On Monday, we started school.

Our new driver drove us to school, but dad went with us to ensure that the teachers recognized us and allowed us into our various classrooms.

Mom prepared some rice and beef stew. By now, we had new lunch boxes and she served us. We were to take the rice and beef stew as lunch after the heavy breakfast of eggs and toast with tea. On top of that, we were given money in case we needed to buy anything. We felt like spoilt children and the feeling was good!

Our parents probably taught that was how people in the city lived and treated their children.

Everyday, the driver sent us to school, and came back in the afternoon to pick us up when we closed. We ate at home, took some to school and always had money on us in case we needed anything. A cycle that was soon to end but we never saw it coming. My people say that vegetation doesn’t remain freshly green throughout the year.

It was fun sitting in the car, taking a good look at our new environment. The car passed beside Akrowa House to Trade Fair Junction, through the La-Burma Camp road to our new school.

Along the way, we saw the Trade Fair, behind it Zenith College, the stretch of roadside food vendors and shops all the way to Chicken Republic. Opposite the restaurant was Flower Pot where I first saw the word “bouquet”. I later learnt they sold flowers there.

Just before entering Burma Camp, there was a line of residential buildings with one labeled Creek Court. I used to think it was a place cases were settled though it didn’t look like one. It took some time for me to know that “court” had many meanings.

During my first week in school, I sat in my corner in class, hardly coming out for break except to pee or get a biscuit. I mostly sat in class all day, I had no friends.

Each teacher that came to class noticed the new face. It seemed they already knew the rest.

“You’re a newcomer.” one teacher asked.

“Yes sir! I confirmed in my usual low tone.

“Speak up a little.” the teacher advised.

I did. Clearing my throat before saying a second “Yes sir”.

It was obvious I wasn’t used to speaking up.

“Your name.” the teacher indirectly asked.

“My name is Patrick. Patrick Mopé.” I said, turning my head a little in search of a voice whispering something from behind.

Upon hearing “Mopé” the teacher was curious to know if I was from the north of the country.

“Yes sir.” I confirmed.

The teacher then pointed out some other students in the class who were from the north too. One looked like a typical northerner. The others probably grew up in the south so they didn’t have the northern accent when they spoke English and certainly didn’t look “northern” to me.

To my surprise, the teachers never asked of my former school, its name or what they did there.

Though I was always in my corner, quiet and shy, minding my business of either revising lesson notes or reading my little Bible my Sunday school teacher gave me, every teacher and student in the class remembered my name and face clearly because I answered the difficult questions that many couldn’t answer.

I was surprised the students in the class couldn’t answer certain questions I found very basic. I thought students in the city were brighter than those of us from the small towns and villages. I noticed here in the south the teachers were more experienced and very knowledgeable about their field. Unlike in my former school where some of the teachers were high school graduates.

However, the students in the north were much more eager to study despite the deprivation. The classrooms there were either wooden ones or the shade of a tree and sometimes school had to be shut down during the rainy season. Students in the city here seemed to have everything, including a library, something I had never seen all my life in the north, and yet the city kids took all these for granted.