One vivid memory of growing up on Old Ikang Road in Calabar was the evenings spent playing football at NICO secondary school. Every evening, during the holidays, all the kids, irrespective of background or class would all congregate in the field, kids from 4–5-year-old to those in their early teens.
Teams played in sets, with only the owner of the ball probably being guaranteed to play in as many sets as he wants to, and the quality of the ball also decided whose ball was used. Competitiveness brought about rivalry, some minor feuds but as with every community, there was a system in place to settle scores, it rarely degenerated to a fist fight, so growing up brought a sense trust, confidence and friendships.
I was quite pugnacious in my younger days but by the time I got to Hope Waddell Training Institution (HWTI), I had lost all the fight in me. I was a lover not a fighter. Hope Waddell was an experience. My brother and I had to repeat a class going in and with time we learnt the dynamics of the school and being social creatures were drawn to the Dramatic club, Press Club, and other clubs. That’s where the fun was.
The school was a day and boarding school so the Head boy reigned but was more feared by the boarders, day students might never have an encounter with the school prefects, unless maybe the Labour prefect.
A Club President however, especially if it was a popular club, was the one everyone tried to get into his good books because that’s where the vein of social life was plugged to, all the social interactions, parties and shows within and outside the school. The club President ultimately had the final say on the list of people to attend an event from an invite from the other schools and as witnessed in the larger society, there was jostling, bribing, trading favours to get on the list, especially if the invite came from Federal Government Girls College (FGGC) Calabar.
The most vibrant club as at the time we got into HWTI was Press and Literary Club. Victor, the President was a calm, intellectual, introvert who was a member of the club for what it represented and made sure the club functioned beyond the social aspect. Alex, the Vice President was the complete opposite, an uncouth, power grabbing fellow who showed little respect for the President and constantly tried to undermine him, always using his position to enrich himself by promising favours. It irked him so much that Victor was President and not him. At a function at our old time friendly rival Saint Patrick College (SPC), he introduced Victor as the President, Press Club and himself as the President, Literary Club as if it were separate clubs.
Second term SS3 for Victor and Alex, it was time for a change in Leadership, my friends and I were in SS2 and aligned with Victor who had identified that though we liked partying, we were also invested in the core values of the club. Then, succession was not by election, the outgoing Exco would identify members for the positions and agree within themselves. Also, from duties assigned to members and leadership roles played, the next President is usually known long before the formal handover. In this case, there were two factions, one loyal to the President and the other loyal to the Vice President and we knew for a fact that the Vice President was having a field day collecting money and promising positions.
The stunt Alex pulled in SPC caused quite a rukus and turned out to be his undoing as the Patron of the club fondly known as Mama Black formally stepped in. She asked Victor and Alex to individually bring the list of their preferred candidates without any position assigned. She took the list, entered the principal’s office and emerged with a substantive list. All but one position had gone to Victor’s loyalist, at the forefront was my brother and I. Ekei was the President, I was the Secretary. Alex was incensed.
I knew he was mad, but I didn’t know how mad.
We had to start mending fences as soon as we took over, the major fence to mend was with FGGC, Calabar. My school had been banned from all social activities in the school as during one of the activities we attended there, some students had been unruly. Onya and I were nominated to seek out this peace.
On our first visit, we went to invite FGGC for our first club activity, we were directed to a young teacher who we were told oversaw all the club activities, as soon as we mentioned our intention, handing him the typed letter of invitation, he said no and ran us out of there. Licking our wounds, we regrouped and strategized, A friend suggested going back to see him with an offering, as that’s how one goes to see elders, so armed with 2 bottles of wine, one alcoholic and the second, non alcoholic.
We greeted the teacher and presented the wines to him before stating our intention.
He didn’t let us finish, he looked at the bag with the wines inside, said we were very respectful young men and we shouldn’t worry that he’ll make sure the girls will be there by 3pm on that day. After our event, we were invited for our first occasion in FGGC Calabar. A group of pubescent students with raging hormones went out to the school ready to mingle.
We had just settled into the activities when we heard a noise as about 5 “Ecomog” taxis screeched to a halt outside the hall. “Ecomog” was the name given to some brand new 504 cabs that the State Government had introduced for hire. The first hint of trouble was the metallic glint we noticed reflecting from the doors as they opened, followed by mean looking thugs, the glint was from long, clean, freshly sharpened cutlasses that the thugs were brandishing and leading them was the dreaded “Ete Calabar”, a well known thug and cultist.
We piled out of the hall and looked at them, we had mixed bodily functions competing to explode, shit, piss and sweat and our first instinct was to take off but Chaka Zulu, God rest his soul and Maxwell, our wide chested provosts said nobody is going anywhere, we stay and fight, behind us the delegate from SPC our friendly rival college said they were with us, so we stood our ground. My brother and I with the provosts in front, no weapons.
Ete Calabar led the charge and behind him was Alex, then it dawned on us just how personal he had taken his humiliating loss of face. He pointed and my brother and I shouting “na dem be dat”. We stood steadfast. Just before they got to us, a heavyset voice from behind said “don’t touch those boys”. We looked back and saw a mountain of a man, huge, black, muscular, extremely muscular, we had heard of him, it was Gowon, the backbone of Ete Calabar’s gang, he was the strength, the enforcer, the brute force. Everyone feared him. He walked up to us and said “Okon ye Etim”.
In Calabar, most Efik kids in my generation were known by three names, your native name, usually on your birth certificate, your English name, usually on your baptismal card and your house name, not in any document. People who know your house name, know you to your house, in fact to your bedroom. We both looked at him and at ourselves wondering where we knew this giant of a person. He hugged us and started asking about all our siblings and during the conversation, we knew his identity.
The football playing at NICO had brought us all Old Ikang raised children together, bonding and visiting each other, then we were all younger and we didn’t know he would develop into this mountain of a man who would save us from certain beatings or injury.
Alex was mad, ranting about what he had paid them to do and asking why we were still standing. Gowon turned to him and proceeded to tell his crew to hold Alex and fined him extra money for bringing him to beat his brothers. They collected his money went away.
Twenty minutes later, James Otudor aka Otu Belaw, rest in the Lord brother, came towards us with Alex behind him, pointing us out. That’s when I understood the biblical saying, the heart of man is wicked. Apparently, Alex had paid Ete Calabar and Otu Belaw to deliver two separate beatings. His plan being that everyone would have run and left us to receive the first beating and as we were on our way out, receive the second one.
Unfortunately, again, he had failed to properly inform him of our identities. Otu Belaw and I had been seat mates in Aunty Margaret Primary School and very close. He was older than me and had repeated the class I met him in. I made sure we got promoted going forward. I taught him what he had issues grasping and we became tight. He saw us, screamed as we hadn’t seen ourselves since Aunty Margaret, hugged and started talking. He said Alex had hired him to beat us, but he had no clue it was us; he was laughing saying that he basically wanted to “chop” Alex’s money.
It was too much for Alex. He grabbed a bottle he saw nearby and broke it with the intention of attacking us. Chaka Zulu and Maxwell promptly disarmed him. It took a lot from my brother and I to stop them from beating him. We were back in with FGGC and didn’t want any incident to mar our newly established relationship. How the incident never made it to the knowledge of FGGC,Calabar authorities is another miracle.
That incident made me understand my mother’s love for Psalm 91
