Let me tell you something small before we go far. If you have an African mother, especially a Ghanaian one, you know they don’t joke with school. But they also don’t joke with embarrassing you in front of the whole school 😩.
It was a hot Thursday afternoon. The sun was shining like it had a personal vendetta against humanity. That was the day of our school's Parent-Teacher Meeting — the one I had prayed would be cancelled or postponed due to a sudden flood, earthquake, or even alien invasion. But God did not hear my cry that day 😭.
I was in JHS 2. My school, “Excellent Destiny Preparatory Academy,” was not big, but it was full of drama. The kind of school where the chalkboard had more cracks than the walls and the desks looked like they had survived three world wars.
Now, before I tell you what happened, you must understand something about my mother. She is the kind of woman who can shout at you across five houses. She’s always wearing her “kaba and slit,” her head tie as tall as the Eiffel Tower, and she doesn’t whisper — she broadcasts 🤯📢.
So when my teacher, Madam Linda, said every student must bring at least one parent, I started sweating instantly.
I told my mother in a low voice like, “Mummy, there’s a small school thing on Thursday. You don’t have to come. It’s not that serious.”
She stared at me with the same face she uses to scare mosquitoes. “So you want me to stay home so that other parents will go and say their children are doctors and my son is a 'class clown’?”
Chale, that was it.
Thursday came.
I woke up with a stomach ache — the one that is caused by fear, not food poisoning. I walked slowly to school like a goat going for a haircut.
We were all seated in the classroom. Some parents had come nicely dressed, holding small notepads and even pens like they were going for UN meetings. My mother entered like a movie star. Kaba and slit matching perfectly, scarf on her head like a crown, and her handbag swinging like it was carrying secrets from 1999 👑.
Some students whispered, “Ei, who is that? She looks strict!”
I slowly melted into my chair.
The teachers started the meeting. They spoke well. Talked about our performance, how the chalk was finishing too fast, and how some students had become part-time comedians in class (I didn’t mention names, but they were looking at me 😐).
Then came the moment of doom.
Madam Linda said, “We will now call the students one by one, and their teachers will speak to the parents about their academic and general behaviour.”
Ah.
They started calling names. Kwame, perfect boy. Sarah, excellent girl. Kojo, future president. Then...
“Emmanuel!”
My soul left my body. That’s me.
I walked slowly to the front like a man on his way to collect his last warning letter.
My mother came too, adjusting her scarf. “Yes, that’s my son,” she said proudly, as if I had just won a Grammy award 🏆.
Madam Linda looked at my mother, smiled, then said, “Your son is very... active in class.”
Ah. Active? What does that mean? My mother smiled, confused. “Active? Like how?”
Madam Linda continued, “He’s funny, he likes talking… sometimes too much. He tells jokes in class and sometimes distracts others. But he’s very intelligent when he focuses.”
My mother smiled and nodded. “Hmm. So he’s the class clown?”
Ah. That was not what the teacher said! But before I could defend myself, my mother’s volume went up like a broken radio.
“EMMANUEL, IS IT ME YOU’RE DISGRACING IN THIS SCHOOL? So while people are solving maths, you are cracking jokes? You think you’re funny? You think you’re Kwame Despite’s personal comedian?”
Everybody was watching.
Some students were giggling. One boy at the back even said, “Stand-up comedy loading.”
The teacher tried to calm her down, “Oh please, madam, he’s not bad. He just needs to channel his energy.”
My mother responded, “Channel it to where? To jail? This is how armed robbers start!”
Now, at this point, I just wanted the ground to open and swallow me like a meat pie. But no. She continued.
She turned to me and said, “Today when we get home, your father will hear this. I’m tired! I should’ve given birth to a calculator instead!”
Madam Linda was now smiling awkwardly. Other parents were pretending to cough to hide their laughter.
Then my mother switched to Twi. You know it’s serious when they change language 😬.
“Emmanuel, s3 woy3 obodamfo a, mema wo hwee! School no yɛ me sika na wobɛyɛ joke! Tweaa!”
I don’t remember what happened for the next 5 minutes. I think I left my body spiritually and went to sit on the ceiling.
When we got home, I tried to explain. “Mummy, I was just making small jokes to make the class fun.”
She stared at me. “Is it funeral house? Why should school be fun?”
From that day, I stopped telling jokes in class. I became as quiet as a broken trumpet. Even when the teacher cracked a joke, I didn’t laugh. I just stared into the distance like a sad orphan.
But wait — the story didn’t end there.
The next week, the headmaster called for me. I thought, “Oh no, maybe Madam Linda reported me again.”
But he said, “Emmanuel, I heard what happened at the meeting. It’s true you talk a lot, but you’re creative. We want you to write and perform a comedy skit for the school’s end-of-term event.”
I was shocked 😲.
From disgrace to performance? Just like that?
I went home that day and told my mother.
She said, “You? Comedy? In school? Hmm. Are they sure?”
I said yes. And guess what? She came to watch.
She sat in the front row with her big handbag and her judging eyes. I did my comedy skit. People laughed. Even the teachers laughed. Even my mother laughed!
After the show, she stood up and clapped. “That’s my son!” she shouted.
The same woman who nearly killed me last week was now acting like my number-one fan 😆.
Later that day, she told me, “You’re still annoying, but you made people laugh. Maybe God gave you that gift. Just use it well.”
And from that day, my mother stopped shouting too much when I told jokes. She still warned me though: “If your jokes affect your grades, I’ll come back with cane.”
So now, I balance it.
One hand on my books 📚, one hand on the mic 🎤.
THE END
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