I wake up with a start. I check my bedside clock. The time says I’m screwed. And sure enough mom’s voice confirms it. “Daniel, shey you’re now the prophet of the house na? We should beg you to join us in prayers abi?”
I rush downstairs immediately. I know better than to make her shout twice. That would definitely lead to a chain reaction of screams and complaints and unending nagging. I don’t want to start my day like that.
My dad and mom both glare at me as I take my seat between them on the long furniture chair. I will never understand why mom insists we sit on the same chair when we pray when there are five other chairs arranged in the sitting-room. She claims it shows unity in the house but I know it’s so that she doesn’t have to stress herself to slap me when I doze off.
“You don’t take God seriously,” mom complains.
I know better than to protest. I just listen. She goes on for five minutes about how important God is in a person’s life. You see, my dad’s a decorated member of our church, and my mom, well… she might just do the pastor’s job better than him. These two put together, I have to be extremely serious with my relationship with God.
Morning devotion lasts the customary forty five minutes; thirty minutes of repeated prayers and one slap (I wasn’t exactly sleeping, I just ran out of things to pray about), then fifteen minutes of my mom preaching. It wasn’t exactly preaching than it was listing the numerous things I did that she hated, and then explaining that God doesn’t like them. She had scriptural backing for them all, including my laxity in washing plates.
After prayers my dad informed me he was going on one of his impromptu business meetings that morning so I had to take my bath and be ready before six-thirty because he’d be taking me to school. Seeing as it was already ten minutes past six, I felt like I was on a scene in Mission Impossible. I didn’t have a choice, though. I did as I was told and was ready by six-twenty five.
My mom then tells me I had five minutes to finish breakfast. It wasn’t surprising–the timing was, but it wasn’t surprising that my mom had scheduled every single one of my action for that morning. If it were possible she’d tell me exactly what to do in school.
I ate breakfast. My mom complained. The meal was bread sandwich and tea, but I reduced it to bread and tea, removing the insides of the bread. You see, I hate most vegetables and my mom hates that I hate them.
She drags my dad into the ‘Importance of vegetables’ lecture, but he isn’t as invested in it as she is. That, too, annoys her, but she doesn’t show it.
Before long my dad is driving me to school. We don’t say a word for half the journey, and I prefer it this way. My dad and I don’t really get along–well to be frank I don’t get along with any of my parents, but I have less in common with my dad.
He turns on the car radio, and then the air conditioning. As if it isn’t freezing enough this early morning.
The radio station is playing a song. I like the beat, but before I can begin to move to the beat, my dad tunes out of the station. It’s a good thing, because it would only cause more problem for me to be seen shaking my body to ungodly music.
“I hear you’re going to have a new teacher,” my dad says after a while, “a student teacher.” Of course he knows about stuff like that, something I don’t even know. My dad is a generous termly donor to the school, and in exchange he’s gifted free information about everything happening in the school. It also ensures that I am monitored closely. That part I don’t like at all. “I thought all student teachers had reported to their various schools. But apparently this one doesn’t care much for being punctual. All those university students are like that. They are late to everything, even their funeral.”
Everybody’s late to their funeral, I think. That’s why a dead person is titled ‘late’ not ‘doctor’ or ‘mister’?
“Stay away from him.” That came out of nowhere. “All these students are bad influence. And you’re backsliding enough as it is.” And that explains it. He’s afraid I might go rogue. “Say you’ll stay away from him.”
“It won’t be that hard. Student teachers can’t teach a senior class,” I answer with my between soprano and bass, sixteen year old voice.
“This one will. He’s replacing Mrs. Odion. She’s on maternity leave.”
Mrs. Odion is my Civil Education teacher. She was with child about a month ago, and then she didn’t come to school for more than two weeks. So, she’s given birth. I’m happy for her. But I should’ve figured that out myself. But that’s one of my many problems; I’m not that bright.
My dad drops me outside the school gate. He clearly doesn’t want to engage in unnecessary conversations that would’ve arisen if my principal were to spot his car. That would make him late for his impromptu trip.
“Do better,” my dad says and drives off.
I’ll try to.
I say hi to the gateman. He ignores me. I choose to think he didn’t hear me.
This will be a horrible day, I decide.