The Forgotten Textbook

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My secondary school days were a mix of laughter, discipline, growth, and unforgettable memories. Looking back, those years were some of the most formative and beautiful moments of my life. For the most part, I was a calm and obedient student. I kept a low profile, avoided trouble, and did my best to maintain a good academic standing.

But something changed when I entered my final year. It was almost as if I had become a different person overnight. I started getting a bit more rebellious—not in a wild or dangerous way, but enough to be noticed. Maybe it was the stress of preparing for WAEC, or maybe I was just tired of the constant rules and regulations. Whatever it was, I wasn’t the same student I had been in previous years.

That final year came with a lot of pressure—projects, responsibilities, and countless exams. One of the school’s strictest rules was that every student had to own a textbook for core subjects like mathematics. Our teachers were very particular about this. Not having your textbook could easily get you punished.

Now here’s where things got messy for me. For some strange reason, I didn’t have the required mathematics textbook. I believe my parents gave me money to buy it, but somehow, the money vanished. I honestly can’t remember what I spent it on—maybe snacks, maybe something completely unnecessary. To this day, it’s a mystery. I just know I ended up without that textbook.

Because of that, I made it a habit to sit at the back of the class during mathematics lessons. I tried my best to stay unnoticed. I hated it when teachers made eye contact with me during lessons—it always felt like they were about to call my name to answer a difficult question. I dreaded it.

Then came the day that still lives rent-free in my memory.

Our Mathematics teacher, Mr. Alabi walked into the class with his usual calm but stern presence. He was an elderly man, the type who had probably heard every excuse in the book. After greeting us, he simply said, “Everyone, bring out your mathematics textbooks.” My heart dropped.

I quickly looked around and saw everyone reaching into their bags, pulling out their copies. I had nothing. I tried to act calm, but inside, I was panicking.

Mr. Alabi began moving around the class, checking desks one by one. When he got to mine and saw only my notes on my desk, he paused and asked, “Where is your textbook?”

Without thinking, I blurted out, “Sir, I forgot it in the hostel.”

He stared at me for a moment—clearly not buying it—then said, “Go and kneel down in the staffroom and wait for me there.”

The walk from the classroom to the staffroom felt like a walk of shame. I kept my head down, unable to look at anyone. When I got there and knelt, the questions started flying from different teachers. “What did you do?” “Why are you kneeling there?” I was too embarrassed to even respond.

Eventually, when classes ended, Mr. Alabi returned. To my surprise, he didn’t shout at me. Instead, he handed me a cutlass and told me to go and cut the grasses at the teachers’ car park. That was my punishment.

I missed several classes that day, and the embarrassment lingered for weeks. But it taught me a lesson I’ll never forget. That day, I made up my mind—I had to get that textbook no matter what. If I couldn’t, then there was no point attending Maths' class again.

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