A Story of My Father

A STORY OF MY FATHER - By Doye Teido Agama

So, we finally made it out of the Biafra war zone... My mother, my elder sister and I arrived in Lagos, which was then the Nigerian political capital. I remembered Lagos. Mum had arrived with me there on a ship from Liverpool, England, less than a decade earlier. Now my sister and I were hoping to get back into secondary school there. We had each lost a couple of years of our schooling during the recent fighting, and our parents had decided that getting us back in education, was a family priority.

Acceptance and Rejection

Queens College Lagos, founded in 1927 is one of the top girl’s schools in Africa. They accepted my elder sister in. She had already done several years at the related Queens College Enugu, before the fighting started. I had passed the entrance exam to the nearby Kings College Lagos before the conflict began, so all our hopes were high that I would get a place. Mum and I went across the city to Kings College, which was founded in 1909 and was also then the top boy’s school in Africa.

The ceiling fan turned gently as mum sat across a large table from the Principal of the College who at the time would have been Mr Rex Akpofure or Mr R.S.G. Agiobu-Kemmer (I am now not sure). He listened but then explained that the school was full, and my place had long been taken. Mum pleaded with him. He was sympathetic, but firm. There was no place for me at King's College…

I saw mum’s shoulders drop in disappointment as she took in the bad news. It had been a long and dangerous journey for us to get there. It seemed as if the bottom dropped out of my small world. The hope that my place at King's College was waiting for me was one of the things that had kept me sane through the terror of bombing, shelling, and flying buzzing bullets in the past months. I felt rejected. I felt the Principal probably did not understand what we had been though.

We left. Mum squeezed my hand. She looked down and smiled at me. "Don't worry" she said. We will find something." I did not reply, maybe I nodded. But my mind was reeling. "Find something?" I thought to myself, "Where? Is there another King's College?" We walked down the long cool corridor and out into the hot Lagos sunshine. I remember all the floor tiles, because my head was bowed down all the way to the exit... I could not look at the other students in their smart uniforms.

In My Father’s Footsteps

So, our journey continued. About 300 miles later, we arrived at another secondary school near the rural town of Ughelli. It was also a "Government Secondary School." Known as GCU, it was founded in 1945. But it looked to me like this school was on the edge of the jungle! This was not King's College Lagos. This was not what I wanted. I protested making my feelings known. To encourage me, mum said "Look, it's a good school. You father was once a teacher here. maybe they will give you a place."

Another big office, another big desk, another ceiling fan, another Principal. This time he was a White Briton, Mr J.E. Jones, who listened carefully to my mother, paused, and finally explained that although the school was full, he would make a place for me. Mum's relief was very clear. She beamed as she thanked Mr Jones. I was less sure about this, but I tried to settle in.

GCU prided itself on "manliness." Known as a "House," each dormitory of 60-100 students had a student who was House Prefect and a teacher who was the House Master. You crossed them at peril of extra manual labour, or even "six of the best." (Corporeal punishment). There was also bullying of junior students known as “fagging.” Apart from being “House Master,” most teachers had various other extra assignments like sports and food supplies.

The regular routine as I remember was a very early morning start with sports or manual labour, then chapel, breakfast, classes, lunch, classes, short siesta, more sports or manual labour, supper, "prep" (study) and then "lights out." But you got used to it, even began to enjoy it… sort of.

Ayaya (the school handyman) was the oldest member of staff on the campus. Of medium height and slightly built he was superbly fit for his advancing years, with gnarled hands that told a story of a lifetime of physical labour. Ayaya was very popular with all the students. He had a solution for everything. Students would shout "Ayaya" whenever they saw him, and he would usually respond with a wave and a smile.

Just as I finished my meal of black-eyed peas and fried plantain (dodo) in the refectory one day Ayaya walked in and came over to me. He nodded to the Prefect who sat at the head of the table and said to me " Are you the one they call Agama?" I replied that I was. "Come" he said. “I will show you something.”

A Family History Lesson

He took me through to the back of the kitchen where students rarely went. It was quiet now that cooking was over for that meal. “Are you related to Frederick Abiye Agama,” he asked. “Yes, Sir” I replied. He’s, my dad.” Ayaya said “He was here. We called him FA for his initials,” He paused. "It was just after the 2nd World War, and I remember your father standing right there.” He pointed across the room to some ancient looking, industrial weighing machines and other equipment, which he explained was used to receive and check the incoming supply of food for the students.

“F. A. Agama was a great man." Ayaya smiled at me and continued. "Apart from teaching classes, your father was the staff member in charge of school food supplies. He took that job seriously. You see these scales? Before your father came, vendors would soak the school meat supply in water overnight to add more weight. Sometimes too, the meat was nearly bad before it came to us here. Then they would also use warm water to force the fruit they supplied to look ripened, and they did many shady deals to allow their bad practices to continue."

I nodded, fascinated now by his story. I could almost see my dad standing there in his tropical short-sleeved shirt, shorts and long socks, biro pen and clipboard in hand. As thorough in every detail as always! That was my dad for sure! But "Where was this story going?" I wondered silently.

"Your father stopped all those bad things" said Ayaya. "He sacked those vendors who brought bad food into this school. He refused their bribes and changed the student's diet, introducing more fruit and protein like boiled eggs. From then on, the students ate better meals. So, the students loved your dad so much. They too started calling him “FA!” Everyone was happy except those rotten vendors."

"Do you enjoy the food in this school?" He asked. I replied that I did, especially black-eyed peas and fried plantain (dodo). "Remember what your father did here" he said touching my shoulder. He looked into my eyes. "I hope you too will one day be a great man, like your father and help people who can’t help themselves." I nodded; my sight was a bit cloudy now. I swallowed, holding back my tears.

"You may go to your class now, young Agama" said Ayaya as he walked away.

The Author, Doye Teido Agama is a Digital Transition Consultant who writes occasional (and hopefully) thought provoking posts and articles from Manchester, England. He also works internationally.