Imagine you are a teacher. You walk into a classroom with Kane and you walk out without your dignity. That was the reality of Miss Florence. And this is a story where wickedness finally meets its match. So sit tight, grab your chinchin, and let’s dive right into this interesting, humorous story. Some time ago, there was a popular government secondary school in Yanedu.
It didn’t look like trouble from outside. The walls were cream colored, a bit faded, but clean. The gate was wide open because the school believed in free movement. The school compound was sandy and it was swept every morning by tired junior students with grass brooms. There were a few trees along the entrance of the school lined up like bodyguards and also the sign board at the front of the gate that read Government Secondary School Yanedu. Knowledge is power.
But inside those walls, knowledge wasn’t the only thing with power. In fact, the almighty Miss Florence Aan was the main power all on her own. She taught civic education. But don’t let that deceive you. Miss Flores was not here to teach the children about good citizenship. She was here to collect her money and command fear with all the wickedness and ruthlessness she could summon.
She was petite in size but very heavy and doineering in presence. She wore tight dresses as if she was going for and her shoes announced her presence even before she entered the block. Every morning she was strut in like the minister of wickedness. high heels shouting koi koi on the corridor tiles like warning bells with her civic education textbook under one arm like it was the holy bible.
Her cane was long black and always by her side like a best friend. Her eyes were sharp and her eyeliner was even sharper. If you stare too long e it could slice your confidence into pieces. Most teachers greeted the students with, “Good morning. How do you do today?” But Miss Florence greeted them with, “Where is your textbook?” She didn’t use the school’s recommended civic book or mm- no.
She had printed her own private version complete with grammar errors and nonsense diagrams and was selling it for 1,500 naira each. The government had said textbooks were not compulsory especially in government schools where not all the students could afford them. But Miss Florence Nightingale no Gree because she had one private press in Sureri printing her personal civic textbook and she was making 15 per student like it was her side hustle.
Joel the class clown once calculated and whispered if she gets 300 students eh that means 450k per term. Uh-uh. Mama know the playo. But unfortunately he said it too loudly and she heard it. That day he received five strokes of king and a new seat at the back row. Listen up you brats. If you don’t buy my textbook, she would shout.
pointing her cane like she was casting out demons. Forget about passing CO because you will repeat this class. Share me. Most of his students bought it out of fear. Some tried to borrow. Others prayed for miracle. Every week she would write textbook defaulters on the board and one by one line up her victims like a communion line.
She would then flog, insult and threaten them all for one five. Miss Florence was a terror. Even SS3 students feared her shadow. One Monday morning after the assembly as the S1 students had just settled into the usual wala of the day. There was no teacher in the class yet. Everyone was kind of rowdy. Some were fighting over chair.
Another person was selling pen from his locker and the class prefect was already shouting on top of her voice trying to coordinate everybody. Then she came quietly just after the morning bell. Her name was Kosara. She didn’t rush. She didn’t even look around. She just matched straight to the back seat. Her uniform was the same as everyone else’s.
white shirt and teal green skirt. But on her body, the uniform looks like it had survived war. The skirt was slightly big and her sandals had clearly walked the journey of life. In her hand was a transparent nylon bag and inside it was one 60 leaves notebook, a bro and absolutely no textbook. She was tall, dark and quiet.
Her face was calm, but it carried weight. The kind of weight you see in people who have carried so many things in silence. When she walked into the class and said softly, “Good morning.” A few students replied, “Good morning, Ma.” “Yes, Ma.” Because even though she wore the same uniform, she didn’t look like their mates.
She looked way older, more grown and more grounded, like someone who had lived 10 lives and finally just wanted to sit down in peace. One boy whispered, “Who is this auntie that they registered in just one?” Another girl near the window giggled, “Or is she the one going to teach us today?” But Kasara didn’t answer anybody. She didn’t smile.
She just walked straight to the back of the class, found an empty bench, and sat down and brought out her notebook, minding her business. She didn’t talk too much, and she definitely didn’t try to make any friends. Before long, G started spreading across the just one block. Her name spread fast. Kosara, a 25year-old woman in Juan.
She had been a housemaid since she was 10. So she had been passed from one madame to another by puff puff at a wedding ceremony. None of them ever sent her to school till this one house finally pied her and registered her in a government school. But all these were gossip. No one dared to say it to her face.
She didn’t look like someone who would argue or gossip. She just looked like someone who knew what she came for and meant business. And so she stayed at the back of the class watching and observing. The week crawled into Thursday and that was the deadline Miss Florence had given for textbook payments. If by Thursday you don’t show me your textbook, just prepare your back.
I’m not even playing. No. By 7:30 a.m. that morning, she had arrived in school as usual in one tight red gown that held all her flesh together. Her wig sat like a crown on her head, excessively bobbed, and her lashes stretched out like she wanted to fly away from house bills. But behind all the shakara was her true weapon, a long dark cane that had crashed more dreams than WK results.
When she entered their swami, the atmosphere changed. Even those who had test book still adjusted their posture. Some quickly brought out their receipt and began finding themselves with it like it was ID card. You could definitely taste the tension in the air. Miss Florence walked in slowly, tapping her cane against the blackboard like she was tuning a radio station.
Then she turned around, smiled, the kind of smile that spelled, “You guys are in for a treat.” And with bold strokes, she wrote on the board, “Text book defaulters.” It looked like a Nollywood movie title. She returned to the class with her eyes scanning everywhere like a barode. You know yourselves. Oh yeah, stand up.
So one by one they stood up, trembling like onions in hot oil. Some of them had excuses. One boy said his elder brother was bringing it that afternoon. Another one swore his own got missing during the morning devotion. Even a girl tried to show her anti civic test from 2005. But Miss Florence wasn’t here for stories.
She called names like a nightclub bouncer reading VIP list. Joel, Messi, Ibraim, Peace. That new auntie at the back. What’s your name again? Co. What? Cosama. The girl said quietly. Miss Florence rolled her eyes. All of you come outside here and kneel down. See, if your spirit is weak, you better go and drink water because after flogging you today, eh, you will forget your name. Then the flogging began.
Three strokes here, four strokes there. Students flinched, some screamed. A few hissed through their teeth. One boy tried to dodge and got double for being slippery. But when he got to Kasara’s turn, he was different. She stood slowly brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. Her face didn’t change.
She wasn’t afraid. She didn’t even feel tension. She just exuded that same quiet, tired, calm energy. She walked to the front and knelt down without being told. And then she waited. Miss Florence paused for a second, somehow taken her back by her composure. Then she asked, “Are you deaf?” No, ma.
Kosara replied with a soft voice. So where is your textbook? I don’t have. There was silence. Miss Florence narrowed her eyes. So you just came to waste space in my class. Abby, you think this is Maput’s joint? You will explain to my king. And with that, the first stroke landed hard at her back. Ah, Kara didn’t move nor flinch. She just remained still.
and kept her eyes forward like a soldier on parade. Miss Florence blinked and then she tried again. Still no reaction and by the fifth stroke some students had stopped watching while others were watching more intensely. One girl near the window whispered, “Wait, is she not even feeling all that stroke?” By the 10th stroke, the class was quiet.
Even the first class noise makers were now watching with full attention like it was DSTV premium. Miss Florence at this point was almost losing it. You think you’re tough, Abby? You’re doing stronger for me. After flogging you today, eh, you will know. Kasara then raised her head up and looked Miss Florence straight into her eyes and said calmly, “I’ve seen worse.
” Ah, you see that reply? air. He did it. Miss Florence lost whatever patience she had left. She began flogging Corsara like a generator on full choke. She wasn’t even counting anymore. 11 12 13 She flung her whole body into it. Her arms were swinging and her cane was dancing. But Kosara stayed still.
She remained silent and grounded. By the 20th stroke, Miss Flor’s breathing had changed. Sweat gathered at her hairline and her wig had shifted to one side. Her hands were now shaking and was beginning to pain her. And yet, no shaking from Kasara. I mean, no crying, no screaming, just stillness and endurance.
At that moment, the power dynamic in the room felt like it had shifted. And even Miss Florence seemed to have sensed it. She dropped the cane slowly adjusted her wig and hissed like a disappointed lioness. Just stand up and go back to your seat before I break my cane on your back, stupid girl. Kasara stood without a word, dusted her knees, and walked back to her seat.
She didn’t even limp or look at anyone. She just sat down and began to copy notes she borrowed from a classmate. But everybody knew, including Miss Florence, that was not the end. The next morning came like a trap that had been laid by time itself. As the sun rose gently, Miss Kosara entered the school compound with fresh wickedness pumping through her veins.
Her red lipstick looked like it was applied with vengeance. And her gown today was even tighter than yesterday. A yellow gown that clung to her like an apology. She strutted past the staff room without greeting anybody. Her heels was announcing her rage. Coin coin. She was ready. That foolish girl, the one who embarrassed her by not reacting, she would teach her today. What nonsense.
20 strokes and not even one hour. If not for these school rules, eh, I would have used plank. Eh, yes. Let’s see if she used to. The truth is her hand was still pinninging her from the previous day, but anger had numbed it. She was coming for Gossara and this time it would be personal. B.
The classroom door slammed open. Juani fell silent. Everyone had seen the look on Miss Florence’s face. She wasn’t here to teach Civic. She was here to make noise with Kane. She walked in like thunder and shouted, “Everybody stand up.” They all obeyed and stood up. She turned her eyes towards the back seat. “Kossara.” Kosara stood slowly and calmly like she was expecting it.
She then adjusted her uniform and moved to the front of the class and stood still. looking straight at Miss Florence eyes. “Where is your textbook?” she asked. “I don’t have Miss Florence lifted her cane with a dramatic swing, aiming for her shoulder. But just as he was about to land, Kasara caught it midair, clean and sharp with one hand.
” The whole class, “Ah!” One boy near the window shouted, “Jesus!” But Casara didn’t flinch and her eyes didn’t shift from Miss Florence. She gripped the cane tightly and firmly like iron rod. And then without a word, she pulled it out of Miss Florence hand. And in one move, she turned the cane around and gave Miss Florence one hot slap on her face. Toy. Then another one to.
And then she started landing strokes and strokes of cane on the teacher’s back and began to sing a new song like twa. Miss Florence staggered back as her hands danced around like broken fan. She couldn’t believe it. The students too couldn’t believe it. Then after that something wild happened. The classroom erupted. One girl screamed.
Auntie D don’t turn. Oh. Ha. She has finally vexed. Another boy jumped from his chair. Give me space. Please let me land my own slap. No, it’s my turn. She flogged me last week because of test book. Another added, chaos broke loose. Students rushed forward. Even the quiet ones, the backbenchers, the textbook defaulters, and everyone joined in like they were possessed.
They pushed, kicked, and slapped. It was like 10 years of pain had exploded in one second. Miss Florence was swallowed in a sea of tiny fists and loud revenge. Her wig flew across the room and landed near the doors bin. One earring was missing. Her yellow gown was no longer centered. It had shifted to one side as one button had popped open.
Her shoes came off and was nowhere to be found. “Yay! Yay! Please, oh, please!” she cried, trying to cover her chest. But Juan wasn’t hearing English that day. Someone shouted, “Today is the day the Lord has made, and it is marvelous in our eyes.” Another one yelled, “If you flog me, I flog you.” Simple mathematics. From outside, it sounded like a riot.
Chairs were lifted and desks shook. Barrows flew up and down. The entire J Swan block vibrated like generator on overload. Finally, the noise attracted attention. Two male teachers ran in and when they entered they froze. Miss Florence was on the floor wigless, breathless and speechless. Her face was white and her mouth was open.
Her gown had slanted to one side. One leg of her shoe was missing. Kosara stood in front holding the cane like she was waiting for round two. But the fire in her eyes had faded. Now her eyes had returned to the quiet they were used to. “Jesus Christ,” one teacher muttered. They then rushed forward and dragged Miss Florence away like a 50 kg bag of rice.
Students stepped back, panting, sweating, and very proud of themselves. The entire school was still buzzing from the war that broke out in J Swam B. Some called it a riot. Others said it was deliverance. But one thing was sure, the cane had changed hands, and now it was judgment day. Inside the principal’s office, tension hung like old cobweb.
Miss Florence sat on one side with her arms folded across her chest and her lips pressed tightly. Her face was still swollen with pride and leftover bruises from the beatings. Her wig was back in place, but her dignity was missing. She adjusted her black gown, cleared her throat, and snapped.
“Principal Ma, I want this girl suspended. She beat me like a criminal. What nonsense! What rubbish!” Her voice rang out loud enough for two teachers at the corner to pause and join the listening party. At the end of it all sat Principal Ieti, a firm, fair, and unbothered woman. She wore a simple and car blouse with her glasses sitting low on her nose and a face that had survived over 20 years of student drama. But this one, this one was new.
She didn’t shout and she didn’t interrupt anybody. She was just listening quietly and carefully. After listening to Miss Florence, she quietly asked, “Miss Florence, how many times have I warned you about this your private textbook hustle?” Miss Florence blinked and stammered, “Ma, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Don’t mar me.
Did the ministry not send secular? Did we not have a full staff meeting where I said textbooks are not compulsory? But ma it’s civic. They can’t pass civic without they can’t pass civic or they can’t pass your civic. The principal caught him. Calm but deadly. Because what you’ve been doing is business and not teaching.
Miss Florence was breathing fast now. She adjusted her wig again, feeling so embarrassed. Principali turned to the other side where Kosara sat calmly with too much composure. She had a nylon bag on her lap and her eyes fixed straight like someone used to explaining herself to people who already did not care. The principal leaned forward and asked, “You, Kosara, why did you retaliate? You should have come to me.
Why didn’t you report it instead of turning my classroom into WWE? Osara paused for a moment. Her voice was soft and then she began. She’s been flogging me every day. Ma since I said I couldn’t buy her textbook. She flogged me so much some students even began to count. On Thursday she gave me 20 strokes and I didn’t flinch.
On Friday, she tried again and that was when I snapped. So why didn’t you report? Beating a teacher is a serious offense. Do you know that? The principal said, I know, ma, but it’s because I’ve reported many things before, ma. The principal’s eyes narrowed. And Kosara raised her head slowly and continued. Nobody listened to me, ma.
When I was passed from one house to another as a maid, I spoke. When my madames beat me, I reported. When their children slapped me, I told neighbors, but they all sided them. They always did. They said I was stubborn and that I talk too much. And so I stopped talking. I learned how to bear my pain and mind my business.
But this one, this one was too much for me. everyday flogging, insults, threats just because I don’t have 1,500 naira. That is why I snapped. Ma h the principal was tired at this point. Kosara’s words carried so much weight. She then sighed and leaned back in her chair. For a moment, she just looked at Kosara with so much understanding.
Then she glanced at Miss Florence, who was now holding her chin like he would keep her pride from falling to the floor. “Florence,” the principal said slowly. “You broke the school rule, the government’s rule. You provoked that girl for weeks and now it has turned to this. I warned you over and over, but you allowed money to blind you.
This is not a market. It’s a school for crying out loud. Miss Florence tried to speak, but the principal raised her hand. I’m not suspending anybody. Not today. And then she turned to Kasara. You You should have come to me, but I hear you and I understand. Don’t do that again. Your punishment is that it’s on you now to make sure that something like this doesn’t repeat itself again.
Coordinate your fellow classmates and if any teacher goes against the rules, come straight to me. You have free access to enter my office at any time. Understood. Yes, ma. Thank you very much, ma. I apologize for my behavior and I will take this duty you have given me very seriously, Kosara said, bowing her head. Good, the principal said as she picked up her file and declared, “Case dismissed. Both of you may go.
” Osara stood up, picked up her nylon bag, and walked out quietly with her dignity intact. Miss Florence remained seated as if her body hadn’t received the message. And in that moment, she realized what had just happened. She had gone to court expecting justice. And even though she got it, it wasn’t the kind she hoped for.
The next day, Miss Florence came to school early, not for battle this time, but for exits. She didn’t wear high heels, nor tight dresses. She just wore a plain black gown, soft flat shoes, and a scarf tied neatly over her head like someone going for naming ceremony in church. She didn’t speak to anyone, not even her sick partner in the staff room.
She simply sat down and began to type. Her hands trembled a little as she typed. As the staff room slowly filled with morning noise, teachers chatting, someone eating bald egg, Mr. Day telling jokes. Nobody really looked at her. They were all intentionally avoiding her look. But they all noticed. They knew something was going on.
Miss Florence was quiet. And after 13 minutes, she stood up, printed one single sheet of paper, folded it neatly, and walked to Principal Retail’s office. She then dropped the letter on her desk without a word. The principal didn’t look surprised. She simply opened it, read it briefly, then slid it into a brown file without even responding, and that was it.
Miss Florence walked out of the office, out of the staff room, and out of the government secondary school with no announcement. Just shame trailing behind her like loose shoelace. But the school didn’t forget her so quickly. As she walked past the JS1 block, students peeked through the window like they were watching Big Brother eviction show.
One boy clapped and hissed. Some just whispered and murmured. By the next week, Miss Florence was already job hunting. She went from school to school with her file in her hand. But everywhere she went, they asked the same question. Do you have a recommendation letter from your last principal? She would pause, force a smile, and say it’s complicated, sir.
That was because principal had refused to sign any recommendation letter. I don’t recommend wickedness, she had said without blinking. Of course, word spread fast. Both private and public schools had heard the news. Nobody wanted the civic teacher that got flogged by Jess’s one.
She became a name people dropped during just you remember that teacher with them beat for her own wickedness. It got so bad that even on the streets students would point at her, some would laugh as they passed. “Good morning, Auntie Flogger,” one boy said as he passed her in the market. She didn’t answer. What could she say? So she started moving quietly and consciously avoiding areas where students gathered and every night as she sat on her plastic chair in that quiet one room face me I face you house she stared into the wall and in deep regret. Meanwhile
in Jesus swamp peace had returned a new teacher was assigned to teach civic and they loved her. There was no cane and there was no shouting. And Kasara, she sat at the back seat as usual, taking notes with the same calmness she came with. Nobody dared whisper nonsense again.
Because even if she didn’t have a test book, she had earned respect. The end. Moral lessons. What did you learn from this story? I would love to read from you in the comments section below. As for me, I learned that wickedness is a seed, and one shall only reap what they sow. When you use power to oppress people, you may enjoy it, but it won’t last.
It will only be for a while. But when the payback comes, it won’t knock. It will just enter like a thief. So, treat people with kindness, especially those who can’t fight back. Because the same people you look down on today might be the same people life will use to humble you tomorrow. And with that we have come to the end of today’s story my na padis.
Thank you all so much for watching my video till the end. You are the real MVP party. Thank you all so much. I am so grateful. Please share this video with someone so that they can laugh and relieve stress, okay? Please give me a huge thumbs up and drop your comments below. And if you’ve not subscribed, what are you waiting for? Hit that subscribe button and join the family of my MVP pad.
And until next time, remember, don’t let anyone deem you’re shy. Bye.
