By Muyiwa Adetiba
Last month, I stepped, no, drove confidently with a wife and son in tow, to the same compound I first tentatively stepped into as a shy, small boy some 50 years ago. My first port of call was the chapel where a thanksgiving service was going on. This chapel held many bitter/sweet memories for me because it was, in my early years before the school hall was rebuilt,more than a prayer ground.

Many important announcements took place there; especially on Friday afternoons when you learnt whether your weekend was going to be free or your name had been submitted for punishment by a prefect or teacher. The chapel was still the same small, cosy place though now air-conditioned. I looked across with nostalgia to my favourite corner where I used to sneak in novels to keep me company during ‘boring’ sermons.

The chapel this time, was filled with old students. It was the 83rd Founders Day anniversary service of Igbobi College, my Alma Mater. Three of the five officiating priests were Old Igbobians. Two were my contemporaries —one ahead of me and the other behind me. One of them, Bola, was such an unlikely candidate in his school and after school years that you wonder how he got into priesthood. The ways of God are indeed unsearchable.

The service was to be followed by a Merit Award lunch for Old Igbobians who had been nominated for professional achievements. In between was some 30 minute hiatus. Time enough for me to fulfil one of my desires of the day which was to go round the school and see one more time, my favourite haunting grounds. I went with two other classmates who felt as I did. Somehow, the school had shrunk; what looked so vast in the past had reduced considerably. My house, Aggrey House, the same house which had produced many great men, looked unbearably small and nondescript.

The master’s quarters looked like small huts. The Principal’s house which had looked so grand had, well, shrunk with age. The school field which in our days was the biggest and best in Lagos was not that appealing any more. But it still reminded me of my happy moments and the feats of natural athletes, many of them now pot-bellied, grey haired and stooped. The orchard which became the third field in my time had completely disappeared. In its place a building. But the compound was still neat, maybe neater than I remembered it since the roads were now tarred. All these brought memories as I hoped they would.

My first Sunday in school was an unhappy one. It started happily enough until after dinner when the senior prefect stood on a table to announce the school rules to fresh intakes. If I found the rules restrictive, the by-laws were worse. Some I still remember till today. You couldn’t walk the lawns; you couldn’t pass a piece of paper without picking; you couldn’t walk past a senior without greeting; you couldn’t walk along the seniors’ corridor or laugh at his jokes; your sandals must be polished and buckled while your canvas shoes must be kept white and laced—at all times; your shirt must be tucked in at all times and the tie properly laced on Sundays. Then the bell; your life was ruled by the bell. It started at 5.30 am and ended at 10 pm.

Different strokes meant different things and you ignored any at your peril. On top of all this, you were told that you probably got admitted because you were good academically but you would only be retained if you were good in character. You were told repeatedly that your name was written in pencil and could be erased if your character was found wanting. I cried that Sunday night and almost every night for a week.

But I survived; enough to spend seven years in the school. In the early, junior years, we were taught the importance of academics, sports and character. Just as St Paul in the book of Corinthians extolled the virtues of faith, hope and love but put love above the three, we were made to see the importance of character over sports and academics. It was a school built on tradition which you had to maintain and pass on. It was also a school that recognised only excellence; not ethnicity or tribe.

I have heard many Old Igbobians argue that the school’s emphasis on moral and ethical values did not prepare its students for the rough and tumbled life in Nigeria and many suffered as a result of it. In fact, our boys thrive more in the diaspora than in Nigeria. Survival in Nigeria is about end justifying whatever means and those who try to stick to principles invariably lose out.Many of our leaders are liars and looters yet Nigerians call them messiahs. Why swim against the tide when it is easier to just flow with it? That is the dilemma of an average Old Igbobian.

It was time to enter the school hall for the Merit Award ceremony which was the second part of the day’s programme. I was surprised, after all these years, that I still felt some awe as I stepped into the hall. In my days, it was a place for assemblies, for lectures, seminars and plays. Many important messages and pronouncements came from that raised dais. Many were inspirational. For example, there was a time Nigeria had only five universities and three of the Vice Chancellors were Old Igbobians. The Principal made sure we knew about it.

When Dr Taslim Elias, an Old Igbobian, was made the first Nigerian Attorney General, we were also told. And when Chief Mike Ibru was making big splashes in the ocean of big business, we were reminded he was an Igbobian. For many of us however, the only time we heard our names was when we were slated for punishment or reprimand.

So for me to stand on the podium and listen to my citation being read for achievement in Journalism—I, who had fought my nomination almost to fisticuffs on the ground that I was the least deserving—to be recognised by a school known for its high standards, was special. It is a testament to the values learnt in school that my classmates, some of whom were internationally renowned Professionals and businessmen still had the humility and altruism to insist on my name.

Many Old Boys are proud of the school and its not for academics only but also for character moulding. How I wish Nigerians could all line up behind a man of character in our presidential election which comes up in a couple of weeks. A man who says only what he means and stands by it. Or is that too old school?