Chapter 2: When the System No Dey Listen

My body dey shake.

The anger dey boil for my inside, my palm dey sweat. I dey think of how I go handle the matter without make am worse for my son.

I realise say, as usual, I just assume say the boys wey dey bully my son na the so-called 'bad students.'

The shock of the realisation sting me. No be only pikin wey get bad name dey do bad thing. Sometimes, na the one wey teacher dey carry for head like gala for traffic.

But e shock me say the thing wey dey cause this kind bias dey deep for body.

I begin reflect on my own bias, how society don teach us to trust only book smart children. E pain me, as if na slap.

And most times, we no dey see am.

True true, this kind thing dey hide well, dey operate for shadow, unless person open eye look well.

"Mummy, I do anything wey make dem dey bully me so?"

His voice sound like person wey dey beg for help inside dark well. My heart break for am.

My son dey sob. "I no wan go school again."

I hold his round, apple face, kiss his cheek.

I wipe the tears with edge of my wrapper, kiss am for forehead. "My pikin, na only strong people dey talk wetin dey worry dem. You dey strong."

"My pikin, you no do anything wrong."

I hold am tighter, as if my arm fit shield am from the world. My own tears dey hide for my voice.

"Mummy dey tell you serious: you never do anything wrong. Even if—make I just talk—say you do something wrong, na only if you no tell teacher or me quick quick. You hear?"

I use my palm clean him cheek, repeat myself with emphasis, the way my own mama go take swear for market, make e enter him head.

He nod, tears dey flow for his face.

He nod like agbalumo wey breeze dey shake, still dey sob, but small hope dey shine for his eye.

"But Mummy, teacher really like am."

His mouth dey twist, as if e dey taste bitter leaf. I sabi the weight wey that talk carry.

He no finish the talk, but I understand.

For Naija, we sabi read between the lines, especially when pikin dey fear authority. I rub his back, reassuring.

"You still small. Anything wey pass your power, Mummy go help you."

I remind am say even our culture dey teach say pikin matter na for adult to settle. I dey for your side, no shaking.

I hug am tight. "Mummy go talk to teacher. We go reason am together, and the boy wey bully you go apologise, okay?"

I rub his back small, as I dey hug am like wrapper wey dey cover from cold. I want make am know say Mummy dey his side always.

"True?" My son look me with hope.

The hope dey fragile, but I see small fire inside. I no fit let am down.

"True," I nod.

I put extra nod, my eyes dey shine with assurance. I no go fail my pikin.

"If he fit apologise, I go forgive am. We fit still be friends," my son talk, eyes shining.

His innocence touch me. Na only pikin heart dey quick forgive. I pray make world no spoil am for am.

After I calm my son, I think well, then call the class teacher, Mr. Musa, after lunch.

I carry my phone waka go balcony, make breeze cool my head before wahala go start. I rehearse my words inside mind, make I no go forget anything.

After short greeting, I send the photo, explain everything.

I try talk calm, no shout, just explain as e be. I dey hope say teacher go understand, act like adult wey get sense.

"Oh, okay."

Mr. Musa voice just dry. "E fit be misunderstanding. As I know Ibrahim, he no fit do this kind thing."

That his voice na the type wey dey tire person. He talk as if na small thing. My anger begin boil again.

He cough small. "You know, Ifedike's mum, for this age, children dey find am hard to express themselves. Maybe na just play, no be as you think."

His tone dey brush my skin like sandpaper. How bullying take turn play for adult eye? I dey boil.

I dey bite my tongue, dey count to ten inside mind make I no insult am for phone. I shock, my voice rise small. "Ifedike dey primary two now. I believe say he fit talk wetin dey worry am."

I try keep my voice steady, but I no fit hide the anger. For Naija, pikin for that age don sabi talk if dem dey maltreat am.

"True?" Mr. Musa laugh small. "But last term, Ifedike composition score no too good—na just pass mark."

E pain me reach bone. Instead of address bullying, e dey drag my pikin academic. I bite my lip, dey calculate my next talk.

...

I laugh, no believe am. "So, Mr. Musa, you dey talk say Ibrahim no do anything bad?"

I laugh dry, the kind way wey elder dey do when matter don pass joke. My patience dey thin.

"Ifedike's mum, I no talk so."

He dey shuffle, no wan stand for ground. I dey wait for am to talk sense.

"I just dey talk say one note no fit prove anything."

He still dey twist the matter: "And Ifedike dey always alone for school. As teacher, I feel say you suppose check your pikin feelings well, no be to blame other children."

My anger rise. For Naija, na so adult go push blame go another side. I dey hold myself make I no shout.

After that short talk, I understand why my son no wan tell class teacher the truth.

If teacher no fit support am, who go fight for am? The system dey fail our pikin for daylight.

I no get strength to continue. "Mr. Musa, I don record this call. If you sure say you dey right, I fit share am for class group or even online make people judge."

I drop that warning sharp, the kind way wey Naija mama dey do when e don tire for gentle play.

"Hello, Ifedike's mum..."

I hang up, tired.

My hand weak, my spirit tire. I just dey look my phone, dey breathe in and out.

I no answer the teacher calls again. I think am, then message Ibrahim's mum privately one more time.

I compose my message well, make e no get wahala tone, just straight to the point. I still dey try reason like neighbour.

If the woman get sense and fit talk to her son to apologise, I no want make matter big.

I pray say she go reply, make we no disgrace ourselves for group.

My son still small, dey sensitive. If wahala too much, I dey fear say he go feel more lonely for school.

For this Naija, pikin fit carry scar for heart if parent no handle am well. I dey careful make I no push am into more isolation.

I send the message and the note photo, then wait.

I dey refresh my phone every five minutes, dey hope reply go come.

I wait two hours, no reply.

The silence loud. Even generator noise no fit drown am.

But I see say, just five minutes after my message, Ibrahim's mum don post for parent group.

She post motivational quote and picture of her pikin, as if nothing dey happen. My body begin hot.

After another one hour, I no fit hold am, I send question mark—na so chat show red exclamation mark.

She don block me.

Na so? For this country, person go block you sharp sharp if e know say e wrong. The final straw. My head dey swell, my chest dey tight. For Naija, once person block you after you talk matter, you know say e don mean war.