Examination.

I hardly ever got into fights, maybe because I had been tamed by the femininity of my sisters and mum at home. In my final year however, I decided I could no longer allow my bully of a classmate to have his way with me. He was the son of our headmaster, and although he was lanky and looked feeble he was always teasing me or someone else. Up until this cloudy Friday, he had always had his way.

“Look, I’m giving you your last opportunity to chicken out.” I said.

We were standing out of view, behind a huge mahogany tree during our morning break, with only two observers to report independently on who came out tops in our fight for dominance.

“You think you are strong, eh. I’ll teach you a lesson for always caning me hardest in class.” Lantana said.

We both took off our shirts ready for battle and with no time to waste, I charged at him. We both held each other by the shorts, each trying to lift the other off the ground. Lantana was not as weak as I thought or well, maybe I wasn’t as strong as I thought I was. He tried to clear me off the ground with his legs, so I jumped. I landed successfully but before I could firm my feet, he lifted me of the ground, hurled me into the air and with a thud I landed on the ground. Then he punched and battered my face many times and just before he could claim victory by putting sand into my mouth, I pulled one last trick I had up my sleeve. With my legs, fully raised and flexed at the hip, I held him by the neck, and pushed him off me.

Now it was my turn. With blood oozing from my face, I battered and punched too, but apparently, my punches were too feeble to leave any lasting impressions on his face. He struggled to free himself, but I was not prepared to let my guard down. In a frantic last minute effort to claim victory, without been able to sufficiently reciprocate his hefty blows, I decided to fill his mouth with a handful of sand I had fetched.

Out of nowhere, I suddenly saw our colleagues and some teachers heading in our direction. How on earth did they find out where we were!

“I am going to punish both of you myself!” Said the headmaster.

“I think you should even be suspended” He added.

With my blood-stained face, badly tattered shorts and dusty body, and feeling very afraid about what punishment I was going to receive, I still found the courage to say a few words, which sounded rather preposterous.

“We were only playing sir.” I said.
“Playing? That is the funniest joke I have heard the whole of today. Have you looked at yourself? Have you seen what you have done to my son? Such childish behaviour exhibited by examination candidates can’t go unpunished.” Our headmaster said.

“Dad, he started it.” Lantana said, rather remorsefully.

“No, I didn’t. You are the one who has always been teasing me.” I said, now crying.

My punishment was to weed my headmaster’s compound, and because his son was “the victim of my aggression”, he went scot-free. The lesson I learnt therefrom- Nobody is above the law, but some are more below it than others.

It was in my final year that my mum decided to get married when the opportunity availed itself. At Arishetu’s wedding, she had a close encounter with Mr Zak.

“Congratulations,is in orderI guess.” He said, when he had a rare opportunity to talk to my mum alone.

“Thank you.” She replied.
“If I hadn’t been informed, I would have thought it was you who was getting married. You look gorgeous today.” He said with a smile hoping that his gesture would be reciprocated, but it wasn’t.

“So thank God you were informed.” She replied, wanting to leave to serve some guests who had just arrived.

“Maybe you should start thinking of getting married again.” He said quite daringly. My mum said she was left speechless for a while, then left to attend to the guests. It was the start of what would eventually result in a marriage.

My mum, who had preserved her untamed beauty, tied the nuptial knot for the second time, this time, as a second wife, although she was older than the first. My new father was a tall lanky man. He was hard-working and was shaggy with a well-kept goatee and a moustache. Prior to their marriage, my mum usually met him at the marketplace, where she had reliably been supplying him with fresh foodstuff. He in turn, would transport them to the city centre for sale.

Indeed, business was booming. It was these business meetings that eventually led to their getting married. Having such a wealthy man as step-dad was a blessing I never envisaged. Indeed, had Okumadan, the renowned village soothsayer prophesied to me that such a day would come,I would have begun to question his integrity.

Being the prettier of the two and also the newcomer, attention shifted to my mum at once. Indeed, it was not to be unexpected, and my sister and I benefited immensely, sometimes at the expense of my stepmom. Tension mounted as days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, but my mum with the benefit of age, and her propensity to make peace, kept the potential squabbles that could have arisen if she had reacted to some of my stepmom’s insinuations into mere songs that expressed sentiments.

Sometimes however, when my mum was away, in the market, we were left at the mercy of my stepmom, and she would have a field day, castigating us. My sister would sometimes cry at some of her comments.

“I don’t blame you for your mum’s attitude, I blame myself. The gods know I’ve tried hard to give my husband a baby boy, but to no avail”, she would say, while sobbing and moping. May the anger of Tambo, the god of thunder be on any woman who seeks to take the place of another woman in her marital home,” was the inevitable conclusion.

In as much as I empathised with her, I knew she had no right to vent her spleen on us.

HereI was, a 17 year old boy with just 2 months to the commencement of our final exam. I was the crème de la crème of my class, the torch bearer of the whole community. At this juncture, my elder brothers had gone to the city like many other boys to seek greener pastures. I was the only boy with my mum now. Ruhia, too was living with my aunty. From my part of the world, fostering by aunties was a prerequisite for a holistic upbringing. Pre-exposure to the harsh elements in your auntie’s, which you were unlikely to get from your mum, was necessary to prepare ladies for life. So in the first year of their marriage, it was just me, Ruhia, my mum and stepdad and stepmom and her three daughters.

CHAPTER 3
It was a fine Saturday morning, and as the noisy black cock from our neighbour’s compound crowed to signal the start of a new day, I opened my eyes slowly hoping that today unlike any other, the ever punctual cock had lost its sense of impeccable timing. But I was to be proved wrong. It was absolutely right. Listening to the cock crow so loudly and for such a long time reminded me of my gabby friend, who seemed neither to know when to pause nor stop whenever I engaged him in a conversation. He did not even care if you were listening to him or not. He would drown you in his saliva anytime he spoke, and most annoyingly, his whispers were as loud as the sound of the vuvuzela.

I woke up reluctantly, and as I walked into the compound I met my sister, who wore a very sombre look.

“Is everything okay?”I asked, as I bent over to fetch water from the barrel which was nearly empty.

“It’s just a bad dream’, she said. “It looked very real though.” She was quick to add.

I brushed my teeth with a chewing stick as I undertook my early morning routine. I inspected the goats’ pen and enjoyed the pleasure of seeing the goats crowd around me, apparently hoping I would be the source of their breakfast. But that was not to happen. Indeed I was well acquainted with our fourteen goats. I had an opportunity to put into practice, the knowledge on animal husbandry I learnt in school, and my stepdad was proud of me. I had constructed the pen myself so that we could practise a semi-intensive system. We were losing many goats to people who would under normal circumstances break into other people’s properties and steal. So seeing a goat or two wandering aimlessly about reduced the effort they had to put into acquiring a goat illegally for their supper of goat soup. And this would easily pass as windfall- an answer to a thief’s prayer.

I left the pen feeling ebullient, knowing that with circumstances as they prevailed, I could only improve in life. As I walked toward our compound, something struck me as odd. In a crevice created by the massive roots of our mango tree, I saw a black feather and a red cloth tied round a polythene bag with a strange piece of bone lying beneath the feather. I hesitated for a moment, but knowing observation was a critical part of the scientific process, I decided to draw closer to this frightening scene. I stared for a moment wondering what to do – to examine the content of this eerie polythene bag or to dispose of its contents.

“Could this be the handiwork of witchcraft, the story of which when told sends shivers down my spine?” I soliloquised.

“Or is this the misplaced luggage of a lunatic who sought solace under the shade of the mango tree?” I knew the last thing I wanted to do was start my day on a pessimistic note, so I murmured, ‘either way I have to get rid of this unsightly collection of macabre objects’.

It was the last but one Sunday before the D-Day, the start of our exam and a few of our dedicated teachers wanted to put finishing touches to their incomplete works of art. Not surprisingly though, not many of us could make it to this session, because my colleagues who were not so affluent, had to collect firewood to sell on the impending market day. Well, I didn’t have to do that anymore, and I was proud at that. Today like many other days, I decided I would impress my teachers. Because I was privileged to have past questions, which I had answered on more than one occasion, I was abreast of the questions our teachers asked. I answered them with great precision and everybody was impressed.

“You should all learn from Wumpini” My science teacher said. “When I was a child of your age, I was even more impressive than him and my teachers liked me. I passed all my exams, and that is why I’m a teacher today. If you don’t want to end up on the streets of the city, you had better put your hands to the wheel” He added in an angry tone.

“Yes Wumpini!” He said when he saw my hand up. “What do you have to say to your colleagues?” He asked.

“Actually sir, please I just wanted to tell you that, eem, sorry, to remind you that the expression you used was wrong. You said ‘put hands to the wheel’, but actually, I read from a story book Mr Mark gave me that, it is ‘put shoulder to the wheel’ instead”,I said quickly. At this point, the teacher feeling obviously challenged said, as he scanned the class to see if anybody was laughing, “Well Wumpini, the correct thing is what I just said. Maybe the book you read is an American book or maybe the author erred. I speak British English only, and that is what you’ll be writing, so you better shut up and learn from your teachers or risk failing your exam”. Truth be told, I accepted what he said as the truth, for having heard his achievements being recited many times in class, I had no reason to doubt his superior knowledge.

On my way home in the afternoon, I decided to pass by Mr Mark’s house. Some 200metres away from my destination, I met my garrulous friend, Zama, who was on his way to pluck some mangoes after skipping class to gather firewood.

“Wumpini, how was class today?” He started.

“It was okay” Was the short answer I gave hoping we’d part soon afterwards.

“Were any of our mock papers shared? I’m really looking forward to seeing my mark in the Math paper. I worked really hard for it and if Mr Saba gives me less than 90, it will confirm my suspicion.I’ve always known that he hates me. As for the other subjects, I don’t expect too much from them, especially the English paper. After reading and answering all the questions on the first page, I really don’t know what happened but I forgot to turn over, and so I missed all the questions on the next page...”

“You won’t believe what I saw today.” I quickly cut in to avoid losing my sense of hearing asI was continuously bombarded with one decibel of sound after another. I described the events of the morning to him and then I concluded by saying, “I think it is that mad woman who picks up stuff from the rubbish dump who left them there”.

Indeed, my aim was to end his incessant speech but unbeknownst to me, I had opened wide the proverbial floodgates.

“All you did was to throw it into the bush? You mean you did not look beyond the physical? Well if you must know it could be a premonition of something ominous. If you ask me for advice as a friend, I’ll tell you that..., well you haven’t asked yet, but anyway being the good friend I’m, eem, I’ll admonish you nonetheless. You must look into it. There is more to it than meets our eyes. A word to my wise friend, ...” Even before he could complete his mutated proverb, I jumped in to prevent what could easily have become an hour-long lecture. “Okay, I’ll look into it, but before I do that, I will go and see Mr Mark. Could you please bring some of your mangoes to my house? It’s been long since I tasted mangoes from the wild”.

I trotted on to Mr Mark’s house.