Privilege Is A Thing of Pride

This is how bad my writing has become.

One of my childhood stories I hate to remember was one that happened when I was in Primary 5. It was the final term of the session and we were being prepared for the end of the year party. Like every other kid, I was looking forward to it. But my expectation of the day was not for the food, or the choreography (which I so much loved), or the fact that my mother would allow me to wear one of my new clothes she used to keep inside her cupboard (wardrobe actually but that’s what we called it then). What I always really looked forward to at every end of the year party was because I was sure I had a shot at getting a prize. Either being the first or second best in the class, I knew I would definitely go home with a gift. In my class, Ibrahim, my closest friend, and I always contended for the two positions.

For the previous years, apart from the choreography, collecting my prize was the only major activity I got involved in. I didn’t like cultural dances or performing songs. If selected for any, I would pull a stunt to extract myself out. But that year, I was about to leave the school as one of the graduates so I had to perform the farewell parade. Before the parade, my name had been called as the second best student after Ibrahim. When my name flared out of the speakers, in my little body, pride became a soul, growing and expanding inside. My face became an open door of happiness and I shook hands with the gift presenter as I had practiced: right hand out, a soft smile and make it wider when the camera flicks the white beam. I walked past my classmates making sure my graduation gown flew behind me, like a batman. Every single person present that day knew me because I made myself known with my gait.

After the parade, as a tradition, every graduating student will be called out to request for money from their parents. I still don’t understand why this was a tradition then. One thing was sure for me, my mother was not there. And my papa dey heaven. Till I finished university, my mother did not step foot into any of my schools. Never. My brothers and sisters were my fathers and mothers at school. It never bothered me too because, urhm, why? When it was my turn to request money from my parents, I started scratching the ground as though I could crack it and get buried in there. My brothers and sisters had gone to school so I knew there was no one there to come out for me. As dem dey put the microphone for my hand, I was searching for a face, someone familiar, someone that could rescue me. Instead, what I found in the faces of the people was something like a curiosity to know the father or mother of this smart, genius boy.

I simply said, “my mother does not have money”.

As the words slurred out of the speakers, the curiosity spluttered on people’s faces morphed to something deeper, a disappointment? Just at the moment the words escaped from my lips, I saw my sister struggling her way out from the back. When the words reached her ears, she froze and gently struggled her way back to her seat.

I was not lying. I grew up watching my mother drag orogun (stirrer) to herself from morning till darkness emerged on her, making fufu. She used to say to my brothers and sisters that someday, when we become successful, we’d take away the orogun from her. And apart from being a brilliant kid myself, my mother used to tell me to face my studies because I was not like other kids. I always wanted to ask what she meant by that but I didn’t. I knew I was different because sometimes, I got sent home for owing school fees or examination fees. It never bothered me, being sent home from school. It always gave me time to solve my entire mathematics textbook. I can’t solve shingbai anymore; I only use mathematics to calculate now.

At home, when the episode was related to my mother, I was expecting her to puff my head with words, to remind me how I had embarrassed her. But she didn’t.

If truly my mother “had” money, I wouldn’t find myself crying as I write this because that moment would never exist. If I were a rich kid, I would have just shouted my parents’ name, and voila, dem go count like 50k for ground. There is this “hatred” – or envy? – that society has grown for the children of rich folks. I remember there was a girl in our class that used to alight from her father’s car every morning. In my entire class, we shuffled the girl to a side because she always had everything; toys, books, finer bags, uniforms, everything. We taunted her because she was privileged.

There was a day her father came to report to our class teacher that his daughter wanted to quit our school because she said she didn’t have any friends. At the end of one term, she came second in the class, and dropped me to third. My friends and I grew against her and said she came second because she had everything. Kids.

As a grown up now, I defiled every act I did against that girl. I hate myself for hating her because she had everything I didn’t. I realized now that my classmates and I are products of what the society ingrained in us, to believe that privileged folks always get things done because they are rich or have access to everything.

Even if they do. Even though. Upon still. We forget that everyone is privileged in their own way; we might just consider it limited. A privilege is me having access to education that brought me to where I am today. A privilege is you becoming whatever you are today because someone hopes to be where you are, where I am, as we aspire to be where some folks are.

It now appears that those born into privilege have to go extra miles to prove themselves, that they have what they have because they work hard and not because they are lucky to have an influential person at their back. When we say people are lucky, we forget that a great deal of hard work walks behind luck. Having access to a room does not mean you’d have access to the key. Privileged people always have access to the room, but they always have to work hard to have the key. Everything doesn’t just work out for them in a flick of fingers. I no know sha.

I wish I could travel back in time to tell my classmate that there’s nothing wrong with being born into a wealthy home. It is not her fault. It is nobody’s fault. Everyone has a share of their cake. Whatever portion comes your side is just what it is.

Imagine say my mama dey rich when I dey primary 5, make I still come brilliant like that, I go dey walk like Pharaoh.

Why does this story seem like a Nollywood movie? Lmao.