Chapter 1: The PTA Heat

Because I went to the hospital a few times, the parents ganged up and reported me:

As I dey reason am, I still remember the way dem gather for PTA, eyes full of fire like say na big crime I commit. The hall hot, ceiling fan just dey turn for noise, sweat dey gather for my back as I stand for front. Some of them no even allow principal finish, dem dey cut in, voice loud pass generator for compound.

Final year is so important, and as the homeroom teacher, you’re supposed to be available every time. Is it by force to go to hospital?

One papa with red cap even shook mouth: “Make we talk true, if you know say your body no strong, why you collect the work? E no be by force now.”

Even if na weekend, what if something happen and we no fit reach you? If you no even get that kind sense of responsibility, how you go dey call yourself homeroom teacher?

Another mama, wrapper tied tight, hissed and folded her arm, “If na our pikin get emergency, who we go call? You go dey hospital dey enjoy yourself. Abeg, madam, na sense we dey talk!”

At the end, na just selfishness. People like this no suppose dey teach at all.

One young parent just drop am, her voice sharp like market woman, “All this one na selfishness. People wey dey think only about themselves no suppose stand for front of children at all.”

I just weak and vexed at the same time.

I swear, for that moment, my legs just dey shake. My chest tight, but tears no gree come out. Only God see as e dey do me inside.

These past two years, I don try scatter—carry class wey dey bottom of the grade reach first place. I work so tay I fall sick, I no even gree take one day off because I dey fear say e go affect the students.

Sometimes, as I dey mark assignment for night, body go just weak, but I go force myself because of the children. Sometimes, na only soaked garri and groundnut I fit manage for night, just to mark their assignment. No single day I slack.

Now, dem dey call me selfish.

The word pain me, cut me for chest like new blade. After all my sacrifice? Na selfishness dem take reward am.

When my students hear say dem report me, all of them just dey look like say e no concern them at all—face cold, eyes like stone.

Dem just bend head dey copy note, no one look me for face, no single "sorry ma," or "what happen?" Na so dem cold reach.

My mind just cold.

Na real cold—like person wey fall for harmattan water. I just dey wonder if all my effort na for nothing.

Anybody wey wan be homeroom teacher, make dem carry am.

I just tell myself: "Omo, you don try. This one pass your power. Make anybody wey feel say e easy, make dem try am."

A few months later, na this same set of parents come knock my door:

As rain dey fall that early Saturday, dem gather for front of my small flat, some even carry their children come. Dem knock well, dey beg with soft voice: “Teacher Yetunde, abeg, we dey beg you, come back.”

I look dem, my heart soft small, but I still bone. Na so life be.