Magic Words
A story about the untold brutality of boarding schools — from David Ben Eke
Clever never wanted to attend a boarding school, but here he was now, in a dusty store in Bishop Green secondary school, an old man, the store manager, sat near him, cracking dry jokes — saying, “See the way you are jumping. Are you a jumper?” “This is Bishop Green, but we don’t have a Bishop and we are not green.” Clever was trying on his school uniform and daywear, his upper lip firmly curled. The green uniform shirt and the maroon short smelt like Okrika¹ clothes, the clothes his houseboy wore, and the fabric of the daywear shirt looked cheap — like it was picked from mile-one market. These, coupled with what happened hours after, made Clever’s coming to Bishop Green feel like a fall from grace.
Clever’s high-thinking of the school further dropped when he beheld the spirogyra-ridden gutters in the boys’ hostel backyard, and when he met other boys, most of whom reeked with chronic body odour, had on threadbare daywear shorts, and behaved like kids in Community schools. He had looked forward to meeting the stainless, impeccable individuals in whites and suit-jackets that he had seen on the school’s adverts on YouTube and billboards at Rumueme² junction and along Peter-Odili road.
It was one of his cousins that had first sang the praises of this school. She had said, when she recommended it to his mum:
“Bishop Green? It’s very good aunty. Ah! It’s one of the best in Port Harcourt o. It may even be the best sef⁴. Those students there are fire.”
His mum had gone to see for herself. But marketing and branding… they could sell hell as heaven to a Pastor: his mum returned, having been successfully sold Bishop Green secondary school. She became the one singing the school’s praises, as if she had been a student there herself.
Having gotten his exact size of school uniform and daywear, it was time for Clever to say good-bye to his mum. Him and his mum were standing in front of the boys’ hostel, Clever’s red suitcase containing his provisions and toiletries and a Ghana-must-go bag containing his new uniform and daywear beside him, on the dusty floor.
“You’ve heard what your dad said on the phone, yah?”
He nodded.
“Just continue being that good boy we know, yah? Mummy loves you.”
He nodded again, his mouth shut tight because any slight opening wouldn’t let out words, but cries, pleadings that he returned home with her — in her Venza, the AC blowing him to sleep as she drove past the chaotic roads of Port Harcourt, as usual.
His mother hugged him, smiled at him, and urged him to go in. She remained on one spot, watching him as he went in. Within his chest, there was a heaviness, but one he didn’t want to unload: he had noticed already that this vicinity was rich in dry eyes. And the hostel building itself had four pillars painted in bright orange — not drab grey. The building was towering like a Castle: it was broad although it appeared like a prison, with its iron bars on the floors above. There was also a big, noiseless generator a few feet away from the hostel, emitting dark smoke that he believed had killed a student in the past.
When his family lived in a rented apartment in Oroazi³, their generator emitted so much smoke one night. The fumes went into their neighbour’s and made their neighbour’s two sons become unconscious. Clever had never seen his father as humbled as he saw him that day: he was begging their neighbour on both of his knees for hours, until the man’s two sons were resuscitated.
Now, Clever was praying he’d fall unconscious too. He was praying for such an escape, from this new reality of “home” he had to live. And he wanted it today, or sometime this week. If he became unconscious, the school would call his mother, and she’d drive speedily from NTA road where they now lived, to this place in Woji where she was leaving him, her only son, with a smile on her face. His father would hopefully also be humbled, would come down from that high-horse philosophy of his — “life is tough, so be tough” — and embrace the truth of his own fragility, of the possibility that he could lose his only son in one day, could lose all he had “sweated” for — he always talked about how much he sweated for his money — in one, just one day.
“Should I help you carry your bag?”A dark-skinned boy, taller than him and bare-bodied, except for a daywear short, asked Clever.
“Yes,” Clever answered, then looked back to see his mother had gone. “Thank you.”
Only this morning, his mother led him, his father, and Chinwe, the houseboy in devotion. They all sang and prayed to the Lord before she advised, as usual:
“Never forget your five magic words even as you go to the hostel. It can open doors for you, you hear? Please, excuse me, sorry, thank you, and the last one, pardon me. Please make sure to practise this, yah?”
His mother then went on to narrate how one of those words had made her colleague in the secondary school she taught at assist her with something, how it had made another colleague give her something, and another colleague, forgive her for something. It was unsettling though, that he started today, as usual — with his mother leading devotion and advising — but would be ending today differently: perhaps on a tiny bunk bed like the ones he was seeing in the rooms on the ground floor. He wouldn’t be ending today after a hard game of COD and Fortnite with his friends, after saying goodnight to, and receiving a peck from his mum. After being asked what “one productive thing” he had done throughout the day by his father. Instead, he would be ending sleeping in a room with strangers, within the mosquito net the school had required his mum to buy — without the AC he had in his room that usually put him to sleep easily.
“You go drop something sha⁵ o.”
“Sorry?”
“Rich man pikin⁶. Say na “sorry? You will pay me with something for carrying your Ghana-must-go.”
Clever wanted to say “No”, wanted to tell this individual to leave him, that he could carry his things by himself. But he thought about it: it wouldn’t hurt giving this guy one of those big crackers. He could also become known to these strangers he had to make friends, as the guy that gave. Afterall, as his mother always said, “those who give lack nothing”. So, he’d be given too: given more help like this, more help that would assist him in sinking his roots in, more help that would make him feel like one of the boys that made this hostel, “boys’ hostel”.
But what did this guy mean by “Rich man pikin”? The fees for this school were eight times that of his former school — three hundred and sixty thousand naira in total. So, he too must have come from a rich family, except his family was one of those that sent their kids to big schools for the hype of it, only to depend on loans from friends to keep their kids there.
The tall guy lifted his suitcase, his arms, thrice the size of Clever’s. By now, they were still on the ground floor of the four-storey building.
“You are in which class?” the boy asked Clever.
“Grade nine.”
“Okay, that’s in third floor. Hostel master will direct you to your room when we reach there.”
They climbed.
“How about you? What class are you in?”
“Grade twelve.”
That was when the beards on the tall guy’s chin became visible, when the deepness of the guy’s voice made sense.
“So, you are like my senior?”
“Yes, man.”
His cousins had told him about their seniors who were their school fathers when they were boarders at UNIPORT secondary school, Choba. They had told him about how their school fathers had saved them from “that strong senior” and “that wicked senior”, and given them provisions when theirs finished. Now, Clever couldn’t but imagine this senior, bearded and kind — willing to help a junior like him carry his heavy bag albeit for something — being his school father.
“Please senior, will you be my school father?”
“No problem my guy. No problem,” the senior said, and rubbed his head.
The magic words his mother taught him had done their magic — or, so he thought.
What started at nine P.M didn’t prove Clever’s coming to this Bishop Green was a fall from grace: it proved it was the manifestation of one of those “generational curses” that latched onto his mother’s and father’s bloodline, one of those curses that his mother spent hours every night breaking, using the name of Jesus, sweating profusely, pacing her room, and anointing his head with olive oil as he slept.
“Grade seven to Grade eleven boys run to my room now!”
It was a heavy voice, one with a bass that was deeper than his school father’s. It was so deep, it made the hostel tremble.
Clever, still arranging his things into the small, rectangular locker space he got, immediately heard feet. Fast feet. The whole hostel was running. Through the open door, he saw his roommates who had introduced themselves to him, Belema and Richard, running. They had been in the room beside his, comfortable in brief boxers and singlets, chatting with their other friends while he was here in his room, in his full daywear, too shy to show his thighs — his thighs that his cousins always called fat and feminine, too shy to speak until spoken to.
“Grade seven to Grade eleven boys, don’t let me call you again.”
The voice was frightening, and the courtyard space amidst the hostel, made it echo menacingly. Clever continued arranging his things, his hands shaking. He knew he was a Grade nine boy, he knew he was supposed to be running too. But he didn’t know where to, didn’t know the dynamics of being summoned and answering with fast feet. Besides, he was new, so whatever senior was calling would understand that he didn’t understand.
“Guy, won’t you come?” A spectacled boy he hadn’t met yet stopped by his door, and asked.
“What’s happening?”
“Just come! It’s SP oo, head boy.”
Quickly, Clever dropped his things. The boy held his hand, and they joined the stampede.
The senior was calling from the second floor. They ran down the stairs, some students ahead of them, some behind. As they ran past the senior who was standing by the balcony of the second floor with eyes that were the widest, whitest, almond-shaped entities Clever had ever seen, the Senior let a long black belt loose on them. It fell on them, at random, striking their heads, their backs, their eyes, anywhere it pleased. It didn’t touch Clever though, but it touched the spectacled boy.
They ran into a room. As they got in, they were asked by another senior who was frowning like someone had killed his mother, to “squat and bounce”. This senior had red eyes. He also had the arms of a soldier and a six pack. He didn’t look like he came from a home like Clever’s, a home where bread or biscuit and chocolate tea were served for breakfast, a home where rice was always served for lunch — fried or jollof. The senior looked like Eba was his regular meal, and like he worked for the Eba, carried bags of cement and moulded blocks at building sites for the Eba. Was this Bishop Green school really for “Rich man pikin”?
Well, Clever did as the other boys were doing. He squatted down to the tiled floor and bounced up and down in that position. The room was dimly lit, partly because of the ineffectiveness of the bulb in the ceiling, and partly because of the number of boys in the room. All the boys were now sweaty, the smiles that had been on their faces nowhere to be found. Their dry eyes that Clever had envied hours ago now fountains of tears.
Within this crowd, Clever surveyed out only a few soft faces and bodies, most of the boys around him were hard-faced. Aproka¹⁰, his mother often called this kind. He also surveyed out only a few boys who had clean, new daywear. The rest had worn-out daywear, daywear that didn’t necessarily look worn-out from age, but from over-wearing. And the way they perfectly fitted the boys… Clever considered the boys wore their daywear even at home, during holidays. Like those Community school children whose only clothes were their school uniforms.
“How will we be paying all that money and serving punishment like this?” Clever whispered to the spectacled boy, who, like him, had an oval face, not the hard-jawed, square faces most of the boys here had.
“Chevron is paying for them na. That’s why they have mind to be punishing somebody. And if you report them now, the school will not do anything because they want Chevron to continue bringing students.”
“Oh…”
“Who shit for backyard?” The senior’s deep voice took over.
“Senior, it’s not me,” Most of the boys said in unison, as if they were reading from a script, as if they had acted this scene before.
“Don’t make me ask again. Who shit for backyard?”
“Senior,” one boy in the crowd started talking, “I see grade ten boys for there.”
“Show me who shit for backyard! No tell me story.”
Everyone went silent.
Clever had by now seen the backyard — the view his room window permitted him was of the repugnant sight. He wondered who would even think of pooing there, and if anyone, why it was such a big deal.
“Are you guys mad?” the senior raged, let his belts loose — he had two belts now.
Again, the belt didn’t touch Clever after the wanton spree of whips: he felt like his mother’s nightly occupation, being in heated convo with God, yielded this protection for him.
“I will give you guys five minutes. Tell me who did that thing.”
The senior left the room.
Everyone started talking. The spectacled boy was crying quietly, his hand bleeding.
“Sorry. Sorry,” Clever said, one of his five magic words, the only thing he could give.
“Come Grade ten boys, if they flog me, all of you will die today,” One of the boys squatting and bouncing, most likely a Grade eleven boy, said.
Another followed:
“Grade nine boys, you guys like shitting at the backyard, abi⁸? Better report yourselves, or else?”
“Una⁷ dey⁸ mad?” the senior who summoned all of them came in again. “Who shit for backyard?”
No answer.
The senior switched off the light. He flogged at random again, and this time, his belt touched Clever’s hand. As it touched Clever, what was happening became realer. He had been thinking himself a mere observer, someone removed from the scene by his guardian angels. But now he was involved too, not as a protagonist, but one of the extras, one of those who could suffer injustice in the drama without getting justice or being expected to.
Apart from what the spectacled boy told him, Clever’s cousins had also told him that if he reported any senior at boarding school for beating him, the rest of his years there would be hell. So, he had tightened his resolution to chest whatever came to him, to suffer in silence, be “tough” like his father said, then go back home having experienced what his cousins had. What his father, by his orphanhood and fifteen-year-unemployment, had experienced. He’d go back home being “strong” like them, having gruesome-but-survived tales to tell.
The light off and the senior’s belts randomly striking them, some of the boys squatting and bouncing started laughing. This, being his first time, Clever thought all this might have simply been one of those boarding school rituals. His female cousins that went to Federal Girls school, had told him about “candle nights” — nights when senior girls walked around with candles and beat, playfully, any set of girls, whose room door wasn’t locked. His male cousins had told him about catapult fights, where seniors went against juniors, and they shot one another with rubber bands, which served as catapults, and tightly folded pieces of paper, which served as bullets. His cousins usually talked about these experiences — which they said ended with “that girl” having a fat lip and “that boy” having a big eye — with such nostalgia.
So, Clever, wanting to be part of what was happening in his own boarding school now, wanting to participate in this moment that’d in the future spark nostalgia for him, joined the laughter.
“Who dey laugh? Jesus! Una dey mad?”
The senior switched on the light. He caught sight of Clever’s flared teeth. The other boys, knowing the dynamics of the system had shut their mouths swiftly and returned to their staunch grimaces. But Clever… Clever didn’t know.
“Oh, na you!” the senior singled him out. And just then, three other boys as big as the senior came in. They must have been standing outside the room. One of them was Clever’s “school father”.
“Who was laughing? Who is the bastard?” his school father asked.
“This chihuahua o.” The head boy who was now pressing Clever’s neck answered.
Clever, struggling for breath, was shaking his head, saying in muffles, the suitable magic words: “Sorry, sorry. Please I am very sorry senior.”
But his magic words didn’t do their magic. His “school father”, who he had made same by the wielding of that spoken wand his mother gave him, was the first to launch for him, with a heavy slap to his face. He landed on the floor, and the rest of the seniors joined his school father: the head boy, the senior with the six pack, and another hard-jawed, square-faced labourer who had been given a set of school uniforms and daywear, and so, qualified as “student”.
Clever’s school father and the head boy were matching his thighs as if they were in a WWE ring. The senior with the six-pack was knocking his head, and the fourth senior was tearing his skin with the wicked whips of two jagged belts. Clever was screaming and crying, shouting and begging, using “please and sorry”. But so was his welcome to boarding school: not even the magic words his mother gave him could save him.
- Okrika — A place in Rivers State, Nigeria
2. Rumueme — A place in Rivers State, Nigeria
3. Oroazi — A place in Rivers State, Nigeria
4. Sef — An expression that roughly translates to “even” when it is used as a filler word in English communication
5. Sha — Nigerian filled word
6. Pikin — Nigerian pidgin for “Child”
7. Una — Nigerian pidgin for “you guys”
8. Abi — “right?”
9. Dey — “Are/is”
10. Aproka — Created term used by some individuals
David Ben Eke is a writer and law student from Rivers state, Nigeria. He is keen on depicting through prose, poetry, and hybrid forms, the complexities of the human experience. He writes for the love of God and man, and hopes his writing stirs same. His poem, ‘This One Spot’ was published in Olugbon Review’s ‘The People’s Stage’, and he can be found on Instagram, david.ben.eke, and LinkedIn, David Ben Eke.
