Goodnight, Mr. Ibeji
When we returned to school for the second term of the 1980/81 session, we met a retinue of unfamiliar faces. These were the lower sixth form students, just beginning the session. Unfortunately, the authorities did not make adequate preparation for their resumption, so hostel lockers and mattresses were insufficient. A friend with nowhere else to turn after his displacement had to pass Sunday night with me. My bed was atop a double bunk, which had no safety rails. In the early hours of the morning, I fell off, bruising my lips and two incisors. I cried in pain, and it was Senior Israel Ijewere who picked me up. Describing it the next day, he said the sound from the fall had been extremely loud. He was happy when I cried out because initially, he feared I might have collapsed.
After the morning assembly, our form mistress presented our duplicate results to view and return. I wrote a letter to my parents since we had not received my result during the holiday. In my innocence, I mentioned I had taken a fall in my sleep and went on to list the bruises I sustained. However, I reassured them we had a competent dispensary to take care of things.
Just before lunch on the day of election for the positions of SRC Secretary and Vice, I saw my guardian, Mr. Jegede, in the dining hall. That was not strange because he was the master in charge of food and dining. I saw him talking to Bourdillon Dagana, which also was not strange. Bourdillon was in National House, and he was their housemaster. But Bourdillon looked up with darting eyes and pointed towards the Pendo House tables. At that moment, their eyes met mine, and Mr. Jegede walked briskly to me. He took my hand and pulled me after him. He did not speak a word. I did not know where he was taking me, but I felt safe because I knew he would never harm me. Outside the dining hall stood my Dad and Mr. Ibeji, deputy housemaster, Pendo House.
Pleasantries over, Mr. Jegede asked me to explain my accident. I did, but omitted that I had shared the bunk with a friend. I also said the dispensary took care of everything, though I never went there. How would I have explained a thing like that to the staff Nurse, later Nursing Sister, Mrs. Nwadike? She would have treated me excellently, but not before shredding me to bits and pieces. “You people are not disciplined. Are you not ashamed of yourself? How can you fall off your bed like a baby? What kind of nonsense sleep is that?” I imagined her asking.
“Why did I not see the scars on your lips at the time?” Mr. Jegede asked.
“The wounds were in my inner lips and they healed quickly.”
“But haven’t we consistently advised you against bothering your parents with such stories?” Mr. Ibeji asked calmly, speaking for the first time.
My dad came to my rescue. “In fairness, he mentioned the dispensary would take care of everything.”
“How are you feeling now?” Mr. Ibeji gently asked again.
“Fine, thank you. The pain stopped a few days later, and my lips healed too.”
Then an awkward silence followed, which my Dad had to break because it was an uncomfortable one.
“I didn’t even know Mr. Ibeji taught in your school. He is my friend.”
“Yes, your Dad and I have been friends for years,” he confirmed.
But it was easy to see that both teachers felt embarrassed. Mr. Jegede felt like he had failed in his duty as a guardian while Mr. Ibeji felt he had not lived up to expectation as a housemaster. I felt so bad for having written about my accident in that letter. I did not write it to indict anyone. I only wanted my folks to be aware before my next holiday, so they would not think or believe anything different when they saw it. Both teachers were sincere, astute, and diligent gentlemen. I do not flatter them when I say they were the characteristic men of honour. Neither am I afraid to state that they do not make teachers like them anymore. At the time though, I felt so helpless and did not know how to express any of this to them. But I learned a hard lesson, and it was the last time I ever reported an accident at school. Before that though, I became extra careful, which helped to drastically reduce such incidents.
When we returned to school the next term, I was quick to discover bunks which hitherto lacked safety rails had been duly fixed. I did not need anyone to tell me it was Mr. Ibeji who had done the needful.
In form 2, my class, 2D, was in the Home Economics block. The nearest class was form 5A, and someone from that class always borrowed our duster but never returned it. It was the second term again, and I was the form captain. I went to retrieve it one morning and he was the teacher there. When I explained my mission, he was surprised.
“Are you not afraid to enter a form five class to take their duster? They may not be happy about it, which could put you in trouble.”
“The duster belongs to my class, sir,” I said, pointing to it lying on the blackboard platform. He turned and saw it. 2D was boldly written on it.
“Did somebody from here take it from your class?”
“Yes, they always come to our class when they need a duster.”
I took the duster and went my way. From that day, no one ever borrowed the duster from our class without returning it. It was easy to tell again that Mr. Ibeji had a hand in it.
At the start of the third term in our form four, teachers laid siege to the school to check the influx of clothing not considered school uniform. They stopped all vehicles or persons and inspected every suitcase. Any piece of clothing that was not our uniform was handed back to the accompanying parent or guardian. If you were chauffeur-driven or arrived via public transit, they handed anything seized to your housemaster. In which case, you had to wait until end-of-term to get it back.
As soon as the car conveying Chukwuemeka Amaefule drove in, Mr. Ibeji wasted no time. He ordered the trunk open and went straight for the suitcase. He found nothing. After scattering the clothes in the trunk and still found nothing, he stared hard at Emeka, who was visibly irritated because his well-ironed clothes now lay scattered in the trunk. As if something touched him, he opened the carton housing Chukwuemeka’s provisions. There, he hit the bull’s eye. That was where the mufti lay hidden. He bundled them and went straight to Chief Amaefule who sat comfortably in the owner’s corner.
“Diokpa, look at your son! See the clothes he wants to wear in school. A student for that matter! Ask him whether he is here for his books or for disco party!”
Chief Amaefule, shook his head before retrieving the clothes through the rear window. He tossed them on the other side of the back seat. When Chukwuemeka made to sit with him, he simply pointed to the passenger seat in front. Without a word, Chukwuemeka, burning with rage obeyed. All the plans for the term, truncated!
One Saturday night at the tail end of the first term of our form five, we were at school dance when Mr. Ibeji showed up. It was a rare appearance, and he was only doing his beat as Master-on-duty. He ordered the Entertainment committee members on the stage to turn off the music, which brought the night to an abrupt end. As he walked away, some students in wild outrage went after him. His athleticism took them by surprise for swiftly and nimbly, he got out of harm’s way. While at it, he identified a junior student in the classroom area who later proved to be his man-Friday. The next morning, one after another, separate interrogations began. The number of suspects increased and those found guilty were brought to book. There was no noise, and neither was time wasted. The investigation was prompt and action, taken decisively. A pointer to his business-like attitude to issues. He was strategic, executed his plans diligently and his distinctive results showed.
He never taught me in any class. Even as deputy housemaster in my first two years, he did not have a prominent presence in the dormitory. But he presided over a meeting once where he admonished the bullies among the senior students to watch their steps because his eyes were on them. In like manner, he implored junior students to have a heart and help the seniors, especially when they were on the verge of writing their final exams. If they had more time to read, they would pass, and if they passed well, it was to the glory of the school which belonged to all of us. He was fair, humane, and adept at boarding school traditions which he wholeheartedly supported too. But what he would never tolerate was any student taking things beyond the limits of school regulation. When that drew his ire, he became a completely different person. And his cane would spring forth to speak the language students never failed to understand.
That generation of teachers is gradually bidding us goodbye. It always feels nice to share some of these wonderful memories. These people gave everything during their prime to ensure we got the best they had to offer. When I think of Mr. Ibeji, I remember the calm teacher and gentleman who was simple, humble, and tidy. His clothes, formal and informal, were always well laundered, and neatly pressed. He drove a sky blue 504 saloon car, which often stayed clean and without blemish. He walked with quick steps, but never in a hurry because he was well-organized.
Thank you for everything, Sir. You were a genuine personality, and you lived it completely. Give our best to all the teachers who went before you. Let them know we think about you all. Let them know we are grateful for all the years you toiled to impart knowledge to us.
All your students and fellow UNN Lions join me in wishing you a safe passage to the Great Beyond. Rest in Peace, Sir.
