Chapter 3: The Breaking Point
"Change teacher! I no go gree make teacher wey just dey talk spoil my pikin future."
Dem dey repeat am, like chorus for bad song. For my mind, I dey hear am as "change, change!" but na my conscience dey clear.
"That Mr. Femi for next class dey try. He dey keep students for class seven days, dey do strict, high-pressure training. Na that one my pikin need."
For this Lagos, pressure dey everywhere. Even students no fit rest. Parents just dey attack me from every angle. How two hands wan fight plenty hands? I just step back.
Me: "Whether na to change teacher or class, na no be only class teacher dey decide am. If any parent no dey happy with me, abeg report to the school direct."
After I drop that last message, I stop to dey read all the insult wey dey fly for parent group, just turn my phone face-down for table.
As I drop the phone, I dey feel that headache wey dey come from inside. My eyes fall under the cold bulb light, see the pile of real exam papers from different states wey I don gather from many early mornings and late nights—na only the multiple-choice part I just finish mark for one set. My biro don stain my finger blue, hand dey pain like person wey peel beans for hours.
I dey remember how I dey look for the best past questions online, call colleagues for Ibadan and Jos, make sure my students get enough to practice.
Beside am, I see new revision plan wey I draw, tailor for each student based on their last mock exam.
I just sit down, quiet.
Na so silence heavy, like PHCN light wey just off for whole estate. I remove my glasses, drop my pen, off my laptop.
Make I try forget that phrase—"time no dey wait for anybody"—wey dey ring for my head. I just stand up, baff, go bed, close my eyes sharp sharp.
Before I sleep, I pray small, tell God make e guide the children. Make everybody dey their dey.