My Early Life

I am reliably informed that I was born at the zero hour of twelve midnight on 10th September, 1938, in the oil town of Oloibiri along humid creeks of the Niger Delta. My father was the headmaster of the only mission school there. Before I was old enough to know my surroundings, I was already in a city called Port-Harcourt where my father was again the headmaster of another mission school. This was in the early

forties.

Generally, I grew up with happy feelings like those of an aristocrat's son. With the prestige and influence of my father as a headmaster, a respected family background, and a very fair complexion, I was greatly admired by my people, both old and young. In fact, what I enjoyed most in my early memories was the streaming out of children, whenever I went to town, streaming D.O!! D.O!! This was because, during the colonial era, most district officers and administrator were the whites. Sometimes the clamour became unbearable; nevertheless I was fascinated.

The years rolled by, and I became more aware of the poor geographical environment into which I had been born. There were the destructive invasions of the annual floods, and the devastating erosions of the river banks. During the floods, which there always exceptionally high, what we enjoyed was the main streets of the town were flooded up the door steps of the houses.

During the floods, canoes had to be tied directly to the wooden pillars of the houses. I remember that eventually two main compounds including my father's had to evacuate to the southern extreme, for the main street and half the houses had been washed away. These harsh natural conditions made me ask my father. "Papa. supposing the river washes away where we are packing to, shall we leave the town?"

"No,: he said.

"Why?"

"Because these lands have been occupied by our ancestors long before the idea of using canoes, Isaac. Then, they used tree trunks to cross these great rivers and fought some of the most dreadful sea beasts and dragons. Our grandfathers kept the land, we keep it and you also will keep it," he answered.

"Papa, if I am not offending you....."

"No! You interest me, carry on," he said encouragingly.

"Then," I said, "is there no place better than this?"

He laughed and said: "There are. In fact, many. There area we occupy seems to be the worst at present, but it will be one of the best in future. That is why we are trying to educate all of you. Isaac, always remember that East or West home is the best."

I felt satisfied with his explanation and I left him to go about my own business. My business, of course, except in the evenings when I went for compulsory reading in the parlour, was playing about the school compound.

I had an early start at school so the transition from the elementary school to the college appears to me a long forgotten dream. One thing I highly flattered myself with in the elementary school was the fact that when examination results were announced at the end of the term, I was happy when I heard my name called out loudly as either second to the last of the passes or first of the failures. I remember also carrying my badly soiled exercise books with the remarks of the class teacher in red ink as either poor or very poor. I used to display them to friends with emphasis on the red ink. But some of my teachers did not find red inks funny: I became labelled as a never-do-well. Others said I would improve as I became more aware of myself. I think the latter were correct because I did not find any difficulty in obtaining the first First School Leaving Certificate which examination I passed with distinction. I also passed the West African School Certificate Examinations at Hussey College, Warri, in 1957. I produced the best school certificate result for the college in that year.

I returned to my father in flying colours to exhibit to him the golden fleece of the son he had been training. Fascinated with my result, he implored me to enter the teaching profession. What did that matter? What interested me was that I was going to be a pay-earning gentleman. Now I could dip a hand into my breast pocket and drag out a careless pound, rub it like Silas Manner, bluff for a minute or two, and send it swiftly down below into the lowest abyss of the pockets of my trousers.

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