PREPARATIONS for our exams reached its climax and finally the day dawned. Along with the external candidates, most of them our
erstwhile seniors retaking their papers, we sat for Biology, Mathematics and English, which were compulsory subjects. On the day of the
Economics paper, we were all milling around the Assembly Hall, venue of the exams, waiting to be asked to file in, when I began to have
sensations of pain at my lower back and thighs. The pains were just being spawned and as the minutes ticked by, they gathered strength. I sat
on the stone steps leading to the hall, surrounded by mates impatient for the paper to start and have done with. I reflected that the illness I was
afflicted with had no respect for time or place and no sense of decorum.
The bell signal went off and candidates began to file in past the two police officers who quickly frisked each entrant for anything concealed in
an attempt to commit fraud. I waited until nearly everyone had entered, stood up—I felt so weary already—and limped into the hall. Our desks
were arranged in alphabetical order and so I went to sit at my desk in front of Ajani. I rested my head on the desk. We still had some minutes
before the paper got under way. Meanwhile, the officials began to distribute question papers to 120 examinees.
Ajani nudged me from behind, speaking softly, as all communication was forbidden.
“What’s the matter, Ola? I noticed you limping.”
“Plenty,” I replied, not turning. “I am having pains in my thighs and back.”
“Ah, that’s bad—what will you do?”
“I—I don’t know.”
I flexed and stiffened my back. I stretched my legs and massaged my thighs. The pains were getting worse. I wanted to scream, but the place
was not apt for it. I bit down on my lips, and heaved heavily, suddenly short of breath. I arched my back and danced it round and round, yet the
pains would not be frittered. Instead the pain at my lower back snaked upwards along my spine and settled at the base of my neck; the pain in
my thighs penetrated down to my knee joints, and diffused downwards to my legs. The movement of sensation from one spot to another did
nothing to reduce the intensity of pain at the point of its genesis.
It was almost time to start. The Principal surveyed the hall for the last time. His eyes came to rest on me. The invigilator looked at his watch.
“It’s now 1 pm,” said the invigilator. “You will stop at 3 pm. Start!”
I could not even hold my biro. All I wanted to do was to lie on a jagged stony surface and roll mercilessly back and forth until I was bleeding.
Any other sort of pain was welcome, but not this, oh Lord!
Mr. Alao walked over to my desk.
“What’s the problem, my boy?”
“Pain—I’m having pain,” I replied in between clenched teeth. Mr. Alao already knew of my infirmities and was not surprised.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “why don’t you go back to the hostel and lie down or something?”
“No, sir, I will go through with this,” I replied, fingering the exam paper. Economics was one of my best subjects and one I was certain to pass
well. If only I was not in so much pain …
“Well,” shrugged the Principal, “as you wish.” He began patrolling round the busy silent hall.
Bending low towards the desk, I picked up the question paper and tried to read the questions. Reading was difficult—the words simply swam
before my eyes—but not nearly as difficult as understanding what I read. I picked up my biro and began to draft answers to questions I did not
understand. Between excruciating pain up and down my spine, thighs and legs, the hand which held the biro made erratic incisions on the
answer sheet and would not write what I willed it. Tears of frustration fell down my eyes unto the paper, defacing it. The pain was too much
for me to bear. I relinquished the biro. For all the notice my colleagues took of me I might have been far away in Cotonou. Even Ajani seemed
lost in his concentration upon the task at hand.
I shifted on my sit, twisted to the right and twisted to the left, yet there was no reprieve. If only I could sleep, or die … I paused for a while and
tried once more to write. My hand galloped over the lines as if it had a mind all its own.
With a Herculean effort, I arose and limped outside the exam hall and sat on the stone steps once again, waiting to recoup my strength for the
return journey to the hostel. Ordinarily close by, it seemed miles away in my weakened state. I would take my medications and lie down.
I was still in great pain, still unable to muster the strength to walk back to the hostel when the paper ended. Dickson it was who carried me on
his back like a baby and deposited me on my bed. Ajani went in search of a taxi to take me home. For the rest of the exam period I shuttled
between hospital and school.
A few days after the conclusion of our papers, the school held a valedictory service and banquet in our honour. Thus we took our exit from
secondary school, our testimonials in hand, not once looking back, but years later to say, ‘Ah, secondary school life was the best.’
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