“A’uwa’u Idris,” he called. I quickly stood up and answered him because even before he called my name, I had already gathered my books and packed them into my bag.
He turned and looked me straight in the eyes, then continued staring at the long notebook placed on the table in front of him—the book containing the list of students who had paid their school fees and those still owing.
He continued calling the names of the students one by one, and each girl he called stood up.
When he was done calling the names, he turned back to look at us and said,
“So what are you still standing here for?”
Quickly, each girl started going toward him, explaining her excuse. One said, “Malam, my father travelled and told me to beg you until he returns next week.”
Another said, “Malam, my father said I should ask for patience, the market is difficult this month, maybe next month.”
Luckily for them, he listened to all their excuses and gave each one of them time.
But for me, I didn’t even go near him, because this time I didn’t know what to say to Malam Ali at all.
He turned again and looked at me.
“You, what exactly are you still doing there? Or do you have something you want to say?”
I quietly answered, “No.”
He said, “Even if you try to say anything this time, nothing will make me listen to you.
I have taught for long, and I can say since I started teaching, I have never seen a student who abuses school privileges the way you do. What kind of behaviour is this?”
I hung my bag on my shoulder and turned to leave the class. I was already out when I heard my name being called again. I quickly answered and turned back.
It was Sadiya Tanimu, the girl who sat behind me.
“Give me my book you borrowed earlier.”
I placed my bag on the bench and began searching for her English notebook that I borrowed in the morning to copy notes I missed the day I was absent.
Malam said, “Hmm, didn’t you hear what I just said? She will go with your book. May Allah make things easier. If a father does not check on his children’s education in times like these, what does he expect? With this kind of careless attitude you have—every day you are among those who haven’t paid school fees—honestly, they should just marry you off so you can rest. I don’t know how someone with your poor academic behaviour will write final exams.”
The whole class burst into laughter as I handed Sadiya her book and headed for the door.
“Go home and don’t come back. If I don’t see you anywhere around here, consider yourself expelled.”
If I say Malam Ali’s words didn’t hurt me, I would be lying. And you all know he does this to me every day. Whenever he comes to our class to chase students owing school fees, he never leaves me with just warnings; he always adds hurtful words.
But I tell myself every time that refusing to come to school won’t help me. If I stop coming, I won’t learn anything because no one will pay for me anyway.
All this pain I endure becomes more intense whenever exams begin. Every student looks forward to exams because that is the time to prove themselves and test their understanding.
But for me, exam day brings fear. On that day, there is no mercy. Even if you owe just a small amount, you will be chased out immediately.
So I go around meeting teachers, begging them to help me, even those who can’t help at all. Sometimes some students owing even bigger fees are allowed into the exam hall because they owe only one term, or they still have a little balance left. But if any teacher tries to plead for me, Malam Ali would say, “If she enters with a promise to pay, she won’t pay. She has been owing for three years. Let her just stay home.”
If there is one thing I truly desire in my life, it is education. But everything seems beyond my reach.
My father is not strong financially. He cannot afford school fees. He struggles even to feed us. We are seven children, and his monthly salary is not more than fifteen thousand naira.
How can such money feed us, pay school fees, and still cover all other needs? In fact, he has already given up on the education of my younger brothers—he put them in apprenticeships like sewing and mechanics so he can focus on my school alone. But even that isn’t working.
Before each month ends, his salary is already finished and borrowed against.
The small relief we get comes from my mother’s sewing business. Sometimes she saves enough from profit to buy us clothes for Eid.
Even though life is hard, one thing we enjoy at home is peace and contentment. We live with patience, faith, and prayer.
I started walking home with sadness in my heart. Our house is far from the school, and I go every day on foot. Most days, I leave without breakfast because I don’t want to be late. I return to eat whatever is available.
As I turned into our street, I saw Abdussamad sitting on the bench in front of the barbershop near his house. My heart jumped. I quickly turned to follow another, longer route so I wouldn’t have to pass by him.
But he saw me first.
“Welcome back,” he said politely.
I pretended not to notice him. “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” I said with a small smile.
He stood up, dusted his trousers, and walked towards me.
“If you hadn’t spoken like that, I would have believed you didn’t see me.”
We greeted and walked together. I asked if he hadn’t returned to school yet.
He said universities were on strike again, and no one knew when they would resume.
He complained about the government and how students waste years because of strikes, while politicians’ children study abroad peacefully.
Then he added, “But honestly, I don’t think you’ll go far in school. You look more like someone who will get married soon.”
I replied quietly, “We’ll see.” And I entered our house.
There was mutual respect between me and Abdussamad. Despite people gossiping about me, he always greeted me and sometimes teased me kindly. Our fathers were close friends.
Inside the house, my little brothers rushed to collect my school bag. I gave Tasi’u because Sabi’u was too small.
I greeted my mother where she sat cutting fabric. She didn’t even ask why I was back early—she already knew.
“Go change your school uniform and eat,” she said.
After eating with my brothers and cleaning the house, I sat with my schoolbooks. But Auwalu hadn’t returned yet; he usually brought groceries from the money he earned as a mechanic.
Eventually he came, carrying food items. I collected them happily. He asked for firewood, and I checked the kitchen. There was a little, so he brought more and gave me twenty naira to buy seasoning.
I cooked maize meal with fresh okra soup and kept portions aside for everyone, preparing breakfast for the next morning.
After bathing and praying Asr, I dressed up again and sat with Umma. She advised me gently:
“Pray a lot. If Allah makes education possible for you, good. If not, marriage is the next option.”
Her words broke my heart. My parents’ greatest wish was for me to study, yet they were already losing hope.
Later, someone called me—Abdussamad was outside. My younger brother said he sent him. I went out.
He gave the children money for biscuits and asked about my studies. He teased me again, saying I looked like someone who preferred marriage to school.
Before I could reply, I saw my father approaching and quickly excused myself.
The next morning, I prepared breakfast and walked to school early. But as soon as I entered, Malam Ali came in:
“You again? I knew you would come. That’s why I came early. You won’t attend even one lesson today. Go home!”
I quietly turned back and left. I avoided the street where Abdussamad usually sat.
When I reached home, I lay on my old mattress. I couldn’t even think straight. Maybe I would never achieve my dream of becoming a nurse.
I cried until I fell asleep.
When I woke up for Zuhur prayer, I remembered I hadn’t cooked lunch. Luckily, Umma had already prepared rice and beans.
I didn’t touch my schoolbooks that day. For the first time in my life, I gave up.
Studying was my habit, even with all the financial struggles. My teachers knew I was a hardworking student.
But what could I do when Malam Ali kept pushing me out?
“A’uwa’u Idris,” he called. I quickly stood up and answered him because even before he called my name, I had already gathered my books and packed them into my bag.
He turned and looked me straight in the eyes, then continued staring at the long notebook placed on the table in front of him—the book containing the list of students who had paid their school fees and those still owing.
He continued calling the names of the students one by one, and each girl he called stood up.
When he was done calling the names, he turned back to look at us and said,
“So what are you still standing here for?”
Quickly, each girl started going toward him, explaining her excuse. One said, “Malam, my father travelled and told me to beg you until he returns next week.”
Another said, “Malam, my father said I should ask for patience, the market is difficult this month, maybe next month.”
Luckily for them, he listened to all their excuses and gave each one of them time.
But for me, I didn’t even go near him, because this time I didn’t know what to say to Malam Ali at all.
He turned again and looked at me.
“You, what exactly are you still doing there? Or do you have something you want to say?”
I quietly answered, “No.”
He said, “Even if you try to say anything this time, nothing will make me listen to you.
I have taught for long, and I can say since I started teaching, I have never seen a student who abuses school privileges the way you do. What kind of behaviour is this?”
I hung my bag on my shoulder and turned to leave the class. I was already out when I heard my name being called again. I quickly answered and turned back.
It was Sadiya Tanimu, the girl who sat behind me.
“Give me my book you borrowed earlier.”
I placed my bag on the bench and began searching for her English notebook that I borrowed in the morning to copy notes I missed the day I was absent.
Malam said, “Hmm, didn’t you hear what I just said? She will go with your book. May Allah make things easier. If a father does not check on his children’s education in times like these, what does he expect? With this kind of careless attitude you have—every day you are among those who haven’t paid school fees—honestly, they should just marry you off so you can rest. I don’t know how someone with your poor academic behaviour will write final exams.”
The whole class burst into laughter as I handed Sadiya her book and headed for the door.
“Go home and don’t come back. If I don’t see you anywhere around here, consider yourself expelled.”
If I say Malam Ali’s words didn’t hurt me, I would be lying. And you all know he does this to me every day. Whenever he comes to our class to chase students owing school fees, he never leaves me with just warnings; he always adds hurtful words.
But I tell myself every time that refusing to come to school won’t help me. If I stop coming, I won’t learn anything because no one will pay for me anyway.
All this pain I endure becomes more intense whenever exams begin. Every student looks forward to exams because that is the time to prove themselves and test their understanding.
But for me, exam day brings fear. On that day, there is no mercy. Even if you owe just a small amount, you will be chased out immediately.
So I go around meeting teachers, begging them to help me, even those who can’t help at all. Sometimes some students owing even bigger fees are allowed into the exam hall because they owe only one term, or they still have a little balance left. But if any teacher tries to plead for me, Malam Ali would say, “If she enters with a promise to pay, she won’t pay. She has been owing for three years. Let her just stay home.”
If there is one thing I truly desire in my life, it is education. But everything seems beyond my reach.
My father is not strong financially. He cannot afford school fees. He struggles even to feed us. We are seven children, and his monthly salary is not more than fifteen thousand naira.
How can such money feed us, pay school fees, and still cover all other needs? In fact, he has already given up on the education of my younger brothers—he put them in apprenticeships like sewing and mechanics so he can focus on my school alone. But even that isn’t working.
Before each month ends, his salary is already finished and borrowed against.
The small relief we get comes from my mother’s sewing business. Sometimes she saves enough from profit to buy us clothes for Eid.
Even though life is hard, one thing we enjoy at home is peace and contentment. We live with patience, faith, and prayer.
I started walking home with sadness in my heart. Our house is far from the school, and I go every day on foot. Most days, I leave without breakfast because I don’t want to be late. I return to eat whatever is available.
As I turned into our street, I saw Abdussamad sitting on the bench in front of the barbershop near his house. My heart jumped. I quickly turned to follow another, longer route so I wouldn’t have to pass by him.
But he saw me first.
“Welcome back,” he said politely.
I pretended not to notice him. “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” I said with a small smile.
He stood up, dusted his trousers, and walked towards me.
“If you hadn’t spoken like that, I would have believed you didn’t see me.”
We greeted and walked together. I asked if he hadn’t returned to school yet.
He said universities were on strike again, and no one knew when they would resume.
He complained about the government and how students waste years because of strikes, while politicians’ children study abroad peacefully.
Then he added, “But honestly, I don’t think you’ll go far in school. You look more like someone who will get married soon.”
I replied quietly, “We’ll see.” And I entered our house.
There was mutual respect between me and Abdussamad. Despite people gossiping about me, he always greeted me and sometimes teased me kindly. Our fathers were close friends.
Inside the house, my little brothers rushed to collect my school bag. I gave Tasi’u because Sabi’u was too small.
I greeted my mother where she sat cutting fabric. She didn’t even ask why I was back early—she already knew.
“Go change your school uniform and eat,” she said.
After eating with my brothers and cleaning the house, I sat with my schoolbooks. But Auwalu hadn’t returned yet; he usually brought groceries from the money he earned as a mechanic.
Eventually he came, carrying food items. I collected them happily. He asked for firewood, and I checked the kitchen. There was a little, so he brought more and gave me twenty naira to buy seasoning.
I cooked maize meal with fresh okra soup and kept portions aside for everyone, preparing breakfast for the next morning.
After bathing and praying Asr, I dressed up again and sat with Umma. She advised me gently:
“Pray a lot. If Allah makes education possible for you, good. If not, marriage is the next option.”
Her words broke my heart. My parents’ greatest wish was for me to study, yet they were already losing hope.
Later, someone called me—Abdussamad was outside. My younger brother said he sent him. I went out.
He gave the children money for biscuits and asked about my studies. He teased me again, saying I looked like someone who preferred marriage to school.
Before I could reply, I saw my father approaching and quickly excused myself.
The next morning, I prepared breakfast and walked to school early. But as soon as I entered, Malam Ali came in:
“You again? I knew you would come. That’s why I came early. You won’t attend even one lesson today. Go home!”
I quietly turned back and left. I avoided the street where Abdussamad usually sat.
When I reached home, I lay on my old mattress. I couldn’t even think straight. Maybe I would never achieve my dream of becoming a nurse.
I cried until I fell asleep.
When I woke up for Zuhur prayer, I remembered I hadn’t cooked lunch. Luckily, Umma had already prepared rice and beans.
I didn’t touch my schoolbooks that day. For the first time in my life, I gave up.
Studying was my habit, even with all the financial struggles. My teachers knew I was a hardworking student.
But what could I do when Malam Ali kept pushing me out?
---