I.V LEAGUE!

Sir Akakpo paced back and forth in the class. His question had thrown the entire class into a state of utter silence. Our minds had been wandering for the past few minutes; others even had theirs lost. As teenagers as we were, most of us barely listened to what went around as news. 

Radio sets were a luxury our parents couldn’t afford; TV sets, too. Life after school was spent either on the football field or farm. A few fortunate ones spent theirs behind their reading books. Some of us preferred to borrow such books when they came to school.

“What is news?” Sir Akakpo reiterated, this time with a stern look.

Aside someone’s fingers of plantain being prematurely harvested by whoever cared to, which wasn’t anything new to be news, nothing had happened. No one was dead. No one had gone to the city.

“Daavi Ivy, the kenkey seller, had her name all over the place,” one student hinted. “She has been priding herself in her unusual kenkey-making prowess ever since,” she added.

The teacher chuckled.

“Aaaah… I remember. One Kwesi Ennin was accepted into all Ivy Leagues last week,” one of the privileged few confirmed.  

“Clap for him!” the teacher stressed.

We all clapped, reluctantly though.

“Eeerrrm... Sir, please what is Ivy League?” a confounded yours truly asked.

“Ah! A grown, JHS 2 student like you asking such an unnecessary question as this this hot afternoon!? You mean you don’t know what a common Ivy League is?” he spewed.

I nodded shamefacedly. 

“Who knows the Ivy League?” he threw it back to the class.

Silence. Everyone seemed as ignorant as I was. 

“So... you don’t know the Ivy League in Ireland? Ei! Do you students read at all?” he yelled. “If you don’t know the Ivy League in Ireland, then I guess the Barclays Premier League in America would seem a mystery to your ears!” he imagined. 

“Aaah… Ok,” we all chorused in unison, admiring the rare knowledge of our teacher.

Suddenly, the headmaster barged into the class. 

“What’s the age of the oldest person in this class?” he asked.

“Fifteen,” the teacher replied.

“Great. Start training them immediately. We want to set and break records this year. I hear one seventeen year old boy has been admitted to play in the Igwe Vakpo (I.V) League and his name is already on everyone’s lips. With our fifteen year old boys, I guess our names would even get to Obama’s residence.”   

“Headie, but… but… I thought we had ten Ivy Leagues ooo,” he paused, “nine in Ireland, one in this community. So, which of them?”

“Eeeeh? Really?” the surprised headmaster wondered. “Ireland; the one in Eastern Africa?”

Sir Akakpo fainted.