Back then, we knew nothing about sexual harassment.
All we knew was that teacher Musah loved Mansa and we all envied her whenever she walked about the school head high like a princess.

Many ugly girls in the school winced that they did not have half her beauty.

That Mansa was a minor, we never heard of. “Under age” hadn’t entered the vocabulary of pupils of my little village school.

And so during snack or lunch break, jealous heads flocked a corner of a classroom, peeping through an opening in the wooden windows at the graceful walks of Mansa who got gifts and less punishments from teachers on duty.

The school provided lunch. A national government project to feed students. All we had to do was bring bowls from home and line them up on the floor of the little compound of the school kitchen. The caterers served and at lunch break, we rushed to pick them up, sometimes accidentally trampling a friend’s food underfoot. The shades of trees surrounding the school served as dinning area. And for chairs and tables, we spread a leaf on the floor.

Smuggling an onion or tomato from home to garnish our meals was common especially among us boys as it added extra taste to our food.

Sometimes, I forgot my bowl at home and that meant no food for me. I would have to hang around generous friends for a scoop or two, but friends were few then as they are now.

After school, teachers often gave their lesson notebooks or textbooks to their favorite students to be sent  home. Mansa was always seen carrying Teacher Musah’s books on her head to his house.

What they did there we never saw. But in a little village like ours, people talk. And when a female student got impregnated by a teacher, we always knew another teacher was about to lose a teeth or two to the angry blows of a mad parent.


https://wp.me/paf3ao-mYe