Reflections Upon A Sound Colonial Education

REFLECTIONS UPON A SOUND COLONIAL EDUCATION

I was not a very large young man - which is to say I was quite slight, miniature with my collarbones sticking out from under a neck which was constantly craned to survey my breathtaking new surroundings; the neck on top of which was attached a substantial skull, with bulbous eyes in it for gawking at the gargantuan edifices which constituted but a moderate part of GCI and environs, and which accommodated the College's strapping, striding denizens. The students indeed contributed to the spectacle, uniformed gentlemen-in-training, the very picture of order and discipline. They provided a harmonious complement to the hallowed brick and mortar and the neatly manicured lawns (which they were responsible for, by the way - the result of various arduous Saturday mornings). There was a sense of gravitas which pervaded the atmosphere; we all felt - knew - intuitively that we were for a spot of serious business.

I took to school life quite quickly and rather enthusiastically; the tendency towards order an intellectual fortitude was of course to serve me in later years in the military, besides in all other aspects of life. In a poem of his, Derek Walcott briefly mentions having received a 'sound colonial education'. I'm not hesitant to characterize the instruction I received at GCI as such, but it might serve to consider that phrase a bit more closely. On one hand, yes, the education was undeniably rigorous. We had great teachers, and a pioneering learning environment. On the other hand, GCI, being designed after the eminent English public-school Eton, which has served largely to educate the upper-class children (those destined for Oxbridge, civil service, prime-minister ship - this sort of thing. Am including colonial officers. As such, there was and remains a certain cognitive dissonance to taking up this so-called 'white mask'.

As Kissinger once pithily replied to an African delegate who heckled him about his colonial forebear: it wasn't all bad (it logically could not have been entirely negative). Well, while we are grateful for our education and the opportunities it provided us, but we cannot ignore that it came as a byproduct of the exploitation of our land. Even if the white man felt it was his duty to educate the savages (in Kipling' terms, the 'half devil, half child'), let us be skeptical about this altruism, even as we celebrate the advantages. But to what end has it been, this sound colonial education? Anyone who's even a bit socially aware knows that the educational system is in a state of regression; if it isn't already gone to the dogs, it's well on its way there. There are, of course, (mostly expensive) exceptions, but by and large educational standards have grossly reduced since the 'good old days'. I say this at the risk of sounding curmudgeonly.

It is something we have to come to terms with, though, for the sake of the future of our shared nation-space. If our sound colonial education has not equipped us to move this country forward, what use has it been really? The question is rhetorical; GCI alumni are known for being pace-setters in their various (and how varied they are!) fields of endeavor. The blame for Nigeria's decline not lie on any particular set of shoulders, but in words of Brecht, 'an unlined forehead points to callousness'. We must be deeply concerned and not get carried away by reminisces of things past.



To return to a more positive note, I would like to recall an English gentleman who personified the excellent standards of the GCI curriculum. This man is no other than the person of Derek John Bullock, principal from 1960-1968. His last year coinciding with my first year. In the brief time I was privileged to have known him, he made a lasting impression on my character. I am sure all those who knew him as well would remember this charismatic, smirking, blue-eyed fellow with a booming voice that lent itself well to his frequent waxing poetic. He enjoyed the theatre, and instilled a culture of stage performance at GCI, as well as sport. He was a great teacher as well - who can forget his emphatic phonetic lessons?

With two punctuated broad handed pats on the back, "POMPOM! That's it, boy! POMPOM! ButterFLY! BisCUIT! Abraham Lincoln was an American, wasn't HE?! Attend to your syllables, emphasis on the LAST! POM POM! One couldn't help but feel quite winded after the ordeal. Well, to this day I am frequently commended on my diction, so I suppose it was an effective method, if a bit breathtaking.

Bullock was replaced in his post by an amiable fellow known as Chief J.B.O. Ojo ( on whom more later), who in no small way matched Bullock in his theatrical leanings. I cannot forget the constant declamations of a poem by a somewhat obscure American poet, Douglas Malloch, entitled 'Be the Best of Whatever You Are'. It instilled in me a love of poetry, consolidated, of course, by our symphonious Yoruba tongue, which I have rid myself of since. I am not at liberty to provide the full composition, but the final lines do much to capture the overarching theme:

If you can't be a highway then just be a trail, if you can't be the sun be a star;
It isn't by size that you win or you fail-- Be the best of whatever you are!

Being the diminutive young man I was at the time, I rather took those words to heart, you see. While I reveled in my sciences and languages, in the world of sports, where physical substance mattered more than anything, I was woefully unskilled. I simply exerted myself to the best of my little ability, and left the rest to God. Interestingly, by some ironic twist of faith, this turned out in my favor. It is with no small deal of mirth that I recall my christening by the name of Pele, after that same Brazilian virtuoso.

It was compulsory then to engage in sporting activities despite one's level of reluctance or ineptitude. Well, one day, Coach Akano trooped us out to the playing grounds and showed us the difference between what we referred to as the 'orange' and 'banana' shots. The former was essentially a knuckleball, wherein one would strike the ball with the top of the boot, right on the laces, and it would dip towards the target. It was fairly straightforward business. The latter shot would produce a whip and the ball would swerve wildly, misdirecting the goalkeeper with its crescent. As you can see, I grasped the theory fairly deftly; in practice, however, it became fertile ground for farce.

The coach ordered us to form a line on the uniformly graded patchwork pitch of grass and underlying dry earth. It was flattened unmistakably by the soles of enthusiastic sportsmen - what the Americans would call 'jocks' who tended to jog, hop and stretch ostentatiously, showing off their muscular and ligamentary superiority.

(C 'eta it la le genre, this was the 'in-thing', the fad). I felt sorry for the trampled grass, and in the face of it all I did not have high hopes for my performance. Anyway, when it was my turn to kick, with my heart pounding, I measured the distance from the instep of my foot to the ball mentally, then to be doubly sure, I took two large strides towards it, tapped the curve of the tip of my boot and looked upwards to my target- right between the posts.



�H'orange shot!". At the command, I kicked the ball and by miracle or some mysterious skill, it described an exquisite parabola that concluded in the top-left corner of the goal. "Ode, oloriburuku!� Akano did not mince his words. With yellowish eyes and tribal marks stretched out on distended cheeks, he loomed over me, breathing hot air and dropping and inserting aitches ad libitum as he rained a torrent of abuses over me to express his considerable, justifiable un- impressedness at my folly. "Mo ni ko play H'orange shot, o lo gba banana." I had fuddled it, of course, but in a most spectacular fashion. I felt very sorry for myself. In fact, over the next few days I lapsed into a miasma of acedia and self-pity.
This, incident, my mates took sarcastically to calling me 'Banana Shot' for this blunder. After some time, the label took a sarcastic bent, and I became known ironically as 'Pele'.

More fool them, though, because outsiders who heard this misnomer did not sense the irony and respected me as a footballing savant, which I was certainly not, although I never miss the opportunity to describe the beauty of that erroneous banana shot. I didn't mind terribly, either, that it took some of the spotlight away from the likes of Tori "Oba Soccer" and Odunayo who actually knew what they were doing on that field. As the years went by, I found my place within the school system and was honored to be appointed Head of School. This was a role I adhered to very nicely. Responsible as I was for maintaining order, and while I often had to mete out disciplinary action-mischief was always unavoidable - I was also privy to certain humorous aspects of the job.

On one occasion, I was caught up in a joke played by Chief Ojo upon a very unwitting Yemi Bedu. Chief Ojo had come in after Bullock and while his true passion lay with sport, as I have alluded to previously, he was every bit as theatrical, with the same lilting intonation habits as the Briton. At the time, a hotel - Chrisbo Hotel, if memory serves - which stood not too far from the school grounds provided some trivial, occasional enchantment for boys who were won't to play truant. The management of that establishment was complicit in the entertainment of these malandros.

Understandably, excursions to this hotel were not part of the school curriculum and so woe betide anyone who was caught at this. As it were, poor Yemi, returning to school from one of these outings was caught red-handed by the principal. Under the guise of asking for directions, Ojo persuaded Yemi to join him in the passenger seat of his station wagon, whereupon he drove directly to my room (one of the perks of being head of school, and a source of envy for the uninitiated, was the provision of private lodgings).

"Head of School, do you know this young man?"

I regarded the pair, from Ojo's flared nostrils to Yemi's hands, wringed in shamed. I wasn't aware of what had happened yet, but I thought it sensible to provide the identification that was sought.

"Yes sir, this is Yemi Bedu."

Turning to face Yemi, glaring wildly at him, Ojo proceeded into a tirade. "Indeed, this is Yemi Bedu. And Bedu doesn't seem to know who I am. Can you imagine the scallywag?! Yemi Bedu, of whom I know the father, I know the mother!" As you can imagine, I felt very sorry for Yemi, and from the look on his face (bloodshot, watering eyes, incessant chewing of the lower lip, anguished grimaces), he felt very sorry for himself as well. There was, nevertheless, not much I could do. Very lucky him then, that Ojo was being merely histrionic and soon left it all at that.

Indeed, he was a man whose sense of humor could not be faulted, and who did not get carried away with certain penal aspects of his duties. On another occasion, while I was receiving administrative directions in the good man's office, a young lady from Queen's School brought a complaint to him with regards to an article from the school magazine, Gossip, which she had been made the subject of. The essay in question had ridiculed her 'crooked legs', and she considered this an egregious slight on her person. She felt insulted by the mendacity of it, and demanded that Odunayo and his co-authors, being responsible for this libel, be put to order. Chief Ojo, stifling giggles throughout the report as he stole sly glances at the controversial shanks to see for himself, was quite sympathetic.

"Yes, of course I understand. They ought not to have done that. Very untoward of them, indeed." He placed his palm over his mouth and tried to disguise an escaped chuckle as a cough. "Pardon me, bad cold, you see. Well, I know what. Why don't you write a rejoinder?"

"Sir?"

"Yes, you write a response. That will show them that they can't go around slandering people without tasting some of their own medicine." "But they'll refuse to publish it."

No, nonsense. I'll see to it that your response is printed and circulated. Be as creative as you like with it."

Unwilling to admit that she lacked the skill to write an article of her own, the unfortunate young lady, extremely embarrassed, excused herself shortly after, eyeing me viciously as she waddled out. Ojo and I were left to mop droll tears from our eyes. Of course, those rascally authors were wrong to make a joke at her expense, but it was her lack of ability to take it in humor and response with her own barbs that gave them such power. That was the lesson Ojo imparted on us. Such was the wicked wit and wisdom of that illustrious fellow.

I'm not sure that I can offer a pithy summation of time at GCI. My reflections here have not been more than a few sketches of a very varied and rich formative period of my life. Orwell once remarked that no one can look back on their school days and say that they were altogether bad. I will take the liberty of demodulating that phrase and expressing that my GCI days were almost altogether delightful. I am deeply privileged to have shared in the experience with so many wonderful characters, so many more than I can mention by name. It is a great pleasure to think back to those golden old days.

The writer, Col. (Dr.) Joshua Akintoye Foiaranmi (Rtd) (fss; mss; Dss; BDS, FWACS, FICS) was the Head of School in GCI in 197 4, when his surname was Oke. He was a House Prefect in 1973.