Many of us resort to breaking the proverbial bank in a bid to give our children the finest education possible, and so we should. As loving parents we naturally want the best for them. Our desire is that they fulfil their potential by becoming the best they can be. We want them to excel academically, get the best jobs, establish the most successful companies, shine in their professions, be elected governors or even president. And why not? But is that where it should end? Is that all it should be about? If all of our children without exception pass out of secondary school with straight “As” and graduate from university with 1st class degrees is that enough to guarantee a bright and prosperous future for our dear nation? Or is our attitude, “to hell with the nation, let my child just make it”.
At my boarding school, just as it was at any typical British public school, (what we call private school) team sports was played four or five days a week; whether it was rugby, football, hockey, cricket, rowing or others. These took the form of training sessions and mock matches for those who played for the school teams. Each term of the year had its predominant sport where the school teams had their calendar of inter school matches laid out and firmly fixed before the term even began. So we knew which teams we would play and when. If I remember correctly, we played seventeen inter school matches during my last rugby term. That was over a three month term. These matches took place either on a Wednesday or a Saturday and sometimes both. So you can deduce from this just how much of an integral part of school life sports was. Especially team sports. There was always far more emphasis on team sports than individual disciplines. And there’s reason for this.
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The only days we weren’t compelled to play was on Sundays and one other day of the week when we had to participate in other equally important activities. At my school we had three activities to choose from and most schools had the same three, pretty much. One was the Combined Cadet Force (CCF), a second was Outward Bound and the third was Social Services. CCF was essentially military training which inculcated discipline, a spirit of service and a sense of patriotism. Of course we wore the full uniform. Outward Bound, as one site puts it, “is a non-profit, independent experiential learning organization, serving schools in 33 countries. Outward Bound programs aim to foster the personal growth and social skills of participants by using challenging expeditions in the outdoors.” Another says, the “successful completion of your course demands trust, mastery of skills, fitness, confidence, tenacity, leadership, initiative and compassion. The promotion of these qualities, and the discovery of what’s in you, is the purpose of Outward Bound.” I couldn’t have put it better myself. Social Services on the other hand was an entirely different exercise which called for some slightly different qualities. Participants would visit old people at their homes to assist them in whichever way was required. Chores could vary from cleaning up their home and generally helping around the house to carrying out their weekly shopping for them. Heck, at times it may be to just accompany them on a walk while having a friendly chat. Remember, their culture is so different to ours. Many of these elderly people live on their own without the support system, extended family which we take for granted, provides. Many may not have seen their siblings for years, not to talk of cousins and so on. With this in mind you may now begin to understand why the weekly visits to them by those involved in the Social Services activity was something these aged folks often looked forward to. This noble activity, much like the other two, instilled a gentle spirit to serve, compassion and two essential sister virtues required of a good leader, patience and tolerance. Of course, not all of these elderly people were sweet and cuddly. Some were as grouchy as they come.
On an Outward Bound camping trip to Dartmoor, known for its vast expanse of heathland and frighteningly strong winds, in just one day we went through three climatic changes. Lovely sunny weather as we trekked through its national park famously inhabited by the Dartmoor wild deer; dreary weather with grey clouds, heavy winds and pelting down rain as we marched with trepidation across the notoriously uneven heathland, careful not to break an ankle, literally in the middle of nowhere. This must have been 1984 or 1985, so long before the advent of mobile phones. If you injured yourself there, for want of a better term, you were screwed. Each group was made up of four fifteen or sixteen year old boys. No masters (teachers). With only our compass and maps to guide us to our rendezvous. The only time we spent with the two masters who accompanied us on the trip was from each evening, at our agreed meeting points, till early the next morning, when we set off from camp. Anyway, by evening and stretching through the night, we endured the merciless battering of relentless, gusty and howling winds coupled with snow blizzards, as we struggled to keep our flimsy tents pinned to the ground. Till this day, I remember so vividly how I felt each seemingly endless night, as we soldiered through this gruelling experience. “What am I doing here? What I would do to be back at school, on my bed and snuggled up under the duvet? Never will I complain about my school bed or school food again.”
“What and how did we eat?” I hear you ask. Mostly specially dried up food army style; add water and heat it up and before long it transforms into something akin to real food. Each person prepared his meal by himself using a camping stove.
With not even the slightest pang of shame, I recall getting half way up a very steep and jagged hill in freezing cold weather, with a very heavy ruck sack on my back and insisting I wasn’t going to take another step. Abi what is it?? Me! Black man! Hill! Or was it mountain? All the same to me. You know the type where you need to use both hand and feet to climb. I was petrified!! This was so far removed from my idea of fun. Regardless of the number of years I spent in the UK and the incontrovertible fact that those were indeed my formative years, other than the colour of my skin which I saw everyday, there was something else which always reminded me that I wasn’t white; I could never quite understand some of the crazy things a typical oyibo person called fun. If an activity is found to be devoid of any element of danger, it didn’t excite them. Mountain climbing. Kaya-king. Bungee jumping. Kilode? “What sort of thing is that?” When you’re not cursed from the village to be pursuing danger “every time”.
To be continued…
DAPO AKANDE
