Posts tagged mother

I attended a total of four primary schools, but I have most of my best memories in this particular one. It was an elite school in Lagos, one of the best in the area at that time. It was a school for the ajebutters, the celebrity kids, and a couple of kids from average homes. I was just a kid whose mom was a non-academic staff, but most people couldn’t tell cos of my confidence, appearance and performance in academics. It was easy to assume I was one of the really rich kids.

There was this boy in my class, Chinonso(not his real name), he had an unusual surname and was no doubt one of the richest kids in school. He had siblings, both in the primary and the secondary school. I think there were about five of them at that time. In the early 2000s, five hundred naira was a big deal, and this little boy, with his siblings, brought that amount everyday to school, with lunch, and they were dropped off and picked up from school everyday by their driver, with different cars.

The school had a break centre (I’m sure this isn’t what it was called,but my memory has failed me here) where all sorts of snacks were displayed for sale. Chinonso would go along with his gang and buy snacks for everyone. How old were we again? Probably seven or eight. You’re shocked that a child as young as that was exposed to that amount of money, right? But it is what is. The lunch box he brought to school was useless, I don’t remember ever seeing him eat his homemade lunch.

I forgot to mention, I was still a newbie, sort of. I joined in pry 2, first term, two or three weeks to their exams, and I came third in the class, despite being ill during exams. That’s how I became a star girl, and my headmaster and headmistress wanted to meet my parents. Imagine their shock when they discovered my mom was my mom. That’s by the way.

We were in the second term of pry 2 now, and Chinonso liked me. I know this cos he sent messages on several occasions through some of his “boys,” as the prince that he was. There were also times he’d playfully say he liked me and would immediately run off with his gang while laughing. He was cute, though not as cute as the other boy who liked me, the one who wouldn’t let me come first with him in the same arm; we had two arms in a class, A and B. He’s story for another day, let’s focus on Chinonso. I would have liked Chi boy back, but I just thought he wasn’t sharp and was a spoilt brat. I wondered why he wasn’t as smart as two of his elder sisters. In fact, I found it embarrassing that someone who never got answers right in class was liking me. I think I tolerated him just cos of his sister who happened to be one of my numerous school parents( I hear I was too cute to resist). He tried to get me gifts several times during break, but I kept rejecting them. I was the typical contented child; one who wouldn’t even accept water from anyone who isn’t my mom.

So you see, I was contented with my bottle of sweetened milk and whatever it was I took to school for lunch. I took a bottle of milk to school everday. On one of those days when I was happily drinking my milk, after refusing Chinonso’s gifts of course, one of my classmates decided to be unfortunate. In a bid to shame me, she asked in a mocking tone, “Why does your mom always give you milk to school everyday? Are you a baby?” and I replied, “It’s because milk is rich and good for growth, and yes, I’m my mummy’s big baby. You see my cheeks? You see how I look like a pumped balloon? It’s a sign of good living. But look at you, looking dry and starved. I think you should start drinking milk too.” The bully and the rest of my classmates sure didn’t see that coming. There was no way the quiet new girl could have said that. Oh well, she said that.

I remember this one time, before the milk incidence, when school just resumed; my first week of the second term. I had just started making my hair back, so my hair was really short. I had it in small puffs, decorated with colourful bands. I was fortunate to have really nice clothes and shoes, thanks to my mama, and to my abroad relatives who kept sending trending outfits. Since I was still new, I was allowed to wear mufti in my first week. I don’t remember why I still didn’t have a uniform, despite joining earlier. On this fateful day, I wore a pretty vintage dress, with a high round neck, puff arms and gathers around the knee. It was a combination of purple velvet, what we called apoche, and some shiny flowery material that looked like chocolate wrapper. I had one of those ivory neckpieces, that looked like it came from Zululand, a pair of white socks, black shoes and a beaded bracelet on. At that age, I already had the liberty to pick my outfits, and I did make good choices.

I was on the playground, feeling beautiful and confident in my dress, when some children from nowhere had the guts to tell me I looked like a village girl, just because I wore an apoche dress! To the ignorant kids, apoche was a traditional attire, and was therefore, bush. Trust me to school them na, I told them “I like apoche,” this wasn’t a lie,”but this apoche is international, it is not the kind you see everywhere. It was sent to me from the United States of America. Do you own one?” and with that, I bounced off with pride. I didn’t wait to register their expression, for all I cared, I had won the battle. I was such a smartmouth.

Despite the pry 2 display, there were still some goats who hadn’t gotten it into their little heads that I was a lioness, a war, and a fight, that I was not a preacher of love. I was now in pry 4, I already had a lot of fans, and was the most respected girl in the class. I rolled with the boys too, I didn’t have time for girls and “their childish play.” I was more into jumping on desks and chairs, drawing comic characters, and playing daring games.

Remember these kids were rich kids, some spent their vacations in the abroad. So apparently, most of their parents had nice cars and one of them was tryna shame me, my mother’s daughter! The boy made a rude statement about my mom not having a car. At that moment, some wires in my head touched, and there were sparks and fireworks in my head. This was one of the kids from an average home o. I looked at him with disdain and asked, “How much does your father have? How many houses has he built? Who even knows if you’re living in a rented house. How many cars does he have? My father was a millionaire before he died. He had properties when he was your father’s age (like I knew the boy’s father’s age). He owned a paint factory with many company cars and personal cars. He even bought cars for his friends, and sponsored trips abroad. Imagine he was alive now, he’d have been a billionaire, and I won’t even be here talking to you. Before you were born, my mother was already driving, she had her car. So because you see my mother working here now, with no car, you think you can talk about her anyhow. I don’t blame you. Na condition make crayfish bend (a saying that never left my mother’s mouth). Let me tell you, that your parents own a car doesn’t make you better than me o. You don’t talk to me and my mother anyhow. You hear me?” And that was how I shut the boy up. With the confidence with which I spoke, you’d think I witnessed these things. I only repeated stories I heard from different people, including my mother, with a little spice, I guess.

I really was just the wrong child to mess with. I wasn’t a follow follow type, I was the pack leader type. Thanks to my mom’s grooming. She got me the latest stationeries, books; children literature books, books on common mistakes in English language, and clothes; from Cinderella dresses, to the trending wristwatches, sunshades, shoes, and a lot more, while she was plainly dressed. I remember how other members of staff would tease her, saying she looked nothing like my mom, but my maid. Truth be told, I was always dressed so well, you’d think my parents were one of those who sponsored events in the school. I still remember my propietress’ reaction on prize giving day, when she realized I was just a child of an employee; priceless.

My mom made me know my worth through her actions and her words, and I will never forgot that. It helped boost my confidence and helped me adapt well among the “rich kids,” I never had a complex and never felt out of place. I participated in every school event, and attended every end of the year party; my mother paid for every one of them, in full. In case you’re wondering how she managed to pay my school fees which was a whole lot at that time, she got a discount like every other staff, plus she served and still serves a living God.

My confidence made me bully-proof and kept the bullies away. Even peer pressure had nothing on me, simply because I knew my worth.

Did you ever get bullied in school? How were you able to deal with bullies? Did their actions affect your confidence or were you bully-proof like me? Please, rub minds with me and drop your comments in the comment section. I want to hear your story, you’ve heard mine.