The fireworks that broke the camel's back.

Having tried and failed to despatch my sister to the great beyond (I really like her now sha) I was somewhat perturbed when another bundle of joy arrived in our home five years later and I was introduced to my brother. It was obvious that my parents had lost their minds. Had they not learnt their lessons? What did I have to do to prove to them that there was only going to be one rightful heir to to estate. These people are testing me oh.

Due to my mother running interference and all other adults watching me like a hawk with their beady eyes i did not have further chance to cause any further peril to either of my siblings however being blessed with what the doctors like to call an "overactive imagination" (these oyinbo doctors sef. in naija i was more properly known as a trouble maker) my "energetic" mind soon moved on to other adventures.

In the BQ of our house lived one of my dad's friends. This chap worked for a film distribution company and every couple of weeks he would arrive home with a couple of huge cans under his arm which meant it was cinema time in our household. He would load up the projector and we would all sit through some western film or other which would be projected on a sheet on the outside wall (every mallam in the neighbourhood would drop by to watch) and only served to fire up my imagination even more.

Anyway, one day he was also sent some promotional fireworks as a gift or something and he happened to bring these home. As far as he was concerned he was very meticulous and safety conscious in the storage of said fireworks. For me however I thought he was a bit careless. I mean he only rolled them in a blanket, tied them up with string, cellotaped the package and then stored it away in his bedroom cupboard under lock and key. Can you imagine? How careless. Needless to say I had the fireworks in my hand before he was even half way down BodeThomas. Now what to do with them? I could hardly let them off without attracting the attention of mum who was still looking for any excuse to practice her kung fu on my ass.

It was whilst I was formulating the plan of action that I heard my mother's footsteps coming down the stairs towards the kitchen where I was in deep thought about how to let off fireworks without setting the house on fire or attracting undue attention from the neighbours. I panicked and looked around for somewhere to hide the evidence. Time was running out and so I threw the package into the one place I was sure she would never look. It is funny how God works though isn't it?

After quizzing me vigorously as to what I was doing in the kitchen, establishing that my two siblings were still alive and that all seemed well with the world, she then switched the oven on. In a somewhat high voice (nothing to do with not having reached puberty) I asked her what she thought she was doing. The woman then said she was planning to roast some chicken for my dad. Today of all days? Can the man not eat eba like his mates? When did he become ajebutter to come home and be eating roast chicken?

At this point every fibre in my body was pushing me to run upstairs pack a bag and jump over the fence into the safety of the cold, cruel world or at least Adeniran Ogunsanya but then how could I do this without looking guilty. How is it that of all the days my mother wants to use the oven it is today?

I don't know what gave away my alarm but my mum is sharp and she must have noticed the sweat beads making their way down my face, my furrowed brow and a rather odd smell (let's call it Fear ) emanating from my body. As she was about to question me again as to what I was doing in the kitchen, why I was acting so shifty and nervous etc all hell broke loose. I would say it took at least an hour for her heart palpitations to subside (and my shorts to dry).

This was a very serious matter and so she called a "war council" to sit in judgement. This consisted of my mum, both grandmas and other maternal parts of the family. Reluctantly they had to invite my dad. I say reluctantly only because they knew that he was a softie when it came to criminal matters like this and the dishing out of punishment. The last time I had done something really terrible, my mum had marched me to his room when he returned from work asking for him to "deal" with me. His dealing with me had consisted of him locking the door, whipping his pillow whilst I made the appropriate punishment noises and then both of us stuffing our faces with chocolate and watching a film. I then made the mistake of telling my sister what actually happened. She must have "accidentally" mentioned it to my mum and since then my father was banished to the sidelines on the punishment front.

So there I was stood in the corner whilst the ladies all looked at me with their sorrowful eyes and then looking on at my mum with pity as they quenched their fantas and puff puff. What oh what can we do about this your son? they asked. You know if we are not careful he will only fall in with the wrong crowd and end up as an armed robber forever bringing disgrace to your family (a bit extreme but I guess they had to justify the fanta and puff puff). So after a long conversation it was decided that there were only two options. I could either go and live with my maternal grandma or with my uncle the Policeman.

So in my mind the options were to live with someone with a very strong sense of discipline, a zero tolerance policy, an aversion to any misdeed or misbehaviour and a keenness for punishment of the ass whipping kind. Or alternatively, I could go and live with the Policeman. Naturally it was a simple decision. The Policeman it was and so this is how I ended up at Police Training College Ikeja. But see the committee has forgotten one small detail in their rush to show me what the "real world was like". Now I had access to real guns, handcuffs and other weapons of mass destruction. Oh good people of Ikeja. Here I come.