01/04/2026
THE FLICKER OF EXCELLENCE, TALES FROM A SCHOOL IN THE VILLAGE EPISODE 2...
Mbom was a man who could spill the beans without even realizing he had opened the pot. He narrated secrets the way a radio plays music—loudly, freely, and without checking who had tuned in. Asking him to “keep it between us” was like asking the ocean to respect a teacup; before you blinked, the whole village had a full briefing, complete with footnotes and unnecessary emphasis.
In fact, Mbom didn’t gossip—he broadcasted. If secrets were water, he was a municipal pipe with permanent leakage, generously supplying the public without billing anyone. And strangely enough, people never complained; his updates were simply too entertaining to miss.
It was this very “gift” that elevated him into a trusted confidant—and quite conveniently, the unofficial loudspeaker—of a rather unstable regime that lived in constant fear of the unknown. While others whispered like conspirators in a movie, Mbom spoke like a town crier with a megaphone. The regime, forever anxious and suspicious, leaned on him heavily; after all, why build a surveillance system when Mbom could unintentionally provide both raw data and commentary, free of charge and sometimes with jokes?
But Mbom was not just a broadcaster—he was also a fisherman of words. He had mastered the art of hearing what people had to say about the bad-taste regime. He would throw a rumor—usually one we all already knew—like bait into a crowded pond, then stand back with the patience of a crocodile watching goats at a riverbank. Naturally, people would bite, adding their own seasoning, unaware they were marinating themselves.
However, TA and I were not ordinary fish. We had studied Mbom like a complicated syllabus—revised him, analyzed him, and past-papersed him thoroughly. By the time he approached, we could decode his intentions from a distance.
When he appeared in the institution’s labeled shirt, walking with that slightly exaggerated official swagger, we knew—this one had come loaded. He wasn’t here to ask questions; he was here to recycle answers. That version of Mbom was like a returning exam paper—you might hear your own words, but now they carried consequences.
When he wore a lab coat, ah, that was a dangerous day. The saw did not spare—it cut in both directions. Conversations under that coat became surgical procedures without anesthesia. By the time he left, you were unsure whether you had exposed the regime, exposed yourself, or accidentally signed a confession letter in invisible ink.
We became most cautious when he wore his usual navy blue T-shirt with a yellow stripe across the chest. That was his so-called “casual mode,” but ironically, it was the most suspicious of them all. It meant he was relaxed enough to dig deeper and careless enough to leak faster.
Worst of all were the early mornings when he appeared freshly woken—dressed in his legendary combination of blue track pant and an ancient T-shirt labeled Army that looked like it had survived multiple governments. That Mbom was a wild card. His mind had not yet chosen a direction, so he collected information and distributed it at the same time, like a confused courier delivering and picking parcels simultaneously.
And yet, beyond all this, Mbom possessed another skill—one so refined it bordered on sorcery. He could distract a crowd with the elegance of a street magician while quietly rewriting reality behind the curtain. He could make people sit and stare intensely at a single bottle of milk placed on a table beside a wall scribbled with the tired handwriting of history—old notes, faded warnings, and the ghosts of conversations past—while, in truth, the real treasure lay hidden elsewhere. Somewhere in the “armoury”—a grand name for what was essentially an old box that once housed the school TV a decade ago, a television that had mysteriously grown legs and walked into legend—there would sit a full bucket of milk, safe, silent, and unbothered.
If not there, then perhaps in that stuffy hovel of an office, where air moved with permission and light entered like a visitor on appointment. One had to navigate a narrow path, squeezing past forgotten chairs and reluctant cobwebs, to reach a stubborn drawer that guarded games kits and an “executive kit” so neglected it wore spider webs like ceremonial robes. And there, hidden in plain inconvenience, Mbom’s secrets would rest comfortably, untouched by curious eyes too busy admiring the obvious.
This was not mere trickery—it was practiced illusion. Mbom had mastered misdirection the way ancient men mastered fire.
They say, “Show me your friends and I will tell you your character.” But to Mbom, that proverb was backward. He believed, “Show me your behavior first, and I will tell you your friends.” And living by that reversed wisdom, he had chosen—or perhaps attracted—his perfect counterpart.
Akandege Akaburrrr.
Akandege was a man of presence—part mystery, part menace, and part comedy. He had the peculiar habit of licking his lower inner lip repeatedly, as if trying to taste forgotten memories, each motion revealing an old scar that told stories nobody dared to ask about. When he spoke, he didn’t just give opinions—he delivered verdicts. “Baaas!” he would declare, like a judge who had already decided the case before hearing it then finalize with "Aaah waaaah"
To Mbom, Akandege was not just a friend; he was an opinion leader, a compass, and occasionally, a co-conspirator. Together, they were a dynamic duo—the kind that could organize confusion, manufacture evidence, and if rumors are to be believed, plant o***m on you and still convince you to thank them for the experience.
In their presence, truth was flexible, perception was negotiable, and silence was often the safest contribution. And so, while the regime feared the unknown, and we feared Mbom alone, there existed an even greater force—Mbom and Akandege together: a partnership where one asked the questions, the other confirmed the answers, and somehow, both already knew what you were going to say before you said it.
