My ₦50 Story: Nightmare of a Meritorious Village Teacher, Part 1

“While waiting for them to wet me with petrol, hang tyre on my neck, and set me ablaze, I began to say my last prayer. I thought about my pupils, whose narratives I desire to change brought me this horrible end.” – Akeem Badru

The pandemic

In March 2020, the world got stalled due to the deadly Corona Virus (Covid-19) pandemic. Cities were on lockdown leading to the closure of schools and other public and social places.

You would recall how our cities were deserted. Human beings were frightened to interact with themselves. Governments all over the world were confused.

The Digital Intervention

In the interest of school children whose education was on the line by the lockdown. I, Akeem Badru was among the few teachers who volunteered to put their lives on the line to ensure that learning continued.

We provided an alternative learning experience to children within and outside Ogun state through audio-visual spectrum. This aired on OGTV channel 25 UHF, DSTV channel 260, GOTV channel 100 and Star-Times channel 113.

It was the first-ever State Government response to militate the effect of the pandemic on the education of children. It was tagged “OgunDigi Class”. This initiative was by Mrs Ronke Soyombo, The Special Adviser to Ogun State Government on Primary and Secondary Education.

The experience of having to use the mainstream media to enhance teaching and learning provided me with the opportunity to use Electronic Board (Smartboard) and relevant Microsoft Office Suite in teaching.

Fascinated by the experience, I decided to invest the stipends received for my service to replicate the use of such High Tech Teaching Innovation in my village classroom. I did not mind the associated limitations.

To achieve my dream of giving my pupils such a teaching and learning experience, I ordered a mini projector from Ali Express (Order #8012021668867749). This gadget could be powered by a power bank and connected to project material from a phone and SD Card.

I expected to receive the projector by April or May at the latest. But the global lockdown and international travelling restrictions extended the delivery beyond five months.

Ojo buruku esu gbomimu - The day the devil decided to drink blood.

On Friday 21st August 2020, I was preparing to visit a friend along AIT Road when my phone rang. It was a call from the post-office informing me that my consignment had arrived.

I had planned to join my friend in watching the Teach For Nigeria virtual Graduation Ceremony for the class of 2020 Alumni through Zoom. But, after the call, I decided to visit the post office to clear my long-awaited consignment before going on the visit to my friend.

I got to Gbeleyi Post Office along Baale Animashaun Road, Alakuko, Lagos in the afternoon. I needed to pay #500 (Five Hundred Naira) clearance fee together with the submission of a photocopy of my identity card.

I paid the clearance fee from the available #1000 (One thousand naira) cash with me. I had budgeted the money to renew my GLO internet data subscription to join the Zoom call and participate in some virtual classes and courses I enrolled in.

I needed N1,100 (One Thousand, One Hundred Naira) to get the consignment cleared, make a photocopy of my ID and at least do a GLO mini data subscription. But all the money I had left was just N1,000 cash. My account was also empty. This development necessitated I seek at least N10 (Ten Naira) support/ assistance to get the gadget cleared at the Post Office.

As I stepped out of the Post Office premises, I saw a well-dressed young guy who should be in his late 20s or early 30s standing in front of MEGA Unisex Salon adjacent Oyelese Street. I approached him, greeted him, showed him my work identity card, and narrated my purpose at the post office beside where we were standing. I humbly begged him to support me with N50 (Fifty Naira) to make a photocopy to clear my consignment.

Surprisingly, he responded in Yoruba, “were ni iya e ni?” “So fe sori buruku ni” Ara lo ma pa e”, iwo omo oloso yii”. (meaning “Is your mother mad?”, “Do you want to be misfortuned?” “May you be struck by thunder”. “You this Ritualist”. His reaction left me with great shock. He was shouting on top of his voice, so I decided to walk away from him since an African proverb says, “singing and clapping for a mad man to dance is tantamount to being a bonafide lunatic”.

The Nightmare

A few metres away from him, I approached another man selling electronic gadgets adjacent Blooming Care Hospital for assistance but he politely declined.

Just opposite Chris-Flourish School, I stood there thinking of whether to continue begging for alms or come back to the post office on a later day for the consignment. It was in this perplexion that I realised the first guy I spoke to and his friends had been on my trail. He had signaled the second man to refuse me.

At that point, I was surrounded by his friends while he questioned what I was standing there for. Before I could respond, he alleged that I was a ritualist. In split seconds, I had been surrounded by an angry mob.

After much interrogation and accusations that I was a ritualist who was there to kidnap. I was made to sit on the bare floor in a humiliating manner.

What happened next could only be imagined. All my efforts to convince them of the sincerity of my intention. The request that they follow me to the post office to verify my claim fell on deaf ears.

Suggestions on appropriate punishment for me were raised. Some suggested I should be taken to Alakuko Police Station while the majority suggested an instant “jungle justice”.

My Last Prayer

At that point, they were deciding my fate. I could only imagine what would happen next. All I could see when I tried looking around was an angry mob. No one was listening to me.

While waiting for them to wet me with petrol, hang the used tyre provided on my neck, and set me ablaze, I began to say my last prayer. The thoughts of my family and loved ones ran through my mind. I thought about my pupils, whose narratives I desire to change brought me this horrible end.

I started imagining and asking myself the following rhetorical questions.
“How will ‘Iya Akeem’ (my aged mother) receive the news?”
“How will my wife feel when the news breaks?”
“Will Uwais (my 13 months son) grow up not knowing me?”
“Will the news of my death be the best gift for my son Jafar who clocks 12 years today?”
“How will the Media report the incident?”
“Will my pupils be proud of me?”
“Is this the best reward for my sacrifice to positively impact the life of pupils in underserved communities?”
A consoling thought whispered in my ears – “What is worth living for is worth dying for. At least, you died for what you are passionate about”.

To be continued…