The sun was just emerging beneath the morning mist as we drove into the gates of National Boasters School,Kaduna. The gravelled driveway was deserted,and the far-flung fields green and mowed. The building is old and rotten,cobwebs dark as coal knitting into camps of eggs. A choking filthy stench,stomach-churning,issuing from the half-opened windows.
Dressed in our khaki knickers and led by our Legal Aid Clinic president,we moved noisily in procession towards the central building,hosting the administrative structure of the school. We were greeted at the wide corridor by the Principal Instructor,who took time to lecture us on their ‘dos & donts’. After the welcoming lecture,we were taken round the dormitories that stood silently amidst tall trees. The rooms were no different from the other buildings,the painting worn out with sun,inscriptions of names,in ink and marks from candle flames,of past students everywhere,the common feature of most boarding schools .
The inquisitive that I was,I asked to be shown recreational facilities for the students,to which the bewildered instructor shake-d his head with a stifled smile. “No,we don’t have them here,”he said half smiling. “But we have football pitch….”
“Only football pitch!”,I exclaimed cutting him half way through his words. He smiled and continued down towards the dinning room where we met with other corps members to proceed to the Hall,the venue of the lecture.
The lecture was brief but engaging as we took turns to answer questions from the inmates,though we had been warn not to address them as ‘inmates’ but as students. It was during the Q & A session that a student asked a question that was to haunt me for days. The student asked of what to do if born to a prostitute and people used that to stigmatise against you. Of course,there was no direct answer to that question. But it provided a food for thought as we have many of such cases. We only attempted to offer what we thought would soften the boy.
Their problems varied and dimensional. My friend Umar could not help asking if they had any psychologist because most of the questions asked were psychological. Although we were convinced to believe there was one,we did not see any. And that was supposed to be a reformation centre for convicts less than 18 years of age and delinquents. For the rest of the day,I could help remembering their condition in those dirty dormitories.
Much as I dreaded their situations,I was turned between dreading their situations to believing their opulence compared to the Almajirai(s) roaming our streets in tattered clothes. I will gladly recommend that those almajirai be taken to such reformation centres and tamed. They are humans with equal rights to aspire to anything in life. But for now,let’s go to the rescue of those children fast ageing yet do not know where their lives are heading to.
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