Dormitory Drama 4- The Akara Treaty

Boarding house life had rules. Some were written and most were not.

Stealing somebody’s meat from the dining hall could earn you a few insults and maybe a chase around the hostel. Borrowing slippers without permission was annoying but usually forgivable.

However, there was one crime that stood above all others. Rushing Akara.

For those who never attended boarding school, let me explain.

Every now and then, St. Peter’s, like other boarding schools, would serve us Ogi and Akara for breakfast, pap and bean cakes, to the uninitiated. A simple meal and nothing extravagant. Yet the moment Akara appeared, ordinary students transformed into something else entirely.

The same boys who led morning devotion became professional food thieves. The same girls who sang beautifully in the choir suddenly developed the reflexes of trained martial artists. Akara brought out everyone’s true character. The dining hall operated a simple system. Each table seated sixteen students. One or two table leaders were responsible for serving the food fairly. Before anyone touched the meal, the food prefect would lead a prayer. Only after “Amen” was pronounced could eating begin.

That was the official rule. Reality, however, was very different.

The moment the bowl of Akara landed on the table, all sense of civilization disappeared. Hands came flying from every direction. Some students grabbed three, others grabbed five. The fastest could secure ten before the prayer ended. Meanwhile, slower students sat there staring at empty plates, wondering how they had managed to lose breakfast before breakfast officially started.

In boarding school, Akara taught an important lesson. Speed mattered.

On this particular morning, however, something unusual happened. The table leader happened to be my crush. I will not mention her name. Some information belongs in the national archives.

What matters is that she was serving our table that day. The afternoon before, she had quietly called me aside. Her voice was calm. “Guy, don’t rush the Akara tomorrow.” I looked confused. She continued. “I have a plan.” That was all. No explanation and no details. Just confidence.

I didn’t ask questions. When someone with access to the Akara says they have a plan, you simply trust the process.

The next morning arrived. The bowl of Akara was placed on our table. Immediately, tension filled the air. Everyone was watching it. The food prefect stood up. “Let us pray.” The usual suspects began preparing themselves. Bodies leaned forward, eyes locked onto the target. Fingers twitched and the prayer started.“Bless this food, O Lord…” The rushers were ready.

Then something happened. My crush calmly reached into the pockets of her skirt. From one pocket came a fork. From the other pocket came another fork. The dining hall had no idea what was about to happen. The first hand moved toward the bowl. Stab. The hand disappeared. Another hand approached from the left. Stab. Immediate retreat. A third volunteer tried his luck. Stab.

The operation ended before it began. She stood there like a trained security officer guarding a diplomatic convoy. Left. Right. Forward. Backward. Both forks moving with military precision. Students who had spent years successfully rushing Akara suddenly discovered they valued their fingers.

One by one, the attackers retreated. Some examined their bloody hands, others shook their heads in disbelief. Nobody wanted to become a casualty of breakfast. By the time the prayer ended, something remarkable had happened. The bowl remained untouched.

For the first time in recorded boarding school history, order had prevailed. The rushers slowly returned to their seats. Defeated, humbled and emotionally damaged. Then my crush began serving. Calmly, professionally and fairly. Four Akara each. No favoritism, corruption or missing inventory. Just justice. Well… almost no favoritism.

She gave herself three and gave me four. I considered it a diplomatic courtesy. A small token of appreciation between strategic partners. When everybody had received their share, we stood up and left the table. Not as students but as statesmen, architects of peace and signatories to what would later become known as The Akara Treaty.

Behind us, however, peace did not last. As we walked out of the dining hall, we noticed a commotion. Students were running, people were shouting and a crowd was forming. At the center of the chaos was Bosun, a boy sprinting across the compound with remarkable speed. He was being chased by what seemed like half the school.

At first, I couldn’t understand why. Then I saw what he was carrying. An entire bowl of Akara. Not one Akara or two. The entire bowl. While the rest of us had been fighting over pieces, this genius had decided to privatize the whole industry. He had not rushed the Akara. He had nationalized it.

Judging by the size of the crowd behind him, St. Peter’s was about to teach him a lesson in economic reform.

That, as they say, is a story for another day, because boarding school always had another drama waiting around the corner.