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The Flashback Of My Primary School Days!

When we saw the stick-bearing teacher
at the far end of the long street of our village,
we would run like deers scared by tigers
and jump down and lie in a manger.
But the eighth class passed owlish teacher
would come straight and lift us up
pulling our shirts, as we do a mouse by its tail.
One slap on the cheek was enough
to flap our wings to school.
With rancid groundnut oil dripping down
from our heads, we would go to school,
cleaned already by us before the dawn.
Our school was a safe haven for the teachers,
as the inspectors could visit
either by walking four kilometers
or by a jeep driving forty kilometers.
At interval, we would jump into a nearby well,
swim, sink down and come up with some soil,
in our folded palms, and hurry up to school,
when the teacher waved his stick,
standing on the top of the well and looking down.
A nice smile tip-toes on my lips recalling those mirthful days.

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