Holy Cross community secondary school Umuawula, had at one time been amongst the best secondary schools in eastern Nigeria. Its beautiful English architectural structures stood as administrative block, assembly hall and hostels. The teachers were proud to be teachers; they took pride in their profession and performed at their best to attain the positions of the headmaster or principal. Looking at the statue of Emilia as she held that pot of water reignited some thoughts. It stood fifteen inches from the ground almost like the statue of Our Lady Mother of Jesus that stood in a grotto inside the premises of St. Theresa catholic church, Umuawulu: it stood few meters away from the school gate, Charles my son went closer to take a proper look at the white Emilia then he took a picture of her. We walked away from there towards the class block; I climbed the mahogany stair till I got to my class. It still had a little glory or so until Charles said


“wow! daddy this class is ugly”


I allowed his observation fly into the wind. I felt a sudden connection with my class again. It felt alive again with students all dresses in their white shirts, green shorts with a brown sandal to go with it. Being a good student, I always sat two rows away from the front through class one to class five.


………….. The year is 1971, we were still fresh with the memories from the war, so many boys in class five fought in the war but I didn’t; I was fortunate to be away when the soldiers came to my father’s compound to 'recruit' young boys but really they were conscripted. Many of them talked about it: about how brave they fought; how brave their fathers fought; how fast their older siblings rose through the ranks of the army but they rarely talked about any killings. The war still left a bitter taste in my mouth, papa and Nwachukwu my only brother were killed in the war and now it’s over. I wish it wasn’t maybe I would have the chance to avenge their deaths. What use was the war?

"Arise and greet" the boy at the front right corner of the class had said.

Today was our first day in class five. We had all greeted the teacher;

“Good morning students, I am Mr. Okorie, I will be your English teacher in this arm. I want to assure you that I can tutor you only if you are willing to learn and if aren’t, I’ll tutor you still’’ Mr. Okorie had said.

We had heard so much of Mr. Okorie and how serious he was. His English prowess was excellent and his accent was the best I have ever heard; though it sounded slightly fainter than those I had heard on the radio, I thought he sounded like Richard green of BBC. His pronunciations were perfect; it wasn’t corrupted with the Igbo accent.

“Out of the class you all, I want to seperate the boys from the men, I want to know those who are worthy to be in my English class’’. He said

I only hoped it was the same test we had upon our entry into form one were only those whose fingers could go over their heads to their ears were allowed entry into form one.

“Boys repeat after me the ‘LAST RAT RUNS LAST AT LAST’; I reiterate ‘the LAST RAT RUNS LAST AT LAST’ ”. He said loudly.

There was a chorus repeat of his sentence and he smiled. He aligned us in a line and one after the other we repeated those words; so many of my class mates kept shouting ‘The RAST LAT LUNS RAST AT RAST’ and his countenance showed how infuriated he was but he also felt pity. It got to my turn, I repeated the sentence after he had said it and I moved into the class. The class had only few of my class mates; the others stood under the scorching heat of the African sun; it was their punishment for mixing the R’s for L’s and vice versa…………………….




The flash from Charles’s camera had caught my eye, it brought me back to reality; he had just taken a picture of me as I sat on a seat obviously not the one I used thirty something years ago but precisely on the same position.

“Come on dad lets go back this place is beginning to bore me” he said.


I stood and walked with him away from my alma mater, a school that is now a complete opposite of its glory and beauty.


The December period is a time for merry and to reunite with families and friends, I still find time each time I’m here in the village to come and see this school; though still functional, but now churned out half baked student who can hardly make a proper sentence in English. I was schooled here and most of us were taught the use of proper tenses, how to construct good English sentences although our English was heavy with Igbo accent; but we had teachers who helped us kill the R and L problem. Then we had Mr. Okorie; now we have non like him, no dedicated teachers because the government gives no concern to the education sector. There are so many schools like Holy Cross scattered around Nigeria, now dilapidated.


I can still hear Mr. Okories voice in my head shouting “boys shout the LAST RAT RUNS LAST AT LAST”. It’s funny how some people, mostly of a particular ethnic group misplace ‘R’ for ‘L’ in their pronunciations and comedians are making money from mocking and mimicking them; I laugh at their jokes, I can’t help but laugh.



"Charles, can you say ‘THE LAST RAT RUNS LAST AT LAST’ ten times without breaking" I asked my son


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lovely story