I’m making good on my promise to write a satirical story as stated in my earlier post, “What is he going to teach them?”
As a side note, this was inspired by my awesome Grandpa, Charles S. Ofori, and some of the words of the angel are directly quoted from him.
[Fa ma Nyame. Translation: Give it to God.]
Note: No deliberate sacrilege was intended by the author. She apologises if this post offends you or your beliefs.
Fa Ma Nyame Episode: Exams
‘Twas the night before exams, and Johnny, one’s typical, frequently-imagined kid with the unhealthy version of what one might call a Ghanaian mind-set, had not studied a bit. I would tell you what he had instead spent his time doing, but it makes no difference to his current situation, and is irrelevant to the sequence of this story. The point is that his unprepared, newly-barbered head was as empty as a freshly-washed calabash, drying upside-down on a rack.
In accordance with the unhealthy version of a Ghanaian mind-set, Johnny did not decided to pick up a textbook in an eleventh-hour attempt to cram some nonessential, but academically-required facts into his head. What he did decide to do, was give his situation to God. I implore you to stop reading for a few seconds so you may fully appreciate Johnny’s exemplary piousness.
Are you done? Okay, we may continue. Johnny boy fell to his knees and fervently prayed a simple prayer: that he would pass his exams. His heart finally at peace, he drifted off into an innocent sleep.
This sleep was one destined to be eventful, because an angel appeared to him in his dreams. He was clothed from head to toe in white, and Johnny, consciously asleep (yes, that was intentionally ironic), beheld his splendour.
“Boy,” said the angel, “I’m having problems delivering your message.”
“What message?” asked Johnny.
“Ah,” said the angel. “Aren’t you the one that said you wanted you to pass your exams?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“I just want to pass my exams. I don’t understand what you don’t understand.”
The angel sighed. “Of course you don’t. What I mean to say is: have you learnt?”
“Uhm…no?” It sounded like more of a question than a statement.
“So what at all are you asking for? Do you want God to make the teacher half-blind so he can see your wrongly-shaded answers as right? You want him to see A when you’ve shaded B?”
“Well no, but…”
“But what? Or you want him to develop dyslexia so that the letters on your essay rearrange themselves to make sense?”
“Actually, that’s not what I…”
“Or better yet, he should develop hand spasms while marking, eh? So that every time he’s about to put down a cross, his hand jerks to form a tick? Is that what you want?”
“No!” wailed, Johnny. “I just want to get the answers right!”
“That’s out of the question, seeing as you don’t KNOW the answers. Listen. Here you go.” The angel threw a big fat, glowing textbook in dream-Johnny’s face. “It’s a gift from the ‘heavenlies’ to you. Do yourself a favour and stop being ridiculous. Everyday ‘fa ma Nyame’ … e no go benefit you.”
(It is only then that he realised this angel might once have been a West African. But that is not important.) Johnny woke up, cried for a few hours, and then read the textbook. I can’t say he passed, though…