Ardo Zubairu
06-11-2007, 12:29 PM
I was enrolled into daycare sort of school when about 5 years old and I do remember sitting in the car telling my mother I didn't want to go. Even at that young age I knew after I entered those huge doors that held back all the mysteries of the world I would never be the same. I didn't want to change; after all, I had everything you could ask for at that age: Tom and Jerry, Capt. Kangaroo, my mom, and glasses of milk.
Why would I even attempt to change it? "Ardo, I know you're scared but that will past. You're going to have the time of your life." mother said. I knew she was as scared as I was when I saw a tears run down her face. But I picked up my chin, she wiped my tears away and told me not to worry because it happens to everybody, its 25 years later, and I’m still waiting to see it happen to anybody. But nevertheless, she made feel better.
I was put in front row in the class with yelling and screaming kids jumping up and down, running around, and playing tag. I went over and started playing. Before long it was time to go home and the first thing I asked my mom was "Can I go back tomorrow?" everyone laughed. But mom didn’t laugh.
When I did something wrong at school or had to study for a test, she was always the one I went to for help. I still remember the long hours of flash cards and multiplication tables at the kitchen table. She didn't yell when I shook up a bottle of Coke and it exploded in the one-week-old remodeled kitchen, the bottle cap denting the brand new ceiling .She drove me to the lesson class wait in the car, not in the class, until it was time to pick me up.
Mom cooked dinner for me every night of my life and never fixed meat loaf or fish because she knew I didn't like it. It hurt her feelings; I think when I got into Day secondary school and missed dinner at the table sometimes for football practice or hang out with friends. But she always left a plate covered with plastic wrap in the refrigerator for me.
My close friends told me that boarding school provided them with lots of fun: though I am younger than my friends and hate the smell of cigarettes; like many boys our age I joined them for my senior class and learned how to turn hostel window into a garbage disposal; long walks to girl’s school on visiting days and more friendship rituals. Normally, these should not be fun, but at that time it seems to be a great celebration in typical fashion.
In my first year at the hostel; I wake up around 2 or 3 a.m, thinking to myself, “OK, I was able to breathe yesterday, but I can’t breathe today. Is this normal? Should I call my mom to make sure?” of course, I trust my mom’s opinion over anyone’s when it comes to whether or not I’m going to died of rare illness. Mom’s my nurse. She and her friends together received numerous complained from me on the state of food, class sitting arrangement and mosquito bites. Anyway, I spent the next five hours contemplating my chances of dying before the end of term. It was five hours filled with endless episodes of coughing spasms that sent me into convulsion until the next one started.
At the crack of dawn, I went to my school health centre to see the doctor: I had to stand in a line that forms outside the centre with other students who were probably dying of the same thing I had. I walked out with a diagnosis of “severe bronchitis,” with doctor useless prescriptions I can’t even use. The doctor handed me an inhaler, told me to deeply breathe in the mist, hold my breath for few seconds, then exhale, it isn’t working, because I can’t gasp enough air into my lungs and also lost my voice. But nobody complain except my mom.
Mom called my principal office to “hi,” and when I couldn’t say anything in response, she did the motherly thing and hopped to my school. She came just as expected with bags filled with provisions more than I could eat even when I’m not sick. Then she took me to stay overnight in a hotel. Cool, I thought to myself. Wait, it gets better. Mom was totally convinced I had pneumonia because I was up all night choking on my bed; so she took me to the emergency room at the general hospital the next morning. I spent three hours in this hospital, where they took X-rays, drew blood, put me oxygen, gave me drugs and stabbed me in the side with a needle.
By the time mom brought me back to school, I really thought I was going to die. Bless her heart for taking care of my pathetic self, even when I should have reached the point where I ‘m supposed to do that sort of thing on my own. But that experience gave new meaning to the words “no pain, no gain”. You see, my mom is an excellent nurse and has always diagnosed me before any could. But what would my life be like without her in it? Even Now, that I’m older and wiser. I’m certain. There is no one I admire or love more than her in this world. My mom flew from Yola last month to visit me. And if you see me walking around area one garden on weekends with my arm around a beautiful older woman, stop and say hello. You’ll shaking hands with everything good and right about life.
Why would I even attempt to change it? "Ardo, I know you're scared but that will past. You're going to have the time of your life." mother said. I knew she was as scared as I was when I saw a tears run down her face. But I picked up my chin, she wiped my tears away and told me not to worry because it happens to everybody, its 25 years later, and I’m still waiting to see it happen to anybody. But nevertheless, she made feel better.
I was put in front row in the class with yelling and screaming kids jumping up and down, running around, and playing tag. I went over and started playing. Before long it was time to go home and the first thing I asked my mom was "Can I go back tomorrow?" everyone laughed. But mom didn’t laugh.
When I did something wrong at school or had to study for a test, she was always the one I went to for help. I still remember the long hours of flash cards and multiplication tables at the kitchen table. She didn't yell when I shook up a bottle of Coke and it exploded in the one-week-old remodeled kitchen, the bottle cap denting the brand new ceiling .She drove me to the lesson class wait in the car, not in the class, until it was time to pick me up.
Mom cooked dinner for me every night of my life and never fixed meat loaf or fish because she knew I didn't like it. It hurt her feelings; I think when I got into Day secondary school and missed dinner at the table sometimes for football practice or hang out with friends. But she always left a plate covered with plastic wrap in the refrigerator for me.
My close friends told me that boarding school provided them with lots of fun: though I am younger than my friends and hate the smell of cigarettes; like many boys our age I joined them for my senior class and learned how to turn hostel window into a garbage disposal; long walks to girl’s school on visiting days and more friendship rituals. Normally, these should not be fun, but at that time it seems to be a great celebration in typical fashion.
In my first year at the hostel; I wake up around 2 or 3 a.m, thinking to myself, “OK, I was able to breathe yesterday, but I can’t breathe today. Is this normal? Should I call my mom to make sure?” of course, I trust my mom’s opinion over anyone’s when it comes to whether or not I’m going to died of rare illness. Mom’s my nurse. She and her friends together received numerous complained from me on the state of food, class sitting arrangement and mosquito bites. Anyway, I spent the next five hours contemplating my chances of dying before the end of term. It was five hours filled with endless episodes of coughing spasms that sent me into convulsion until the next one started.
At the crack of dawn, I went to my school health centre to see the doctor: I had to stand in a line that forms outside the centre with other students who were probably dying of the same thing I had. I walked out with a diagnosis of “severe bronchitis,” with doctor useless prescriptions I can’t even use. The doctor handed me an inhaler, told me to deeply breathe in the mist, hold my breath for few seconds, then exhale, it isn’t working, because I can’t gasp enough air into my lungs and also lost my voice. But nobody complain except my mom.
Mom called my principal office to “hi,” and when I couldn’t say anything in response, she did the motherly thing and hopped to my school. She came just as expected with bags filled with provisions more than I could eat even when I’m not sick. Then she took me to stay overnight in a hotel. Cool, I thought to myself. Wait, it gets better. Mom was totally convinced I had pneumonia because I was up all night choking on my bed; so she took me to the emergency room at the general hospital the next morning. I spent three hours in this hospital, where they took X-rays, drew blood, put me oxygen, gave me drugs and stabbed me in the side with a needle.
By the time mom brought me back to school, I really thought I was going to die. Bless her heart for taking care of my pathetic self, even when I should have reached the point where I ‘m supposed to do that sort of thing on my own. But that experience gave new meaning to the words “no pain, no gain”. You see, my mom is an excellent nurse and has always diagnosed me before any could. But what would my life be like without her in it? Even Now, that I’m older and wiser. I’m certain. There is no one I admire or love more than her in this world. My mom flew from Yola last month to visit me. And if you see me walking around area one garden on weekends with my arm around a beautiful older woman, stop and say hello. You’ll shaking hands with everything good and right about life.