I was a Labadi Boy! It was a phrase quite popular in the 90s for pupils who lived in Labadi now La and attended any of the Burma Camp schools. It was a pejorative term. Labadi boys were bad or so we were believed to be. Anything and everything bad was blamed on a Labadi boy and admittedly majority of those things, quite had something to do with a Labadi boy. So bad it was that the only way for pupils to escape being beaten was to tell the teacher that I am a Labadi Boy and you would be left to go without being punished. All the teacher had to say was "That's why! It was a great strategy. Even those who lived in Burma Camp, East Legon, Achimota all appropriated this strategy. 

Yes I was a proud Labadi Boy but one teacher Mr Pupulampu had absolute faith in me.

It was a perfect plot. Confer on him a position of responsibility-the class prefect- in an attempt to keep the noisiest chap sober. Let him write the names of 'talkatives' in class in the hope that he won't talk in class; let him write the names of late comers, so that he will come to class a little earlier than he had been coming. That I suspect was the plan Mr Pupulampu had in mind when he made me the class prefect in the third and final year at Kotoka JHS in 1997. Such was the faith he had in me but I let him down.

I led the noise making industry in class and never once produced the names of the people i made the noise with. I had no late comers list to compile because I mostly sneaked my way into class minutes after class had begun.

In one of my noise making piece of enterprise in class, I, together with Isaac (surname withheld) painted our faces just like Bob Okala of blessed memory did at national theatre and treated our class mates to a pure class of rib cracking comedy. The comedy turned into betrayal then it became tragic.

The old feeble headmaster whose office was next to our noisy class stood by, watched us at an obscure corner for minutes. My mates saw him but neither myself nor Isaac did. We carried on with our jokes. My mates who few minutes earlier were laughing their intestines out had suddenly gone dumb. Some used their eyes in a desperate attempt to draw our attention to the fact that the head master was around and watching but we didn't get the signal until the headmaster made a quick dash into his office and returned to our classroom with a speed of light and a cane, as thin as a lath.

What happened next is something i want to forget in life but I only managed to forget the name of the headmaster and not the pain he inflicted on me and Isaac. I also felt somewhat betrayed because the class gave us away so easily.

I wanted a revenge with names of talkatives but my reign as class prefect lasted only for a while. Mr Pupulampu had given up the hope of turning me into the nice, quiet boy and quietly took away from me the position I didn't quite need at the time but wished I had when the class betrayed me.

Mr Pupulampu was my nicest teacher in form and substance. So too were Mr Nelson, Mr Boafo and Mr Agyemfra, even if the latter liked the ladies more.

I picked up and jealously held on to the values of truth and honesty in school but in the most bizarre circumstances.  

In class six there was a demand by our teacher, Miss Amanor to bring a broom and a duster to class. I forgot but with the help of the Cupboard boy, Kenneth, who was a good friend, a fellow 'Labadi boy' I got a broom and a duster. I presented them but in my presentation ceremony, Sophia burst forward with a claim, that the duster I was about to present was a duster she made herself and had presented already. Sophia described what she used in sowing the duster, the colour of the rags she used and the size of the foam. She was spot on with every detail and when the duster was split open it was the exact same things she said. I was caught pants down and my head lowered in shame. I was whipped before my mates in class, taken before my juniors and whipped there again. In my shame, I came to hate stealing because i could not bear the shame that came with being caught for stealing. Since then i became content with everything I didn't  have and the things I have I cherish them.

In 1995, I graduated from class six to JSS one and faced another test of honesty. I failed that one too. It was our inter-schools football competition at the primary level. I was in JSS 1 (JHS as we call it now). I was small and tiny and could easily pass for a primary pupil. I was one of my school's prima donnas in football and was pushed onto the field by my seniors. Few minutes onto the pitch and with just some few touches, Mr Nai, our Physical Education (PE) teacher appeared with a cane. He chased me on the pitch, covered every inch of grass and gave me lashes against cheating and planted in me a seed of honesty even in the most embarrassing spectacle.

It was a painful lesson well learnt. I am not a saint but I can say without any fear of contradiction that i am honest and hate cheating or being cheated. These are principles i picked from school and I have my teachers to thank for them. On a day to honour teachers worldwide, I will tell the stories of my encounters with my teachers and how those encounters shaped my life right from the primary level to the post graduate level. This is my experience at the Primary level. Watch out for the experiences at Accra Academy, Ghana Institute of Journalism and the School of Communications Studies.