The Tale Of A Class One Teacher And A Lying Osofo Moko

The dust motes, dancing in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the grimy classroom window, tasted like chalk and regret. Not actual taste, mind you, but the feeling of taste, a dry, dusty residue coating the back of my throat. Class One. My nose throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that amplified every snotty syllable.

"One," I droned, the word a nasal whine that ricocheted off the peeling paint.

"One," chirped the little demons, their imitation so perfect, so mocking, it felt like a hundred tiny needles pricking my dignity. I could feel the laughter bubbling beneath their forced conformity, a prickly heat rising from their miniature backs.

"Two," I persevered, a heroic feat of pedagogical self-control.

"Two," they echoed, the chorus now infused with a barely suppressed glee. My stomach churned. I gripped the edge of the blackboard, the rough wood scraping against my sweaty palms, a tactile assault on my already fraying nerves.

"Children," I squeaked, my voice cracking under the strain, "stop! It's sickness!"

And then, the final, devastating blow: "Children, stop! It's sickness!" The words hung in the air, a malodorous fog of nasalised truth. I could smell their triumph, the sickly sweet aroma of schadenfreude mixed with the faint, lingering scent of stale urine from little Kwesi who always had accidents when he was scared.

It was then I remembered Osofo Moko.
Osofo, the man of God, the alleged liar. His pronouncements, like the putrid stench of uncollected rubbish on a hot Accra day, filled the airwaves. Two planes, drugs, contraband – the whole nation choked on the rancid air of his accusations. The President, bless his beleaguered soul, had asked for proof. Silence.

I imagined him, Osofo, sitting in his lavishly decorated office, the soft, plush velvet of his imported armchair caressing his backside. I could feel the weight of his gold cross, heavy against his chest, a tangible symbol of his hypocrisy.

And the National Security? I envisioned them, squinting at blurry CCTV footage, the flickering light of the monitor stinging their eyes. They could probably hear the clock ticking down, the relentless sound of their impending embarrassment if Osofo's silence persisted.

My outrage, my Christian shame, welled up inside me, a bitter, bile-like taste that threatened to erupt. I wanted to grab Osofo by his embroidered robes, shake him until his teeth rattled, and demand, through my own congested nasal passages, "Osofo! Where's the evidence? Do you not see the mess you've made? The damage you've done!"

But alas, I was just a Class One teacher with a nose problem, condemned to listen to a symphony of nasal echoes. So, like a frustrated bullfrog croaking in a swamp of deceit, I could only shout (through my nose, of course), "Osofo, provide evidence of your claim before you stain your office as a priest of God!"

And hope, against all logic, that someone, somewhere, would actually hear me. Even if it sounded like I had a permanent cold.

Anthony Obeng Afrane

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