JOSHUA’S father Morrow had been pestered by the missionaries in town to send his kids to school.
The four bright kids he had with Maria his wife... Abraham and Joshua, their boys. Then Comfort and her sister, Sarah.
Even still, the father had insisted only his boys would read. He’d been a bit like the men of his time, about the new thing called literacy.
Then he’d chosen Joshua to attend school, saying his oldest son couldn’t cope with school—for he battled weakening limbs and bones.
So, Joshua Morrow showed up in primary school at long last. He’d taken seventeen years to start basic reading and writing, and tally sum.
But the fledging boy had taught himself to read through those long wistful years. He leafed through English Bible, and Yoruba.
Now Miss Anderson, who taught year one pupils mixing English and native words, stopped her quiz to give instructions.
‘Up stand!’
The students got up, so she walked in front of the new boy. ‘What is your name?’
Well, Joshua didn’t catch that, so the mistress asked it in Yoruba.
The boy got the teacher’s question. So he replied, ‘Banji,’ clipping the middle syllable that way.
Anderson caught that. Then she went:
‘Banji, you must signify you’ve got an answer first of all – just like your classmates raised their hands.
‘And then I may call on you. But you don’t give your answer or else I call you!’
The newcomer nodded, as the teacher had switched to his language.
‘Then you aren’t correct this time,’ added the young woman. ‘There’s no “fiveteen” anywhere. It’s fifteen... FIFTEEN!’
Banji echoed that.
Now Anderson walked back to the chalkboard, and told her class to sit. But she’d left an echo behind.
Just stop being soo forward—she had moaned.
For she liked, yet disliked him.
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