A TASTE OF FAILURE

By ‘Ladeji Popoola

He would cry and cry; don’t go out, don’t befriend the bad eggs, sit down there, read to my ears, cram this, recite that. Father was a disciplinarian and a secondary school teacher that was revered and feared in the whole of Ewekoro for his cane-wielding expertise. Father believed the hearts of children are the homes to all sort of madness and cane was meant to set the hearts free. I had just finished secondary school, my WAEC result was an eyesore. Father would beat the hell out of me again, but this time he would beat me soft like clay. I don’t need anyone to tell me this fact. 

When I left the cybercafe the morning the news broke out like the news of Ebola in Balarabe town, everyone knew the result was out. I had left home early in the morning to check my result. However, when my result popped up on the LCD monitor, I couldn’t believe what my eyes had beheld. I rechecked the examination number and I fixed my gaze, perplexedly on the screen time and again — I was the owner of the result. As I headed homeward, I began to think with sweat trickling down from my head and some ugly thoughts crept into my mind. I thought never to return home, but another thought said I should tell father my result was withheld. “No father is too inquisitive; he may go to the WAEC office in Ibadan to request for my result,” another thought countered. After long and long rumination, I chose to tell Father the truth since he always preached against a lie. He would say those who lie have no home other than Hell. 

The sun of the August morning had found its way out of the blue sky with protean clouds. It was not too sweltering when I returned home from the café. I walked in apprehension into the living room with a face like that of a woman that has given birth to yet another stillborn but chooses not to weep. I met Father on the two-seat couch meditating on his Quran. He adjusted his glasses, down to the tip of the nose. He couldn’t figure out yet the reason behind my bereaved countenance. He read the miserable message on my face and then cleared his throat as though something was in there he wanted to get rid of. I walked to him, prostrated and I said some words of greetings, then I gave him the paper. Father held the A4 paper that my result was printed on. He adjusted his glasses and fitted his eyes on the paper at the same time nodding profusely in surprise. The paper was blessed with F9. He had always said to me that distinction is the king of all grades and F9 means failure and it was not meant for the children of a teacher. Father returned the paper to me and told me to disappear from his presence. I knew I was not save from my father’s cane because I was fifteen or a fresh school-lever, however, I knew staying a second before I disappear could mean many things.