By BAMIDELE JOHNSON
My primary school class set WhatsApp platform is fizzing like fat in the fire tonight. All in a good way. The spark is the addition of a girl, now a woman many times over, whom almost all of us have not seen since the late 70s. Mulikat Bello. Most people don’t remember her. A few remember her name but not her face.
I’m one of the few who remember both because she beat me so often for giving her the lip so often. It wasn’t only me. She also beat Victor Solagbade and Kunle Faji Ibitayo for fun. Before you think we were wimps, she was seven to eight years older and had filled out even in primary six. I reminded her how freely she donated those vicious slaps to the back of my head. She said I had an out-of-control mouth which, for better or worse, has stayed that way. A terminal condition, it seems.
Or maybe I was a wimp. At seven, I got beat by a girl, Adesuwa Ovbiasogie, while we lived at Imalefalafia in Ibadan. Niyi Sanni, remember her and her cousin Osaro, whom we called ofooro? I was pushed into fighting her by two useless boys I didn’t want thinking I was scared. In no time the girl had my back on the ground, sat on me and tried to force-feed me sand. I resisted. Valiantly.
The WhatsApp group I mentioned has some kooky guys who keep it alive and make you almost hear the crackle of people rediscovering childhood crushes, half-remembered nicknames and that one classmate whose metal box for books created a mange-like patch in the middle of his head.
My valiance was rewarded when an adult arrived, shouted and she got up. The clowns who pushed me into the fight fled and mocked me the next day. I don’t remember their names, but I hope life arranged for a girl to beat them at some point. No go dey do pass yourself. I remember Adesuwa till today. Saw her in my secondary school days when she’d grown into a smashing-looking 10/10 babe.
The WhatsApp group I mentioned has some kooky guys who keep it alive and make you almost hear the crackle of people rediscovering childhood crushes, half-remembered nicknames and that one classmate whose metal box for books created a mange-like patch in the middle of his head. No backpacks back then. Not in my school, anyway. Bags and portmanteaus were what we carried while wearing green tops over khaki shorts with pockets glazed by the translucent stains of oil from kulikuli and fish head. Childhood wasn’t always kind, but it left stories that still fizz.
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