Not Just Another Brick In The Wall

Mrs. Halima was a legend at Unity Senior High School in Lagos, but not for reasons she would have liked. By October, her Civic Education class had devolved into daily monologues about "the good old days" when "children knew their place." Her rants, long and circular, often veered into personal grievances about her landlord, her brother-in-law, and once, confusingly, the price of tomatoes in Mile 12 market.

Kunle had tried to be patient. He really tried. But he needed the Civic Education credit to sit for WAEC, and sitting through forty-five-minute tirades about her neighbor's noisy generator wasn't getting him any closer. After yet another wasted period, he tossed his backpack into the Keke Napep(Tricycle) he used for transport and let out a frustrated groan.

"That bad?" his mother asked when he reached home in Surulere.

"Worse," Kunle said. "We haven't even touched the topic of human rights. It's almost November."

That evening, they sat down with his father, pulled up the Lagos State Ministry of Education guidelines, and hashed out a plan. Kunle would complete the textbook readings, write essays for each topic, and schedule biweekly evaluations with the school counselor. His parents agreed to monitor his progress.

"If the school won't do their part," his father said, "we will."

Kunle broke the news to his friends, starting with Amina and Tobi. They were in. Then it spread to Chinedu, then Zara, then two more classmates from the back whom Kunle barely spoke to but who had clearly had enough.

By the next Monday, six students had officially applied for independent study. But that wasn't the end. Amina suggested they form a study group to keep each other accountable, meeting twice a week at the public library in Yaba.

The independent study grew. Quietly. Strategically.

Students who couldn't officially withdraw yet started showing up after school, doing extra assignments. Kunle made sure no one was loud about it. No WhatsApp broadcasts. Just steady, underground momentum.

Mrs. Halima didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she thought she was finally getting "the unserious ones" out of her hair.

Then came the breaking point.

It was a Tuesday. Mrs. Halima launched into a furious, twenty-minute diatribe about "girls these days with their nonsense wigs." Kunle exchanged a glance with Amina. She gave a tiny nod.

Kunle stood up. Amina stood up. Tobi, Chinedu, Zara, and then everyone else followed, chairs scraping sharply against the tiled floor.

Twenty-three students, backpacks slung over their shoulders, walked out without a word.

Mrs. Halima sputtered, but no one turned back.

Outside, under the almond trees by the school field, the group split up. Some headed for the principal's office, ready to explain. Others went to the library to work. There was no shouting, no grandstanding. Just a quiet exodus of kids who had decided their future was too important to waste.

The aftermath wasn't immediate. The principal tried to contain it, but it was too late. Parents called. Meetings were held. Mrs. Halima was reassigned to administrative duties. Within just a week, an interim teacher, Mr. Okonkwo, stepped in.
On his first day, he walked into the classroom with a calm, reassuring presence. He handed out a simple syllabus, smiled warmly at the students, and said, "Let’s learn together.

Kunle, Amina, and the rest slid back into their seats, jotters open, pens ready.

Respect had gone both ways now.

And it made all the difference.