Children run across the hallway
In search of their classrooms
Friends hurriedly say hello and
rush into their classrooms
Settling into their seats
They await their teachers
My name is Bola
And my math teacher is Mrs. Lola
She comes in every morning at 8
O’ clock
My friends and I don’t like her because
she wears a stern face
With a voice so shrill
She beckons on pupils to rise
“Where is your homework?”, she
squeals
Pupils present their homework
And Mrs. Lola frowns
A frown so ugly that it makes us
shiver
“Bola!”, she squeals again
I rise and shiver
Every strand of hair on my skin electrifies
The unfriendly sight of my
teacher triggers a tear
I gulp in fear
And then I croak, “Yes, Mrs Lola”
“Clean the chalkboard!”, she screams
As I walk towards the board my
hand freezes
I try to get it to pick the
duster
But it won’t budge
Mrs. Lola squeals again, “Wait
are you waiting for!”
I begin to shake uncontrollably
And then I hear the giggling
And the murmuring
If I was a white kid
I’m certain I’d have turned pink
But my black skin remained
unchanged
I begin to drift away
To a world of calm and peace
Suddenly my peaceful world
becomes troubled
I hear loud thumps
And then I feel a horizontal flow
of heat across my back
I open my eyes
And I see a furious and even
uglier Mrs. Lola attempting a second lash
The ice in my hands suddenly
melts away
My bladder suddenly empties as I
escaped the lash
Then the whole class laughs out loud
I feel like a clown in a circus
And my audience seems very
thrilled with my performance
I then begin to cry out loud
The shame and the pain Mrs. Lola
was causing me was too much to bear
And like an angel in the mist of
darkness
Miss Grace appears at the doorway
with an expression of pity on her face
Her lovely afro hair surrounding
her round face
“Mrs. Lola, you’re called”
Mrs. Lola turns with anger, “Who calls?”
“The Head Mistress”, Miss Grace replies
Mrs. Lola reluctantly drops her
whip
She turns sternly at me and gives
me a look
The “I’ll be back!” look
I gently wipe off the liquid
trickling down my legs as she strolls out of the classroom
Miss. Grace walks towards me and stretches
out her hand
I take her hand and walk out of
the classroom with her
She bends and whispers something
into my ears
“She isn’t coming back…she’s
going for her sack letter”
And then she smiles with hope
I look at her in confusion
Collision of thoughts in my head
I try to comprehend the news
Is she for real?
Have my nightmares come to an
end?
I suddenly experience a feeling
A feeling like an ice cube
sliding down my back
A feeling of relief and joy
If this is true then “God be
praised”
I walk hopefully with Miss. Grace
“Let’s get you cleaned up!”
She holds my right hand and
smiles
And my head feels light in a
pleasant way
By Sylvia Chika
sylviachika@gmail.com
