My thoughts are many and spread. Sometimes, I try to find the truth; what am I actually doing here? What brought me here is truly to live and work or to work and live or simply, to make money without working but creates job and make money.
I think about my daily duty. Week days, I stand before my students, class after class, lesson after lesson, and holler out ‘Good morning Students’. Expecting the usual reply which came in droves and rhythms, the students will hand it back to me, return to sender fashion and louder too, ‘Good morning Patrick’. Grade one students are best at this. Their enthusiasm to study English surpasses grade 2 and 3 in far greater margin. However, when grade 3 is charged, they will almost cause an earthquake or bring down the building with their response. Their sense of arousal in learning the target language is born out of friendliness and trust that I have established.
At other times, their response depends on their state of mind and physique. If they have just arrived our activity class from the field, they will prefer to be left alone to chatter and batter; where they have just finished a practical English lesson, they will not want further activity in the name of learning a target language; and where they studied by themselves, they will prefer to put spark to their throat and warm their gastronomy.
My thoughts shifted to the staff. My colleagues are always busy. Time seems never enough. Many teachers moving around, pulling the drawers, printing some papers, looking into this file, dropping that item, talking on phone, smoking in the balcony, sneezing out the cold, using photocopy machine, trotting with a light speed and quenching promptly.
My next musing is the home front. Just this morning, my wife, Japanese, broke into her usual tears when I was readying for work. All efforts to make her say what the problem was brought more over-flowing stream of tears. She picked up a tissue to douse her painted face less the tears soil her beautification. I ended up consoling her, telling her not to explain till tonight so that we will have enough time when we are both back from work to analyze the tears and get over whatever ails her.
Her talent surprises me. Without any announcement from her, inducement from me, just a moment ago happy, and on the spur of same moment start up or kick start a red shot eyes kind of tears and still command the ability to end it just as it started. All this while, you keep wondering what you did wrong. Meanwhile, be ready for the next act which will come in form of apology. If you don’t know why she cried, the apology, though received heart warmingly to end whatever the matter was, remains baffling.
Influenza came around with the cold weather for sometime now. Japanese being meticulous and formal gave warning and preventive mechanisms, including what to do if eventually you catch it or if it catches up with you. I was told to wear mask but I didn’t. I was even warned to make sure I wear mask whenever I’m visiting Tokyo but I visited Shinjuku and Shibuya {both in Tokyo} but never wore any mask. I was sure I’ll not have influenza and I don’t.
When I was thinking influenza has gone, measles stepped in. I got questions as to if I have ever had measles and I said I can’t remember…probably had when I was a kid and took vaccination then. Few students caught it and the school was closed down. Instead of students staying at home, they started invading their old schools, the primary school they attended and they had to be re-called. School resumed again.
I wish the rain that has been pillaging for days can sweep away the measles so that I can play soccer with my students once more. Yes, I do play soccer game with my students. The school staff knows Jay Jay Okocha but the students know Obafemi Martins better. One student goes by the name Martin, another Iverson and yet, another, John Lennon.
Even before I made the schools team, I had to fight for position. I mean, I had to fight to play with my students, to be accepted into the group. Initially, I was not accepted but one day, they were allover me, hailing my dribbles, my skill, the beauty I brought with me to the school team or club. Yes, you have to join a club, you have to choose a particular sport, be accepted by others before you can become a member of that club.
Every now and then, my students make me repeat a story I told them about Abraham, my classmate and soccer player at St. Teresa’s Primary School, Abakaliki, Nigeria.
In the team was a boy whose nick-name was ‘Sokoto’. He got this name because he could play a shot to the opponents post from a long distance and hit his mark. Sometimes, he missed but the name stuck anyway. Sokoto is a state in northern Nigeria and quite far from Abakaliki in the East. No wonder he bagged this name due to long shots.
There was the impresario, the phenomena, the master-blaster of our soccer team known and called Abraham. Abraham was our soccer hero if there was one. He was a skilful player who could dribble a whole crowd. Abraham will pick a ball, move towards the right flank, step into the middle of the field, adjust his leg walk to the left flank, take the ball down to the opponents side, all this while, never raising his head; it appeared he was a spirit controlling a rhythm flow by monitoring any foot, yes!, just any foot and the round thing between his legs, Abraham will make it to the opponents 18; dribble the defense and facing the goal keeper, get over him and just at that moment, the crowd cheering, instead of Abraham scoring, he will turn to where he started, take the ball to the referee, dribble him, making the referee turn around in a dance fashion and in dodge and then, Abraham will make his way again to the centre of the field, trap the ball, sit on it, smiling. After which Abraham will start clapping for himself leaving the ball there for whomever to collect.
If our school team scored, Abraham will not have much doing after his demonstration except tipping the ball whenever it comes but wait for the last 10 minutes if we are not the winning side. Abraham will move to the 18 box of the opponent’s side. Just don’t allow the ball touch his magic foot; he will move it to the right flank, just slightly outside the 18 box but within touch line, he is sizing up the opponent, dribbling them but soon will dash back to where he started; weakening them along the way, breaking the defense with the razzmatazz of a megastar; the Goalkeeper now infuriated will rush out and by a gentle lift of foot, Abraham will push up the ball such that the Goalkeepers finger cannot touch it. He has given him ‘aka elu nwata’.
Now, Abraham story has assumed theatrical petrifactions. The students will place a ball before me and ask me to make the moves Abraham use to make, albeit, by imitations, through copy cat, by cyclostyling. I will pick up the ball. One student will act as a referee, another, the goalkeeper and all the rest, spectators. I will move to the right, just within the 18 box, but at the touch line, I dribble my way and the imaginary defense along, distributing influenza and measles with my foot, push the ball right inside the 18 box, confront the goalkeeper, actually dribble him, make the Keeper dive to the left by faking imaginary shooting and I will spurn around, shift my gaze to the centre, find the referee and go around him with the round thing, making the referee flint a Cherokee dance. Meanwhile, all the students are laughing and other club members are watching the show, students in classrooms pin their nose on the glass window pane, even the staff room curtain has been drawn for clearer view; teachers taking a break from their busy schedule, and the PTA having a tea while discussing common matters in the first floor has terminated that fruitful talks…all in gaze.
And now, I’ve made it to the centre of the field, I trapped the ball and sat on it, taking a deep breathe and smiling. Abraham is here in spirit and the students are not only laughing, they are shedding tears; same tears that my wife shed this morning.
I am now tired, very tired; not because I played soccer but because I have to learn Japanese language and this is after I lived in China for 7 years and learnt to speak Chinese. Don’t forget I learnt to speak English from the age of 3. Meanwhile, my students like the story of Abraham but find it difficult to say; A-BA-KA-LI-KI correctly. What am I really doing here? Why am I here? May be I am like Christopher Columbus; may be I’m here to discover Japan, just like I am the first from my clan to arrive China, could be to find teary love of a woman? May be I am here for Martin, Iverson and John Lennon…may be, I am here to help grow minds.
Patrick Nwadike is a Freelance Journalist based in Tokyo.
