The Departure of Conquerors

                                   ... NIJ 2015 graduation

Like warlords after a serious fight, let us clang our swords and sing in victory. Let us also appreciate all the comrades. It is indeed a 3 year academic struggle. No hero fell, except those who withdrew when they could not bear the fierceness of the battle any further.

Some Of The Grandaunts

Without perambulation, kudos to Rasheedat who would go any errand without complaining, not because she is small in stature but because she is a giant in the mind. And Helen my Deputy whose tongue is frisky and would have been a waste of talent if she had not come into journalism.

Buki my confidant, whose presence most of the time brings solution. I will never forget Ayoade Ahmed's humbleness though at times naughty, but no one can take brilliance away from him. Even Bhero and Sivowaku. The three of them are like triplet who for sure have not wasted their money in school, they knew what they came for and they got it.

Arinola 'The Convert' who suddenly bridled her attitude in the amalgamated class and became such a fine gentle fellow.

Tunji 'The Bat' whose attitude is absolutely awkward--just like a bat would hang upside-down and prefer to fly at night. Tunji thinks out of this world, he reads when people are snoring at night and disturbs the readers in the day. Rejoice, in whom I have some affinity, maybe in terms of fashion.

Grace Atukpa whose brain is better that some people's eyes, if she could see, definitely we won't know her, for her brain is like a 3,000gigs memory card.

I changed my perception about short people when I came in contact with Mabel for her smartness. Grace Okosun whose sweet voice is needed in Mobile Network Customer Care and her friends Dami and Blessing are such easy-going people.

Glory the poet is another good friend in whose eyes you will see determination and I so much reckon with Rita who endured my boredom and yet would not stop loving me.

Hope is my phonetic teacher and she has some qualities of a good partner. Timilehin simply defines African beauty. Taofeek who if those who detest tribal marks may change their minds if they see how beautifully the cicatrises lay on his fair cheeks and his friend, Nureni, the most gentle.

Tolu, a journalist, a lawyer and a blogger. No doubt he would shake the future except that he is becoming a lady's guy. Julius attitude is controlled by mood, he expresses simplicity while both Kickers and Ryder would be pronounced on Amaka's makeup in resounding red colour.

If all class is like Abike, no lecturer would have time to teach, for her questions come ceaselessly but no one would not envy her sophistication and her carriage. Maureen would never bother the absence of lecturers as long as her laptop could show film.

Tomi, the first TV super star in the midst, her eyebrows make her look like a beautiful roe. Dami knows how to maintain decorum in a group meeting assignment but at the tail of the meeting she would say "gov, can we go?"

If Bosola were my sister, I would have given her to the highest bidder, for her beauty is irresistible. Ajiferuke's trousers are amazing, they never torch his ankles. Though younger, I respect him most for he would give you your respect too. He likes elegance and big-boyishness but his goatee is still growing.

I think Japheth must have long time overcame anger and Alimat would have been a perfect wife for him. The latter too knows how to sheath anger. One have to strain his ears when Sivelster is making contributing in class, at times you maybe deceived if he could actually toast a lady.

Dominic another clown whose questions sometimes are faster than school syllabus. Valentine, the class parrot, who never tired of talking. Tosin is jovial and her son seems more popular than she is. Tunmishe, is brilliant and charming, she knows how to embrace as she skilfully disappears inside a wrap of masculine arms.

Akinyemi most of the times go for a deliberate silence like a school boy who mistakenly impregnated a girl at his first attempt. Sandra is calm and she is ready to knee just please a friend. Olaitan is cheerful, that one may want to doubt her seriousness and Bunmi, Folake, Funmi and Chinello are good fighters who clung with education even when they were pregnant.

Ayemo if words are spoken with recharge card she would still be using the one she loaded in ND1 and she dread carryover more than earthquake.

Prince is a philanthropist but not without scrutinizing where his money goes. Doyle, the unpredictable and Bode the powerful one cannot easily forget.

Mrs. Zimzu, Mr. Seyi, Big Tony—my padi, Madam Rosemary, Kens, Mrs. Raheems, Madam Clementina. These are the elders amidst but they have pocketed their egos and rejuvenated their minds with academic ointment.  Though Mrs Raheems might not talk when making a decision but she wouldn't keep silent when it does not work out. They all command respect.

Opeyemi and Nuru joined us lately, but they are such a perfect gentle fine fellows. Chinelo and Funmi's sons must be giving their own certificates. these lads' contributions in class cannot be underestimated, though come in torrent of cry to distract the class.

For the candles you've all burnt at nights, the Saturday parties you've let go just to secure a viable future for yourselves, I have no doubt if you I'll not stop fighting that you're all close to the promise land.

Here, my heart is full of emotion, like a child whose mother is traveling.

Some would miss my 'Hocus-pocus', 'Peruse' and many loads of vocabularies with my incessant announcements. I will definitely miss you all for your support. You are all gladiators—academics conquerors.

TENE, JAYJAY AND COLLEGUES

Am I not supposed to be reading for exams? Do I have to bother you to read when you haven't finished reading your books?  But when I remembered the takes of a hummingbird which after it had tested its wings left its mother in the hollow of an Obeche tree and flew away to the seashore; I deemed it fit that farewell song must be sang to NIJ lecturers.

Who belled the cat? A non-teaching staff. Mr. Obed., who most times speak like Aristotle, and anytime I see him, I must confess; I remember Uchendu, Okonkwo's uncle in 'things fall apart'. I have little contact with him but no doubt he is wise and friendly.

Mrs. Umoren who when teaching I tried as much as possible not to gaze too much into her flicking, killing eyes—most especially when fasting. They roll in accord to define uncommon beauty.

I am somewhat indebted to Mr. Boye who added some gimmicks and paraphernalia to my writing, and his wife, my unseen editor. He would answer your question with question, with suitable anecdote that will explain the question and make you see how stupid you were some seconds ago—before the question. It took us some time to know that beneath his smile lies an ocean of seriousness.

I confidently foretold him the certainty of my 'A' in his course 'Features Writing', and assurance was vivid when almost everybody scored 8,9,10 over 20. The highest score was 13 and I,18 with a customised mark of a green biro that acknowledged the beauty of my lead. I accused him when result came and it wasn't an A. "It is not about the grade, but the fact is that you've known it" he said, and that slaked my anger.

"I did not teach you how to write, I told you how to" he said last week when I jokingly told people to see the man who thought me how to write. He has his policy, which students that take education with levity detest but as for me Mr. Boye is one of the best. He is like a walker that aided my toddling.

Mrs. Kalesanwo is known for her rapport with students, she is an embodiment of trust whom students are not afraid to divulge secrets to. She competes effortlessly with ladies in the campus. Her
makeup, her gown, shoes and jewelries would want you to consider Mrs NiJ, probably in the next students'week.

Mr Femi is another exceptional breed. He teaches with zeal, to the point of perspiration even under fan. Maybe if the new provost could see him in the act, he would hasten the AC Project. He consciously injects the right words that best fit a sentence. Lacuna, dichotomy, or miniature, cum, nuances, are all his words. I enjoy him more when he digresses, discusses theories, recalls history but above all when analysing profundities without necessarily mentioning Karl Marx or Marshal McLuhan.

Mr Tene, my 'paddy', who mingles freely with students without any shame is another personality I will never forget in NIJ. At times, when people talk about his strictness or call him a 'Madman'(according to him) I thought I was the only one with a contrary opinion until people's noise filled the hall when his name was mentioned among others in the last 'Provost-student' meeting. That day, I concluded he is indeed a man of the people. Although his mood switches. He believes in the respect-is-reciprocal theory and he is not ashamed even to bow when greeting a student.

Mrs. or Miss Tope, Clinic madam is another person I had never talked to. She define beauty in a different and simple manner. When you see her, you may want to pray for little malaria, and be rushed to her care, probably she would run her hand on your forehead during medical observation. She is an epitome of elegance in her impeccable slenderness. She has her way of walking. If human legs are three, I would have called her a Tripod because she is fit and firm while walking.

Mr. Akin Ojo, who never came near pitch to play football, even though he looks young, would prefer to pocket and maintain his fine-boyishness. He walks majestically like a politician and his shade makes him sometimes, looks like a contractor that abandoned a project.

Unlike Jayjay, who I have no doubt that if he had pursued football as career, he would have benched Oruma and Okocha. But destiny dragged him from field to classroom—however He made the right choice, for bones weaken but pen would never retire. None of the students would forget how he release his heavy voice to break the prevalence of silence in exam hall as he comes for series of announcements and warnings."If you write down stories for me in my exam, your children and grandchildren will read it" he would warn his class.

Mr. Tolu whose names are almost uncountable, courtesy of students -— G.O, Obama, United, Baba Tee and so on. When Tolu is in class, strangers may think there is course called 'Comedy 101' as classroom may change to 'A night of thousand laughs' —like the day he was angry with us in ND1 and silently walked in, with a frowned face in his Man U jersey—a red long sleeve. No greeting. He walked toward the board and wrote Test, even though our notebooks were empty.

The most amusing was the question that read thus "Succinctly adduce the..." Confusion filled the class, as all pens hung. Valentine summoned courage and asked "sir, is it to define or what?" The whole class lifted their heads for response, he halted, looked funnily at the guy and walked out without saying anything. We began to laugh boisterously. He feigns bully but he is sarcastic in nature and when the former would not work, he wears a clown face.

I call Mrs Odum my beautiful mum, and she responds 'my handsome son'. I envy her glowing skin, her decent dress and her height. Personally, I appreciated tall people because they don't feel intimidated which could result to aggression and encroachment, for fear that people may take their nature to debase them—especially those who lack confidence in themselves at the same time lack good habit.

She would not allow you to pay her bill; any where if you're still a student and she explained reasons for that. Mr Boye and her share this philosophy, because I could remember an incident whereby the former refused to load a student's call-voucher, he sent the guy a message that he did appreciate card, but that was his stand—thanks that the guy did not throw away the call card, he loaded it after a week. What a discipline!

Mrs Abiodun is another lecturer who which if I refuse to write about, my conscience won't forgive me for being either timid or biased. Anytime you're operating computer, especially on Microsoft Power Point you think of her. She cares not about what people say though, In fact, she does not bother herself to calm the class when she knows that result would soon be out and letter 'O' is not hard to type.

She is a woman with tough gloves whom every newcomer dreads. Most ND 1 students you see checking their results and suddenly, bright countenances change to somber looks and drawing jaws, then followed with mumblings of words—either casting spells or chewing incantations, are likely to have entered her claws. Those who are wise nearly prostrate when they meet her in the staircase.

Mrs Popoola, I guess must have lived in Peckham, where three things anger whiteman, don't beat their dog, don't beat their child and don't harm their flowers. The last she dislikes with passion as she would rather prefer you to break her car mirror than walk carelessly on the lawn.

Time will not permit me to write about Mr Jack who stretches a hand for handshake to avoid lady's embrace for the fear of anointing contamination and his 'He-goat' philosophy toward illicit advances among opposite sexes in a suspicious angle. And Mr Cami, the humble, gentle and meticulous  teacher with many other teaching and non teaching staff, for no doubt they have all played a role in building lives. I wish you all, success not only in the on-going examination but also in your future itinerary.

THE PASSAGE OF A GENTLE TEACHER -Ayo Omotola

Going to a week now, the dire news crippled my articulation,even my writing skill. To construct a phrase became uneasy. I had said nothing both on SRC media Forum and Facebook. For the first time I realized how drudgery the art of writing could be--especially, in such a dispiriting frame of mind. The eulogy of Chris is a big task which a fledging writer could not easily plunge into. At last, I grudgingly pick-up my mourning pen.

My mum and some close associates have wearied me with incessant complaints over my bodily emaciation. I was advised to reduce fasting. But that Black Friday wasn't just seemed like a day of eating -- I just felt I should deny the body again-- as fasting for me is a therapy and an exercise to awake spiritual alertness which takes me beyond this terrestrial environment.

Apart from the self loss of appetite, and some feeling of saying a 'no' to daily gluttony, the day was bright enough that you can't suspect any evil. So, I had set out for a trip . Buki, whom I consider a consummate reporter broke the news by a phone-call, so no need for further inquiry--besides, a convoy of staff were waiting for me at Berger which was to lead our way to Ado-Awaye, an interior of Oyo state, so there was no time for disbelief. It was a bad news from a veritable source.

"It was High blood Pressure" the caller said. " High blood Pressure?" If not that the school was on break, HELEN and AGBABIAKA ought to be held responsible. The former did always give him tough time in class and sometimes to a point of squeezing life out of him while the latter frustrated him, then forced him to laugh again. Even Bherro. But come to think of it is there any lecturer Helen doesn't wahalalize? Leave the girl jare and accuse the death, I concluded.

Then I began to muse over the vain struggle of man through life, a torrent of phone calls barraged my cell-phone. I did not pick any since I knew why the called. Why are we all weeping? And for whose sake are we weeping? If it is for Chris, I think we shouldn't waste our tears, but if it is for ourselves, let us all continue weeping for everyone of us would taste this bile of death.

I switched from a somber look, to that of a baby whose mother just arrived from market with goodies. I picked the tale of Tortoise, who began to scatter ground when it bumped at leopard. "Why this?" asked leopard and tortoise said whoever that would pass through that path after its death would know that two mighty animals had fought on that spot. I envied Chris' stoicism; he did not beg death, he had taken that bold step many of us are running away from, since he knew he would later go.

After that I remembered Edwin Arlington's poem 'RICHARD CORY' which I read long time ago. It is a poem that best explain the mystique of his sudden exit which happened without much noise. Richard, a fine gentleman, imperially slim and educated, who was an embodiment of good-living; one night, went home and put a bullet through his head! Richard Cory explains the irony of life when people that appear calm and cool are nursing a bleeding deep gash in their hearts.

A lot has been said about him on Facebook, even Tene,
my Pardi said good things about the deceased--his gentleness etc. They are correct but there is something they forgot to say that Mr. Chris was either a deceiver or too secretive or maybe he doest want to spread his dirty linen in the public or too considerate to avoid been a burden to others. But why did he always pocket as if life was good? A question he would need to answer when I see him in apparition or at heavenly atrium.

It is therefore high time we started appreciating the few lecturers and everybody around us that are good, not until when they are gone we begin to bombard their cenotaphs with sweet words. Those good songs we composed on Facebook may have moved Mr Chris legs to dance.

I can't really say Chris was a good man, but I don't think he has ever threatened any student with carryover like that tyrannic computer madam in a movie I watched, who promised my friend a carryover and ensured the evil was fulfilled. And unquestionable book keeper whose required principles transcended beyond ordinary strictness to an unnecessary sadistic umbrage. Where Chris went should humble us all.

Dr. Dele Omojuyigbe Disappoints me

A CATHARSIS OF A LECTURER IN NIGERIA INSTITUTE OF JOURNALISM-OGBA, LAGOS

                                 
How can one ever satisfy a man who easily picks errors in newspapers? Or would you scramble to impress a man who has once finished all the books in a library? When you meet Mr Dele Omojuiyigbe, a Senior-lecturer at the Nigerian Institute of Journalism, you won't need to scratch your head before you dish out an answer.

What can you say about Mr Dele? I asked a funny but serious student, Nwanna. " Fantastic. ( with his hand going into his mouth as one would do, to swallow solid food in balls) If he were to be a woman, I would have begged her to marry my dad. The way he speak, the way..." Nwanna yet to complete this before some girls came to yank him away being a man of little stature.

"Not that I deliberately search for errors in newspapers, but it is a pity that as I read, errors appear", he says. He teaches with style of a meticulous teacher. He chooses his words, emphasizes with one hand, uses the other to adjust his glasses or to wave at a going lecturer through the window briefly without distraction.

"Pardon me if I jabber", I heard the the last word in the quote from him when he was reading to the class without his glasses, last semester, which I have added to the hollow bank of my vocabulary.

"What is peculiar about me? Well, I don't think I have anything you can write about" he said jokingly, when I asked if I could go on, or be permitted to write about him few weeks back.

Like a snail would prefer the warmness of its shell, he likes staying indoor. His office sometimes could be likened to that of an Army General as questions must be answered before your entrance could be granted. He does this to know the visitor's relevance as he could easily deduce folly from the silly heart of a moron by the way the questions are answered. He naturally dislikes dullards. "Go, I want to rest", he would sometimes respond.

In spite of his Doctorate in English, he values his indigenous language. If he had spoken both to your hearings before, then, there is no other name you would want to give his bi-functional tongue than 'A two hedged sword' or a miraculous Ikogosi water in Ondo State that gushes both cold and hot.

His sense of humour is lucidly dolled out."If my mother were to be alive, she would still be 21" he said, as sarcasm, when joking about ladies who always and never exceeded 21 at any birthday they marked.
All these condiments seem to shorten the lecture periods, that students would not want him to go even when he had dished out enough lectures.

However he either discharges himself by simply saying 'No question' or 'Last question'. He would pack his rubber file-jacket, containing students' attendance and few other documents then swaggers out quickly in his mostly native attire, or fez cap as if he could be kidnaped, at a minute more.

The strict aspect of him, defines his hatred for academics indolence and his discomfort at seeing non-serious students."I don't dash out marks. As a matter of fact, I don't know the owner of the script when I'm marking I only work with your MATRIC number. After a long pause--"if you like, attach your photograph,it doesn't make a change" he would declare.

"Listen ladies, if you have not got at least your degree and you see me outside with one useless big stomach, please don't greet me, and if you greet me by force, I won't answer" Though, this seemed to anger pregnant students, who happened to be victims of that moment, Mr Dele never cared.

"When you don't read, even a fool will take advantage of you". This was said when he told us the story of 'Shaos'. He picks his words as if he edits in his head. He observes punctuations even when talking. No wonder those words are rightly dispensed and inserted appropriately like pouring epo oloorun ( Native palm oil) on a hot well-boiled Ewura yam.

I have not for once found him near the school cafeteria, I wonder if he eats anyway. I am tempted to conclude that he doesn't. Especially, when you look at his flat belly. Could it be that canteen food lacks SEMANTIC meaning? Or maybe have no proper GRAMMATICAL nutrition. But I was surprised, that I had to call a friend, Valentine, when I saw him on Facebook some months back. I had to ensure he was the the one, as if I wanted to catch a thief at his very wrist, he responded with his usual crispness and disappeared pronto like an acrobatic fish, that raises its head above the water and sinks immediately.

Mr Dele has been my mentor, though I found myself a little disappointed, when he couldn't find time to edit my book~~ I had anticipated that he would write the forward note. He complained of much work at hand, of which I am not surprise. I would only be selfish if I get angry at a man who is busy, even to eat.

WEEP NOT CHILD

'Weep Not Child' Reviewed by : AYO OMOTOLA
To value the beauty of literary works and rekindle the fire of reading in the minds of students and young ones, book-review is key. It helps to understand the hidden treasure in the belly of book and to fathom or fish-out all, which the author berried. It is a barometer that detects weather the message is clear or misconstrued. And finally it gives readers the opportunity to express their opinions or see their opinions in another person's view.It is a feedback to the writer and an interaction amongst the readers of the book discussed.

WEEP NOT CHILD was written by Ngugi Wa Thiong O. Ngugi is a popular Kenyan writer. A Professor of Eng. & Comaparative Literature at the University of Califonia. He has written so many books, letters and memoirs which has attracted the attention of international scholastic bodies which earned him many awards and accolades.


The book title 'Weep Not Child' alone successfully forms an image of a child, who needs to be comforted and consoled. Before opening the first leaf, your mind is set to read an emotion-arousing book. Weep not child depicts the black days of Kenya, when Kenya was still a British Colony between 1895-1963. For Ngugi to tell the saga effectively in a fictitious way, characters have to come to play. Characters like:
Njoroge
Nyokabi
Kamau
Jacobo
Boro
Njeri
Ngotho
Mwihaki
Juliana and so on.

The very first page captures the picture of a boy Njoroge, who had a vission (Njoroge is the hero of the book). A little boy who must have been looking at his mates going to school with eyes of jealousy. This ambition is introduced by Nyokabi his mother. The news excites him that he has to cooperate with his poor mother to let go of his mid-day meals which means he will go to school many times without goodies even food~not because they care not but could not afford it.

When one's hope is high, he can endure anything. Njoroge wants to restore the land which has been taken away from his ancestors by the whites and the belief is that education is the only tool that could reclaim the lost glory. His ambition is high and his family expects so much from him. So he is so committed to schooling while his brother Boro is pleased with learning carpentry, looking toward the day Njoroge will do the magic.

The irony of the book is that all ambitions were murdered, all hopes trickled off as the violence of the rebellion and horrors of colonialism spring up. Njoroge never become what he wanted, in fact he loses all that have once been giving him joy, the once glorious and bright firmament suddenly turns gloomy as he loses his father to torture and his family in shambles. Only Boro who have been nurturing animosity against the whites could be said to have fulfilled his heneuos desire.

However, the writer was able to use symbolism to pass a crucial message which connotes the fact that all hope is not gone when the stars disappear in the up. She brings a piece of wood burning as a lamp to illuminate her path when searching for Njoroge~ Who is actually contemplating suicide. The peace is restored in the land but people who are interested in his success are no more.

Dream Before My Death

DREAM BEFORE MY DEALTH - Ayo Omotola

I had thought I was timid
Until the brandishing of their swords.
In their hundreds, I was enclosed
And my offence, they never told.

To fight and be killed I saw as honour
Than to make a bloodless sucide attempt
At a stretch of hand, I got a sword.
How much blood a sword can shed
With such unnumbered surrounded foes?

All of a sudden, the fear was gone
With the same neglected mind of sucide
I plunged myself into the heat of war

The gash was deep and the wound was cruel
So I heard from the doctor-in-charge
To every food they brought, my head I shook
Oh no the loved ones began to weep.

How many time have I told you not to cry?
To safe the tears for more to come.
At evening, in the coolness of breeze
I decided to go...
To wave a hand was really a pain
The damage was much, the hand was heavy
But I'm glad the lips could say the dream

After my lisping a man appears
From his hair to his very sole
The rest covered in his glorious white.
I saw my sword in his dazzling hand
He beckoned by sign, and I followed him.
The rest I'll say when I come back alive.
Because I know I surely live again!

The Tears Of Our Past

                         The Tears Of Our Past

My heart is still longing for those days, but I am afraid that I will ever see them again. When the moon would gather us the children from different houses in a large compound after the dinner. I was then a precocious little boy, who envied the impunity of the adulthood. Now I have grown, witnessing the sorrow of their myriad responsibilities!

Like Adam and Eve who were never ashamed of their nakedness in the garden of Eden, we ran around without a shirt, rolling out-of-use car-tires or any object of a rounded shape which we roll around a stick. Sometimes into a drainage, or into an easy going woman; even pots of soup were not safe. Who would beat a boy with a fresh scratch on his belly and yet jumbling around with ecstasy without minding the self inflicted wound? No not one. Except some scolding.

Who stole all our beautiful games? The likes of kenke,'jumping over a stick or a rope' Ten-ten, mostly for girls and Tinko-tinko? Who packed all our good songs, that we didn't mind to sing even to forfeit our meals? The songs like:

                     Ema weyin o- weinwein!
                     Idi oreemi lemi o fisi...
( Threatening to drop it at the lucky buttock of any of the children sitted in a circle form)

                    Talo wa n nu Ogba naa?
                    Omokekere kan ni...

Where a child would be prowling round the circled children, asking who was in the garden," a little fine child" would be the response of the playmates that formed the garden.

                  Eye melo tolongo wale - tolongo
                 Okan dudu aro.        - tolongo....

   (How many birds managed to come back home?
   One was as black as African dye of indigo...)


I shed tears within myself when I remembered the act of theft committed either by Civilization or Education or even religious orientation. Nwanenwa Valentine, my Ibo friend felt like crying when he also recalled the song his mother sang for him which he too sang for his younger brother.

                Onyen mere nwan ne bakwa
                Egbe mere nwan ne bakwa...

            (Who is hurting the crying child?
         It is a hawk that is hurting the crying child...)


We had songs for every season. Be it rain or shining sun. Be it dark or ostentatious moon. Whoever that have done this, obviously must have realized the damage he or she has done to our coming ones. Our heritage has been taken, our beautiful culture has been stolen, our african pride has been buried!, and now we are like bastards who have  no source.

To be truthful, I did not for once come first in class, but any time I came second, my reward wasn't Mr Biggs or Tantalizer, only a boiled egg not even two, was enough to motivate a boy who excelled in school. I never protested or rebelled, instead I would be proud to tell it in school.

Why should we be nervous, or envious when none of us had a phone, laptop or Ipad, neither had cartoon movies flooded our TV set? The play-grounds, now occupied by gigantic factories were big enough to play different games.We grew without seeing those modern tools, and the backlash of such technology in the society today made us to see the evil we've escaped.

It is just a pity that we didn't grow in China whose government encourages children innovations. Like making of trumpet, carved with artistic craftiness from a pawpaw-stick. Inventing a canoe constructed with a sheet of paper tore from our exercise books and a stereo with a match- box. I can't count the number of houses I built for birds by simply inserting my foot into a wet sand which would create a hole after removing it.

Hunting for grasshoppers on the school grass was another nice game. We designed the street electric wires with our crashed kites which was made with nylon, strong broom sticks and a very long tread that would be held by the "Pilot". At times the kite disappears into the sky! But unfortunately, no one could realise that a boy who tailored a kite into the cloud was very close to a research that could unravel the mystery of plane!

In a somber state of mine, I welcomed a brief visit of smile on my face, When I recalled a vivid picture of the most trendy barbers who only had a broken mirror and their amusing chairs as old as the owners, rolling you here and there with that noisy 'weapon' they called clipper to hit sturborn heads that struggled with them.

Some believe in reincarnation but I am rather doubtful the resurrection of the assassinated good old days when a head of fish could pacify a angry boy, and a clicking toy "woroworo" would lure a weeping child to sleep. When a hot stew ladle could teach a greedy child, oh my God! I long to see those days again.