Inside a Nigerian Boarding School

It was Saturday, the resumption day for all first-year students. I have been waiting all morning for my dad to come home and pick me up for my new school. Finally, at 11:22 am, I could hear the sound of his car engine, and it felt like the medicine for my anxiety had just arrived. Are you ready to go? He said, with so much excitement; I said yes and opened the car trunk as my siblings assisted me in carrying my box and other belongings. My box was not conventional, but the school highly recommended it. Made from a thick aluminum sheet, the box was about three feet in length, two feet in breadth, and a height of one foot; it had two padlocks on guard and was painted with awful colors to protect the box from rusting and not to beautify it. The nature of my box was supposed to open my mind to the idea that I was going into a den of thieves. It was impossible to pass through the facility for six years without stealing a thing, at least a pen. I was so naïve; all I was thinking about was the freedom from parenting, the allowances, the liberty from house chores, and the pride in attending one of the region's most talked about boarding schools. Finally, a few minutes past twelve, the whole house was ready to move. It was fascinating how they were all excited that I was leaving the house, but the feeling was mutual.

Discipline and knowledge were the slogans of the school, boldly written under the school’s name at the top of the school gate. The Nigerian Army owns the facility; they will never deviate from their slogan since they enjoy a brutal approach and have different ideas of discipline. The car drove in, and the entrance was crowded, with parents bringing in their children for registration. Our vehicle could hardly move an inch without stopping for minutes. While trying to figure out the reasons for the bottleneck in the drive, we noticed that a military officer was already controlling the horrible traffic. He was poorly dressed, holding a whip in his left hand and an old AK-47 rifle in his right hand. We drove closer to him, and he used the whip to point in the direction he wanted us to park. In Nigeria, when you see military men in such a description, obey and complain after you have followed their instructions, or obey and hold your grievances. The car was parked, and all my belongings were removed from the vehicle as we sought guidance on the registration process.

The first step was to search all my belongings for "Xzibit,” the name used for illegal items in the school. After the thorough stop and search, I proceeded to the next phase: clearance and payment of all hostel bills. Everything moved smoothly.

The management has already assigned all fresh students to various hostels. My name was shortlisted for Octopus House or The Red House. To fulfill the hostel registration requirement, I was to submit two cutlasses, two brooms, tissues, detergents, red bed sheets, a white bedsheet, and a sum of five hundred naira to the hostel registration officials. What made the registration process fascinating was that the management assigned a new student to a senior student, probably in their final year; we call them "school fathers or mothers.” It has nothing to do with any form of parenting because it was not a relationship as a reason for love and responsibility but rather an obligatory process designed by the management to help new students align easily with the system. The goal was to help the new student adapt in their first year through the experience and guidance of an old-timer in the system. The school fathers also protect the junior students under their care from other senior students who could be school bullies, even though the school father and son have to scratch each other’s backs for this relationship to work. Parents are always friendly to their children's school fathers or mothers because they provide first-hand information about their child’s well-being in the hostel. In addition, being nice to the school parent automatically generates an amicable relationship between the school father and son. Parents always send Money and other gifts to the school parent, making most relationships highly transactional. Some school parents disown new students in the first term of their first school session probably because the school's father and mother’s expectations about their relationship are not achieved or the new student is making the guardian process very difficult. In the end of it, some of the school fathers or mothers become the main school bullies.

The housemaster sent a message to the hostel, asking us to wait for my assigned school father. Everyone was anxious to meet him; after waiting a few minutes, a senior student finally showed up with three other junior students as his escort. The housemaster introduced him to my parents, who were pleased to meet him as they also had many questions to ask him. He was gifted some cash as we were forced to proceed to the hostel by the management to enable the registration of other students. Parents are restricted from visiting the hostel; I had to say goodbye to my family. The junior students grabbed all my belongings as we moved to the hostel. “My name is Nathan,” he said. I looked at him and smiled. I told him my name, and he said, "Welcome to Command Secondary School," I smiled.

We entered the hostel, and everyone I encountered was so positive and friendly until I got to my bed space, called the "corner.” Every senior student had their corner; it was not an actual corner because the hostel was a rectangular-shaped hall with beds arranged on both sides, leaving space in the middle for passage. Entering the corner, I saw a boy lying down on the floor. This was abnormal to me at that particular moment. The scenario began to stir my emotions negatively. Interestingly, he welcomed me while lying on the floor, and I began to wonder if he was okay. I sat on the bed as I looked at him and wondered why I was the only one feeling this was wrong, my school father acted as if the boy never existed, and students were flowing with their normal hostel activities. Where is my money? A senior student entered the corner and asked the boy lying on the floor; I will bring it tomorrow, the boy replied. The senior student removed his belt and struck the boy in the back. Where is my money? He asked again. I will bring it tomorrow, he answered with a sad and apologetic expression. What should I do to you if I do not see my money tomorrow? The senior student asked the boy, who probably was thinking the best judgment he could award himself if he failed to deliver. There was no mutual agreement, but he had to let the boy go.

He promised me some cash, which he could not remit; the senior student told my school father, who did not care about what he was saying. He vowed to oppress the boy continuously until their agreement was fulfilled, but my school father still did not give him any attention; he made the whole scenario look normal. Then he asked me if I was the new boy, and I replied yes. How are you? I was scared of him already. I replied with a timid voice, "What is your name? He asked again, and I replied audibly, Joe. My name is Y-clef, and I hope you are a good boy. This is my hostel, and we make things happen around here. Your school father is my friend, and anyone that tries to harass you, tell them you are with Y-clef, and the fear inside me subsided when I realized we were on the same team. On my first day in school, I witnessed a very high level of school bullying. He was not afraid of his actions getting to the school management. At this moment, I was hoping I could call my parents to come back for me. Realizing this was impossible broke my heart, and I began to cry. I cried silently on my bed.

As time passed, not everyone was friendly anymore; it felt like a trap. It was all about survival, but how can you fight for survival in an environment where everything you need is available? There is water, food, a clinic, security, and so on, but we are still trying to survive. As a fresher, I was not a victim yet. Still, one day I would probably become a victim of bullying, extortion, theft, brutality, harassment, enmity, and everything else that can make life hard for a student. The system was designed to make all first-year students comfortable in the school. I cannot be a fresher forever, the road might be rough, but it will not be forever. Counting on the days I will become an apex predator in the system where the only oppression can come from the management, which is likely a probability. This mindset kept most of us going. The school is a military facility that is good at breeding good students in that region; most parents bring their children to the institution because they need them to be disciplined and outstanding in academic performance. Seventy percent of all students in the facility are there because their parents needed them to be refined, and you get to live your day-to-day life with these students as your mates or seniors in the hostels. Indiscipline is contagious.

At this level, everything was new to us. We find it hard to align with some school activities or traditions, but we must adapt just like everyone in the system. The first time I entered the school dining hall, it was terrible. Maybe my perception of food was different, but I was very dissatisfied with students in highbrow environments behaving like animals to get food served on their plates. As time went by, I started understanding the reasons behind their actions. Their approach towards food was relegating and embarrassing, but I discovered their method was a skill I needed to learn. I fought in the dining hall several times, either in the queue or for food. I did not know I had it in me; I was even more brutal than some of my mates.

At the end of our first year, all I wanted was not to resume as a student at Command Secondary School, but my parents were fixated on not pulling me out of the school; they declined all my complaints and excuses, and my dad believed that my complaints were the signs he needed. He thought it was not the right place for me if I enjoyed the facility. Holidays are always short, my fate is glaring, and I cannot leave this facility before graduating. I had to be stronger and wiser to align with the system, but after resuming another session, I was so sad when I discovered that some of my friends had not continued the new academic session. Do my parents hate me? I asked myself. I tried very hard to convince them that I did not like my school, but all my words fell to the ground. Since I was not the only student back to school, maybe our parents had the same perspective, and there was still enough time to make new friends.

We were young and naive; everything around us was odd and not logical, and we often found them dissatisfying. This has always triggered the "homesick" syndrome. Most new students cannot deny isolating themselves to cry, regret, and wish they were not here in the first place. The system was not harsh on fresh students, but we wanted to leave. Some freshers will cry publicly, and other students will mock them. It hurts more when you realize you convinced your parents to put you in the facility, and now you cannot leave because they think it is best for you.

Outside the school, you hear things like, "It is a great school; their system is organized; the school has a significant effect on their students positively; and it is one of the best schools in town; this is true, but it does not matter to you anymore. The old students are careless about all this emotional drama; they have accepted their fate, believing that there is no more comfort zone for them, no more lazy moments, they have to be responsible for themselves, and they have to sit up for their academics. You are under authority; you sleep when you should and wake when expected to. The first-year students were not under too much pressure; we were treated like kings, yet we wished we had not come. I have learned from my school years that not all starting points are smooth and easy; what you see or feel can be adequately interpreted by the quality of the information you have consumed about it. If you do not know much, you will believe anything you see, hear, or think. In the end, I never regretted going to Command Secondary School.