When bad grammar happens to good people

I attended Edumadze D/A School. The D/A in the middle there means “District Assembly.” Since you are too respectful to ask where the hell such school is, let me tell you. It is in Mankessim. Mankessim is in the Central Region. I started class one there and completed Junior High there. From class one to Junior High, I attended the same school. I was that loyal. I was in the same class as Ato Nicholas, Maame Esi Ampiah, Efua Sam Abakah and my cousin Ekow Essuman

During our time at Edumadze, as it’s affectionately called, we never spoke a word of English. Teachers taught in English but we never learned a word of it. We were always speaking Fante. In class four I was so eloquent in Fante that I only spoke in proverbs. When you asked me what my name was and I managed to tell you, please, dare not ask a follow-up question. It mostly didn’t end well.

The English speaking situation got so bad that teachers made about fifteen campaigns to get us to shift from speaking Fante to English speaking. None of those campaigns Worked. They wrote on our classroom blocks; “No vernacular Here.” We spoke our Fante anyway. They changed tactics. They wrote it on top of each classroom blackboard. We never changed our language.

Then they resorted to a “shame tag”—when you were caught speaking Fante, a huge board with the inscription; “I’ll never speak Fante again” was hung around your neck for the whole day. They will then move you to your junior class for them to mock you till closing.

That changed us immediately. We stopped speaking out aloud and begun to speak in whispers. We spoke Fante in whispers so no teacher will find us out. Later the teachers got uneasy. The whole school was too silent they feared we were planning something against them. So they stopped the shame tag.

Then they decided pupils are scared of losing money so whenever we were caught speaking Fante, we were asked to pay some amount instantly. Just 3 days into that law, I was owing so much money for speaking Fante that my mom had to be called.

When my mom was told how much I was owing she screamed; “Eiii but that’s even bigger than the amount I paid as school fees?” Then the teacher turned to me and asked in English; “Erskine, tell your mom why you are owing so much.” I was quiet for about two minutes. Sobbing.

Then my mum tried hitting me so I got closer to her and whispered; “If you force me to speak, by the time we leave here, you’ll be owing so much that we can’t feed for a week. Do you know the price of one vernacular that you are forcing me to speak?”

That was all in primary school. In primary 4, this lady joined our class. She was such a beauty and we both connected instantly. When she was coming to school, she didn’t come with a desk as we all did. I offered her my desk for the day. She ended up using my desk for the rest of the term. For the rest of the term, I always sat on the floor.

Do you know why I agreed to such an arrangement? She could speak impeccable English. That was all the reason. If I fought her for my desk and it got to the staff room, I would have been in trouble. I would have ended up owing so much. So I allowed her to take the desk so peace will prevail.

In Junior High, there was yet another English speaking Campaign. This time, when you erred, the teachers would ask; “Should I lash you or you’ll speak 4 sentences of English?” We always chose the lashing. It was cheaper.

We completed Junior High and went to Senior High. That was where the real ordeal of my life started.

As freshers in Winneba Senior High School, one teacher walked into our class and said; “Since we are all strangers to each other, we’ll begin introducing ourselves to each other before the start of the class. When you get up, say your name, the school you attended and the aggregate you brought to this school.” Immediately the teacher finished talking, I started feeling dizzy. I needed a head lifter—Someone who would love me still when the storm was over.

They started. You’ll hear those who came from Tema and Accra and attended better schools and the kind of eloquence with which they expressed themselves. That day I wished I was a chair. A chair that a fat lady would sit on and cover me up completely. Even if she farted on me, I would have been grateful in the end.

“My name is blah blah blah. I attended Martyrs of Uganda, I got ten ones.” then they’ll clap. “My name is blah blah. I attended Datus, I had nine ones.” Everybody made beautiful grades of ones. I had an aggregate 14. The only subject I had one was Fante. But my cousin was in the class too. He had to speak before it would get my turn. I had a better grade than him so I knew when he said his, I will feel better to talk about mine. Then my cousin got up; “My name is Michael Fynn. I attended Cambridge Preparatory School. I had eight ones.”

My eyes and my mouth shot wide opened all at once. “Huh! Is that my own cousin or another person. Has the name of Edumadzi changed to Cambridge that I didn’t know?” Now I was on my own. I had to plan something quick to save myself from the embarrassment. People kept introducing themselves till it got to the guy in front of me then I’ll be next to introduce myself. As the guy was introducing himself, the bell toll for break time.

Then the teacher said; “When we return from break, we shall continue.” As I’m typing this, I’m still on break. That teacher never saw me in his class again till he was changed.

Even today, I find it very hard to express myself very well in English. It’s either I don’t know what to say or I’m scared someone will take money from me when I speak Fante. I’ve bundled all that into fear and shyness. When it becomes very critical that I have to speak English, I take my time. I speak slowly. I choose my words very carefully and all the while thinking about those days I couldn’t say a word of English.