Lapsus memoria is Latin. Memory lose is English. Either choice is my woe. Writ plain: there are few things that I can remember these days. Especially of my early school years. But I will not forget some things about my last elementary school named L.A. Primary School. In those days, no one bothered about
meaning of acronymn, L.A. We proudly beat our chests and announced to other pupils whose schools sounded a mouthful that we were children of L.A. And come to think of it , L.A. meant Local Authority, not Los Angeles—the real L.A. But let me try to recollect a few things about my L.A. :
One hot afternoon, a child, no a man—for he was 7 years older than his teacher—had drawn out a long machete to behead his class teacher who had offended him for some reason; Snakes were always traversing green fields (the school was sorrounded by a forest); We drank water from a poll of cool water which they say holds belly (God knows how many microorganisms that washed down our gullets); And town where this school was located was famous, for natives had chained Lander Brothers—Richard and John—two white explorers who had been there to trace tributary of River Niger to Atlantic Ocean. The chain—the only tourist attraction in town—was said to be on display in king's palace (I never got ot see it).
I am not about to write on The Pacification of Primitive Tribes of Lower Niger. Albert Chinalulumogu Achebe knew whiteman who contemplated it. I meant Chinua Achebe who wrote Things Fall Apart. Writers prefer shortened names—poetic nomenclatures, like my L.A. But before things start falling apart, let me mention one thing that I would not forget about that school—not an incident, but an innocent song.
It was at L.A. that I first learnt song about ten green bottles hanging on wall. That teacher—who nearly lost his head—taught us that song. When sun would be at its meridian, he would rouse us up—the slepping children—to sing and dance Ten Green Bottles Hanging on Wall. He was an accomplished singer and dancer himself, and we tried to outdo him as we wriggled our waists, sang ourselves hoarse, and drummed away at our desks—happy for only free opportunity to disturb peace.
One thing which none dared to ask, however, was why ten green bottles hanging on wall came tumbling to ground. Was it that they were not well fastened to wall, or was it that bottles would always fall, tie them as you may? We just supposed it to be their destiny and pitied them no small a pity.
But smiling teacher—he was always smiling—told us that it was a poem. And we presumed that strange things happen in poetry. Consider bizarre poem about three blind mice which ran after farmer's wife. Surprisingly, cruel mother—with no milk of human kindness in her breast—betook a carving knife and compounded their affliction by slicing off their tails! Questions: How did three blind mice find their way? Why were they following heels of farmer's wife? Never mind, it's poetry. . .
But I look at ten green botttles hanging on wall and look at them again. Methink it is not a poem, but an allegory about life. Men are green bottles, wall represents world, and ground on which they fall is grave—man's final destination. In this regard, every man—or woman or child—walking on face of this cursed earth, is an accident waiting waiting to happen. It could be in a space shuttle like Challenger (dead bodies turned to orbiting UFO's), or in a Russian submarine (entombed in frigid waters), or worse in a Chernobyl-style explosion (buried in a suspended grave).
