LOTTO AGEGE

It was exactly six pm. Every ardent lotto lover knew what such a time on a weekend meant; winning lotto numbers! We were all attentively glued to father’s Agege radio set. 

He had bought it when returning from somewhere in Nigeria called Agege many years ago. “Agege is like my first son. He cost a fortune!” he would always remind us. It was one of those few possessions of his which he cherished most.

“The winning numbers are…” a voice echoed from the inside of the set. “Ninety nine, sixty five, single three” it paused. I heaved a deep sigh. My heart began palpitating. The Agege radio set shook gently. “Single one and forty!” he added. I leapt excitedly and down came tumbling Agege!  

“I am a millionaire. I have won!” I burst out hysterically. My nine brothers spontaneously lifted me up, amidst chants of my nickname ‘Tikelekele’, literally meaning the big-headed one. Of course, each of them had to earn a place in the sharing of my jackpot; the longer they carried me, the more likely that chance of enjoying it. 

“The old man is in!” one of them shouted. They all took to their heels, forgetting I was still on their shoulders. Down I came! I fell with a thud, just near where Agege had been dismantled mercilessly; beyond any form of repairs. 

“What happened to my Agege!?” my father yelled emotionally. I knew I was in trouble. He had warned us several times, how dear that set of his was to him and how he was going to beat the stubbornness out of whoever was going to tamper with any of the knobs.

“He won lotto!” the youngest of the nine blurted. “Who?” my father asked, confused. The place was silent. They all looked at each other and simultaneously pointed at me, who was still finding solace on the floor, near good old Agege. My father walked threateningly towards me. “Today I’m going to deflate that big head of yours!” he dared.

Suddenly, I jumped up out of my seat courtesy three deafening strokes of Rev. Fr. Agozor’s lash. It was an early Elective Mathematics lesson and I’d fallen in a lotto trance instead. 

“What are the factors of six?” barked he. 

Still scratching my back, I whined “Single one and forty!” 

 

KOBY'S CORNER: SIR SKELEWU’S ‘ABAA’....

KOBY'S CORNER: SIR SKELEWU’S ‘ABAA’....: It was class four (4). Sir Skelewu was all we knew him as; his real name most of us dared not to us. As fearful as his name sounded, hi...

SIR SKELEWU’S ‘ABAA’....

It was class four (4). Sir Skelewu was all we knew him as; his real name most of us dared not to us. As fearful as his name sounded, his sizeable, long ‘rod’ was one thing he barely spared, lest spoil us. 

Most of us would ‘load’ piles of books or even used clothing into the backs of either our shirts or shorts, but all those weren’t enough to salvage us from the endless pain of his ‘abaa’, to wit, cane. Countless times had we tried to steal that deity of his that caused us so much discomfort, yet all to no avail. 

This time around he had asked us to go find out the name of someone who mowed lawns. He was definitely going to verify the answers any moment from that day.

Early next morning, Sir Skelewu was brandishing his ‘abaa’ at us. “Yes Yaw John, your answer.” 

He stood up. “The answer is gate man, sir!”

Before he could bat an eyelid, two heavy strokes had travelled back and forth his back, with the speed of lightning. He yelled.

As of this time, the class was dead silent. Everyone’s heart thumped in their chest. The last thing anyone wanted to hear was their name. 

“Yes. Kofi Paul, tell me what you discovered”

Kofi Paul was visibly shaking.  “Errrrm. Errrrm. Goat, sir!” he quivered.

“Eeeeh?” 

He repeated it, this time louder.

“Dog, not goat! Fool!”

In the twinkling of an eye, Sir Skelewu had mercilessly unleashed his cane on him, too. No one dared laugh, funny as it seemed. After all, one didn’t know whether what they were thinking was right or not.

 

“Kwesi Boh, what do you think the answer is?” 

“Grass cutter!” he swiftly replied.

“What!?” Sir Skelewu wondered.

“Ah! My mother told me. Grass cutter!”

The lanky teacher’s deafening lashes suddenly resonated with his three-syllabled answer, Kwesi Boh bursting into tears and dashing out of the class. 

Sir Skelewu continued with his whipping spree.

In no time, Kwesi Boh returned with his furious mother. The Goliath-like physique, who was famed for flooring even the strongest ‘Area Macho’, struggled to enter the door of the class. Painstakingly she did. 

“Where’s the teacher?” she roared. Kwesi pointed at him.

“Give me that ‘abaa’ now and let me show you how sweet it feels like!”

Sir Skelewu’s feet were wobbling. “Oh! But Kwesi, you should have told me your mum was the English professor!”

   

    

PANTY-LESS ME!

I had been combing almost all the companies and schools in Accra for employment after university. As long as three years on, there was still none. My hallowed, hard-earned undergraduate certificate was becoming nothing more than an ornamental memorabilia with little or no use.

These were times my breakfasts were intentionally delayed, and either my lunch or supper kept on diminishing by a morsel day after day. “Get a job like your friends!” I was indirectly trying to be told.   

One morning, thankfully, I had a call to come teach in an all-girls’ school the next day. My goodness!  The enthusiasm was great. First, I would be able to own a radio set at long last, and second, I would meet girls; a lot of them.

Exactly 6am I was at the bus terminal. There were scores of several others who had one important schedule or another to attend to; all of us anxiously waiting for a trotro.

The first came. As expected, only a few strong ones made it; no place for neither the gentle nor weak. Second trotro; same story. 

It was obvious my gentleness was only going to get me standing there till another eclipse occurred in GH. Those in tuxedos even joined in this ‘survival of the fittest’ (which looked nothing new to even the ladies), how much less yours truly dressed in an oburoniweewu long sleeves and trousers, and of course... panty-less.  

Walking about panty-less (antipé) wasn’t anything new. It went far back to my SSS days and was one enjoyable legacy my single sex alma mater had successfully ingrained in me.

Third trotro came. I forcefully made my way amidst battering and insults from some aggrieved co-passengers. I hastened to the headmistress’ office and then sped off to the class I had been assigned to. 

The students unusually giggled on seeing me.  

“I look that good?” I wondered. “Maybe I look like another John Dumelo.” 

I poured on and on all that I had ‘chewed’ some years ago. The class even giggled the more. To my bewilderment, all those from behind had suddenly moved to the front seats… whispering to each other.

“Oh! I guess I am that good a Biology teacher,” I soliloquized, with such a great sense of fulfillment. 

On realizing how impressive their interest in the topic was, I didn’t leave anything to chance; not even the ‘biological’ demonstrations. They burst into laughter after each of such theatrical moves. 

By some stroke of luck, I cast my eyes on the flap of my neatly-pressed adigidon trousers. Alas! There my hair- adorned ‘heavyweight’ was unperturbedly minding its own business. It had been staring into everyone’s face all that while! 

I heaved. “Close your eyes,” I paused. “Say the sinner’s prayer!”