There are two words that conjure up spite; clearance and
inspection. I really harbor a great dislike for them−more than a man of God would
do to satan. I would preach to a congregation against the two with
extraordinary vigor everywhere; it the streets, in buses, at rallies (political
ones) and launch a door to door campaign against them. That’s the extent of my
hatred. I know it’s not natural.
On numerous occasions
I have had to contend the torment needlessly dished out by the two words. Way back
after I had gained the conscience to know right and wrong, mummy would always
inspect our hands before every meal. I never welcomed the idea of going back to
wash my hands when my siblings were already on the table eating. Being a kid
everything is competition. We competed eating, attention from our mothers and anything
that attracted rebuke and perhaps a few canes really hurt.
Then the dreaded moment hurled me against a rock, the day I started
school. There was nothing to behold in school except the tales of pupils being
caned regularly by teachers on flimsy reasons. Every day we assembled and the
teacher on duty would go round inspecting. At times they would order everybody
to remove their pullovers. It was never good news when one fell on the wrong
side of the purpose that necessitated the inspection. Woe to you if the news
reached you parents. That would be double tragedy.
The search for quality education led me into a boarding
school. I never understood it then. It was a sign of prestige to me. I had won
the bragging rights indefinitely. I didnt didn’t what would follow. Every Saturday
we cleaned everything and brought our metallic boxes out. The boarding master−a mean
looking man−would go round rummaging through our scanty belongings. I knew what
he was looking for but now it bears little meaning to me. He hated me. He thought
I was another good for nothing lad. That was enough a reason to find something
amiss in my belongings. He would flog me mercilessly.
At that time it was illegal (by virtue of school rules) to have
any money. The boarding master kept for us. He bought us what we needed. May be
it was the reason he ransacked everybody’s box during those inspections. He didn’t
want anybody who would jeopardize his work. I hear he left the school without a
car. I thought he operated a completion free business that never even got near
the taxman’s noose. He found a few coins in one of those inspections and the
memory of what transpired always befuddles me. It one of the stories I have
reserved for my kids just to emphasise
how we had it rough while growing up like our parents make us believe.
As time sped, I had to leave school after clearing it. Records were
dusted after several years of peaceful sleep. I had the privilege of being
shown books I never held or even saw because records spoke rather eloquently
that I had at one time owned them. On such and such a day I signed for this and
its place has been empty since that day. The school suddenly became a creditor,
I owed it so much. Is that not enough a reason to hate clearance.
The two terms allude to authority. I realized that humans bestowed
the chance to find flaws in others will never cease pointing them out. To them
they are almost god like. They unleash their frustrations on us; may be their
marriage is on the rocks or they have a weakness that to soothe themselves they
look down upon us with so much vehemence. I silently bore the brunt of their wounded
egos.
The very steps I have made
in life since all those events haven’t tainted the very feeling inspection
ignited. Sometimes I shudder when I am told I have to through an inspection. Though
am sure I don’t have anything unwanted, I still am not sure of myself. There has
that feeling that the person in charge shall decide to find something wrong and
as far as authority is concerned you are not going far. I try as much as
possible to live a life that shall not attract the processes, knowing too well
that I might encounter them someday at a corner I least expect. For that I must
be prepared.
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