Of Textbooks, Lies, and Agidi Jollof

Some months back, I passed by my sister's secondary school building. Aside from not being what it used to be, it reminded me of something.

I had meant to send her a text to stir up some memories, maybe whip up a bit of nostalgia. Somehow, I forgot.

Only yesterday, it feels, we were school children inventing all sorts of subject practicals just to extort money from our parents. They scarcely visited our schools except for Parents-Teachers Association (PTA) meetings. We were, after all, mostly well-behaved. And so we preyed on their faith in us. But we were careful, never asking too much or too often, lest they become suspicious of our unending demands.

Now that I think of it, maybe our parents had their misgivings, especially our mother. But if they did, they, in Dolly Parton’s voice, neither showed it nor asked too many questions. Whatever it took, they believed, to see to it that these hot brains got excellent formal education. God, how positively terrible it feels thinking about it now. LMAO.

Sometimes, to spice up the deceit, we would say it was a new textbook we needed to buy, one we were strictly warned to purchase only from school. Or we’d invent an entirely non-existent course that required new materials. My sister and I both knew we were lying through our teeth.

The golden rule: don't interfere in mine, and I won’t interfere in yours — no matter how outrageous the rip-off.

There were times I would marvel at myself. Like bro, you're incredibly good at this: the voice, the facial expressions, the right sort of noises and gestures.

I think my sister was a natural too. And given that our father had a soft spot for her, you can understand why I was sometimes offended that her lies paid off before mine. I didn't begrudge her though.

On the rare occasions we talked about it— we usually pretended we were actually honest, and not low-key fraudsters — we would laugh heartily at our flawless theatrics.

What did we spend the money on, you wonder? Biscuits. Moi-moi. Agidi jollof. Sweets. Sometimes we lost to a dare and had to pay up. Sometimes it was a silly trend we couldn’t wait to join. Or we wanted to show off by giving a bit more offering money at church than the other kids. We weren’t all noble and stuff, you see. Not Warren Buffetts, though we did save some for later in the evening. Please tell me that counted.

Occasionally, we did buy actual school materials: extra socks, a trendy new pen we didn’t need, or an old short story book from a classmate.

Anyway, we were just teenagers, riding the rollercoaster of the moment. We didn’t have to worry about what to eat or where the money came from, or pause to consider how tough it must have been for our parents sometimes. Feeding, clothing, and sheltering a family of six with twice the normal appetite is no small feat.

Now we’re adults, living in different cities. And we understand better. Oh, we do.

That said, soon we’ll start our own families, and we’ll have kids. They'll come home from school, demanding money for non-existent courses and subject practicals. And we will — no, we must — indulge them sometimes. Not because we don't see through their paper-thin lies, but because we’ll remember we were once mini fraudsters too. To deny them their time would be to invite a guilt we can't afford. So we’ll keep a straight face, thoroughly amused, and say okay’s and alright’s and promise to give it to them in the morning.

Once in a while, though, I’ll have the time of my life watching cold sweat break all over them when I insist I must go inquire at their school. I’ll ignore their frantic protests, go into my bedroom, and laugh my head off while pretending to be on a call with a very funny friend.

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In the morning, I’ll lie that I have a work emergency and can’t visit their school after all. Then I’ll hand them the money, with a subtle hint about visiting their school soon.

Goodness, I think this is going to be a hell of a lot of fun! That’s if these kids will be as considerate as my sister and I were.

But you never can tell with Gen Z children.

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