Those years in school, we were the back seaters.
Whenever the teacher asked a question, we never raised our hands because we didn’t know the answer. Instead, the teacher would point at us to answer, and that usually landed us in trouble. My friend and I noticed this, so we came up with a plan.
We decided to always raise our hands whether we knew the answer or not.
For a while, it worked perfectly. The teacher would see our raised hands and move on to someone else. We felt smart. Confident. Safe.
Until one day.
The teacher asked a question and, as usual, I raised my hand. But to my surprise, I was the only one who did. My friend didn’t even join me this time. The teacher looked around the class, shocked and amazed, then called me out. He handed me the cane and told me to beat the students who were making noise.
I didn’t waste time. I flogged them like tomorrow no dey. When I finished, I returned the cane to the teacher and started going back to my seat.
“Come back here,” the teacher said.
My heart dropped.
“Now answer the question.”
I came forward and started shivering. My legs were weak. My voice was shaking. I was stammering because I didn’t know what to say. The whole class was quiet, watching me struggle.
Trust me, before I was done, each student was holding a cane, staring at me, waiting.
That was when I knew—I was finished.
The teacher gave the signal, and they all rushed me at once. That day, I was truly cooked. No escape. No plan. No confidence. Just pure embarrassment and regret.
When the bell finally rang, I went back to my seat quietly. My friend avoided my eyes. The class moved on, but I didn’t forget that day.
