JAMB NOVEL ‘THE LIFE CHANGER’ by Khadija .A. Jalli [Download in PDF]

The Joint Admission Matriculation Board, JAMB disclosed to all candidates who will be sitting for the 2021 UTME assessment that they will be tried on a Use of English Novel named “The Life Changer” by Khadija Abubakar Jali.

The book “The Life Changer” by Khadija Abubakar Jali is a novel that changes the story of life in grounds.

Bound with fundamental hopefulness, the book maintains the precepts of expectation and reclamation in the existences of our childhood.

The Life Changer is Khadija Abubakar Jalli’s first distribution and she is by all accounts saying that the female voice is making a bounce back on the railing of African abstract scene.

The story follows the adventures of Salma and her flat mates in the college as a dip in the violent and unpleasant tides of the scholarly community.

At this moment we will distribute the Full JAMB Novel “The Life Changer” by Khadija Abubakar Jali FREE OF CHARGE as it was the JAMB Recommended Novel For UTME 2021.

FULL BOOK: 2021 JAMB Novel The Life Changer by Khadija .A. Jalli [Download in PDF]

Click Here to Download in PDF.

*The Life Changer* *CHAPTER ONE*

They were waiting for Daddy. We were. I paused outside their door.

The laughter was cheerful. It was also infectious. It began as a silent chuckle, then slowly it turned into a mirthful but stilted giggle. Now, it had finally transformed into a full-fledged chortle. I stopped awhile to listen. My plan was not to eavesdrop. God forbid that I should be that kind of mother who surreptitiously listened on her children’s private conversation. But there was something about the laughter that was compelling and arresting.

Bint, my five-year-old daughter, appeared to be the narrative voice. She was telling her two sisters the story of her classroom encounter with their meddlesome Social Studies teacher the previous week. The narration was so vivid you could actually visualize what transpired. The teacher believed he knew a little bit about every subject under the sun, especially French which most of the students found strange. Bint herself was new in the school.

French was an optional subject even at this level of primary school education. We however encouraged her to take the option since we believed that language acquisition at an early age came relatively easy and with minimal effort. And, in any case, French was second to English in the ranking of international languages, we reckoned.

So it was that the first question the teacher asked was, “Who can tell me how to say Good Morning in French?”

Everybody was silent in the classroom.

“You mean none of you knows how to say Good Morning Hesitatingly, not without trepidation, Bint raised her hand.

“Yes?” he pointed at her. Slowly, she stood up. “What is your name?” the teacher asked. “My name is Bint.”

The Life Changer

“So, tell us, Bint, how do you say Good Morning in French?”

“Bonjour,” Bint said.

“That’s very good,” the teacher said, speaking English. “And how do you say that’s very good in French, teacher?” Bint asked innocently.

“What?” The teacher jerked his head off as if stung by a bee. Then, within a flash, he bolted out of the classroom only to come back a few minutes later with the French Mistress of the senior classes.

“Ask her,” he told Bint simply.

“How do you say that’s very good in French, Aunty?” Bint asked reverentially.

“C’est tres bien,” the French Mistress replied. “C’est tres bien,” Bint repeated confidently.

The class began clapping and laughing at the same time. The class teacher followed the French Mistress out and didn’t come

back till after the break.

Meanwhile the whole class as one surrounded Bint and started clapping and singing going round her in cheer and joy. They seemed to have known instinctively that Bint was destined for bigger things. Who else but a genius would ask a question the teacher could not answer?

siblings.

“I got them. I really got them,” Bint was saying excitedly to her I found myself laughing silently. Before I got carried away, I let

myself unobtrusively into the room. They were used to my impromptu barging. One reason I used to go in unannounced was to keep them on their toes where issues of personal hygiene were concerned. The second reason was that we were used to keeping each other company. These formed the rationale for my periodic checking of their room to ensure that they learned the basic norms of maintaining the cleanliness of their room at an early age and to get used to my presence. My own grandmother used to tell us when we were young that what you teach a child is like writing on a rock and when dried, it would be difficult to erase. I seldom miss an opportunity to make them see the lesson in an experience. They learned to respect my opinion over most of their matters and I tried not to be unnecessarily didactic when it came to correction or giving instructions. This cemented our mutual trust.

“I am so proud of you, Bint,” I said as I wedged myself between Bint and Jamila, her immediate elder sister. They were all seated by the edge of the bed and looked up at me as if my intrusion had all along been anticipated.

“Thank you, mummy.” Bint said as she nestled even closer to me. She was my last child and consequently the darling of the entire family. My first child was Omar. He was the first child and only male. Between Omar and Bint there is such great affinity that no one dared frown at her intransigence, no matter how great, if he was around.

And all of them called me mummy. They didn’t call me Mama, a title every child in my community used for their mother. They couldn’t call me Ummi, which was my name at home, which incidentally also meant mummy. It actually translated to My Mother in Arabic, because I was named after my paternal grandmother. So I was Ummi to everybody else, and Mummy to my children and their friends. Except Omar who insisted on calling me Mum. I was never particular about how I was addressed. What I always insisted was respect for each other, and for one another.

“Listen, young girls, all Mallam Salihu was trying to do was to practice his small French thereby trying to perfect it. You should give him a break. Moreover, he is humble enough to accept that he does not know. Another teacher would frown his face and tell you au revoir means welcome whether you like it or not. Your knowledge to the contrary would mean nothing to him.

“But au revoir means ‘goodbye until we meet again’, mummy.”

Bint was quick to point out.

“I know my dear, but if the teacher is angry he can tell you any word means whatever he wants it to mean.”

“That would not be fair.”

“It is also not fair to push your teachers beyond what they know.”

“They are the ones who act as if they know everything, mummy.” When our conversation got that animated, my children seemed to

forget that I was also a teacher. I never bothered reminding them. The spontaneity of the discussion was what made it interesting. And if you attempted to interrupt, you would destroy the flow of the discussion.

Teemah, my second child, opened her mouth to say something and

paused.

Just then, there was this loud knock on the door. Before he was asked to come in, Omar pushed open the door and

jumped on me.

“I made it, mum, I made it!”

His sisters all stood up as one and began asking, “What did you make?”

“I made it to the university, dears. Bint, your big brother is a university student.”

They screamed and shouted and ululated.

The news came as a pleasant surprise to them. And especially to me. Nobody knew where Omar was going when he left home earlier that morning. To say the truth, he was looking rather anxious when he came to greet me in the morning. He was dressed in blue jeans and white shirt. His skin cut hair style contrasted beautifully with his side burns which he kept clean and trim. He had always been a precocious child. To look at him, you would think he was well into his twenties. But Omar was just eighteen. My singular thrill with Omar was that he was always decently dressed and clean. This pleased me beyond measure.

Now, I was even more pleased when he thrust the admission letter from Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board to me. The Board was popularly known by its acronym, JAMB. Indeed, even at my time it was not inconceivable that there were some undergraduate students who never knew what the acronym stood for. Let alone now. Anyhow, I took the letter and read it. My son was given admission to study Law at the Kongo Campus of Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria.

This was exhilarating.

This was all his father dreamt of.

My husband had wanted to read Law himself but providence

dictated he read accounting.

“Big Bros, what course did they give you?” Teemah, my first daughter, and therefore Omar’s immediate younger sister asked. “Look here, young lady, call me with respect. To you, and

everybody in this house, except mum and dad of course, all of you should

now call me My Learned Brother. In the school we call each other My

Learned Colleague. So, since you are not my colleagues you call me My Learned Brother!”

“Indeed! This is called running before learning to crawl!” Teemah

laughed.

“Can you hear yourself?” Jamila said to her brother.

“Just call yourself Omar Esquire,” Teemah said.

“Mum, your daughters are plain jealous.” “Indeed,” Teemah managed to muster all the affectionate sarcasm

in that single word.

“Big Bros, congratulations,” Bint said, turning to her brother to give him a hug.

“Thank you, my dear. For you there is an exception. Call me whatever you want. But those belligerent sisters of yours… let me just catch them calling my name anyhow. We will take them to court.”

They all burst into laughter.

“Wow, I am really so happy for you. Let your father come home. There would be a grand celebration today,” I said tactlessly.

I knew my utterance was tactless because as soon as I said that, my

face was besieged by eight expectant ears, all wanting to know what I had in mind and how the celebration was going to be and when.

“First, let us wait for your father’s return. He closes at five o’clock in the evening and arrives home later. You know that his is the only bank in this community.”

“It’s okay, mum. But tell your children, especially that blabbermouth called Teemah, that nobody should tell Dad about this admission before. me,” Omar said.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“He promised to upgrade my torchlight phone to a smart android

phone.”

“That’s not true, mum,” Teemah said. “There’s no way Daddy would promise him smart phone while he leaves us with this torch light

phone!” Teemah’s protest elicited such laughter that for a moment I forgot

what the bickering was about. “Mum, you see plain jealousy. Envy. That’s what’s stopping Teemah from growing tall.”

I allowed them to chastise one another a while before ruling that whatever their father’s decision would be, either on the celebration or on the purported phone purchase, would have to wait till the owner of the house arrived.

“All I asked is that nobody should rush to tell him before hand,”

Omar repeated his request.

“Okay,” I said. “Nobody would be the one to tell him first. As soon as he arrives, you would go and tell him the good news yourself.”

“Thank you, mum.”

“You are welcome, Omar.”

The room was getting stuffy because we did not turn on the fan. What was I saying? We did not have light for two days now and the generator was in need of repairs.

“Let’s go outside and sit under the mango tree in the courtyard,” Jamila said, wrenching the words out of my mouth, “it is very hot in here.”

We trooped out and went to the courtyard. White plastic chairs were already there and Bint and Jamila began dusting them with an old piece of clothing.

“Mummy?”

“Yes, Bint. What is it?” “I want to drink zobo.”

“I can buy that for everybody,” Omar said. “Teemah, bring five

bottles of zobo.”

“Bring the money first.”

Omar turned to look balefully at me. “You see, mum. Teemah does

not even trust me.’ I just sat there smiling.

“When it comes to money, Omar,” Teemah said, “do you, even you,

do you trust yourself?”

“I sure do.”

“How many times did you take my zobo without paying?”

“That was different. I was not an undergraduate then. Now, you are talking to a potential lawyer. See, young girl? You’d better watch it. You could be in trouble one day and your only brother here would be called upon to defend you. I would remind you of this day, believe me.”

“Teemah, go and get the zobo,” I said, “I would pay.”

“Thank you, mum.”

By this time Bint and Jamila were done cleaning the chairs. We sat as close to each other as the white plastic chairs would allow

and waited for Teemah to bring the zobo. There was a very joyous atmosphere in the air and nobody wanted to spoil it. Then all of a sudden Bint said, “Mummy, tell us a story?”

Before I could answer, Teemah was back with five bottles of zobo

on a plastic tray and squatted to serve us.

That got me thinking. Bint wanted me to tell them a story. But it was a different story that came to my mind. Omar was going to a new environment. Until now, he had been ensconced in this Lafayette

community of ours. He was going to town. The university was a civilized community, different from ours. And with so much freedom one didn’t know what to do with it. May be I should tell them about my experiences in the university. But how interesting could that be? My life before marriage had always been one dreary thing after another. That surely was not the kind of story someone like Bint, or the remaining children for that matter, would want to hear. It certainly was not the kind of story my exuberant son would like to hear. I decided not to bother about any story. Let the story, whatever its angle or angles, come naturally or not at all. I knew though that since my marriage coincided with my entry into the university, and so much drama was witnessed then, my children may have a peep into that life. Like I said, however, I would not make a deliberate effort at personal narration.

We still had like two or three hours before their father returned from work. Me? The joy of a teacher was that as long as the school was over, she too was free to rest till the next day. I had time. I would ask Omar about his admission first. How did he go about getting it when no one raised a finger to help him?

“You see, mum,” Omar told me even as his siblings listened. “There is always a silver lining in the cloud. After I passed SSCE examinations, by no means a small feat, even if I am saying it…” “What do you mean by that immodest remark? By no means a small

feat! Well done William Shakespeare.” That was Teemah, always looking

for her brother’s trouble, as they say. “Mum, tell this big mouth to stop interrupting a lawyer when he is speaking.” Then he turned to address Teemah herself. “Don’t you know how many of my colleagues had their exams sat for? Don’t you know how many parents paid big money to these so called Miracle Centres where no candidate fails their exams? Don’t you think I have a right to boast of my achievement when I scored seven credits including English and Mathematics at the very first attempt in my WAEC examination? It is by no

means a small feat, my dear sister. Don’t let me curse your efforts, you hear? I would say yours is soon coming and I would see what you

Teemah sensed Omar was slightly hurt. She stopped taunting him. And he went on with his story.

“After the WAEC results were out, we purchased the JAMB form, filled it online and submitted. While people were running helter-skelter from one school to another looking for whom to assist them with their children’s admission, I prayed that I should pass the matriculation exams well. I scored two hundred and thirty out of four hundred.”

“We know that too. And we never slept the day the result was

announced.” That was from Jamila.

Omar ignored her.

“Two days ago my friends called and advised me to check the admission online,” he paused to look empathically at me.

I braced up, knowing what was coming.

“Mum, you see why smart phones are important? Most of my friends knew of their admissions from the comfort of their bedrooms by simply browsing on their phones. Me? I had to wait two days. So let Daddy know that. Anyhow, it was worth the wait. I went to the internet café today to check on my admission status and found my name among the successful candidates. The experience was really thrilling. But it would have been

better still if I just browsed and saw my name in the comfort of my room.” “It is okay, my son,” I said. “We would see about that phone when

Daddy comes back.”

“Meanwhile, do you know the implication of this admission in your

life?”

“Sure. It means I have arrived. It means I am at one with members

of the intelligentsia.”

I smiled at my son’s naivety. Just an admission letter and he had already become a member of the intelligentsia. The young, mhm. “Listen, my son. This admission is a life changer for you.

“Life changer?”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean, Mum?”

“It means it changes your life” Teemah said.

“It means more than that, my dear. It means it also changes you.’

“How can it change me?”

“Well, I may not be able to categorically tell you how it can change you. But I know how my admission changed me.” “How, mum?”

The Life Changer

*(CHAPTER THREE)*

There was a long interminable silence in my narration. I could sense my children wanted to ask a thousand and one questions. But each and every one of them was lost in their own thoughts. In fact their silence reminded me of my own silence twenty years ago when my husband made that revelation.

For a long while I could not utter a single word. Then, after what seemed like eternity, I sighed and told my husband to go to Dr. Samjohn and personally apologise on my behalf. I could not see myself going back to the school to face my HOD after my inexcusable behaviour.

My husband understood my plight and agreed. The next week when I chanced upon Dr. Samjohn on the corridor, he greeted me jovially as if nothing ever happened. But then, he was right. Nothing ever happened. It took a while for me to wrestle with my conscience and convince myself that indeed nothing happened. And life went on as usual.

“Mum, what about the quiet one?” Omar asked.

“The quiet one? Oh, the story my husband told me about our neighbour?” “Yes, mummy let’s hear that one.” All my girls seemed eager to hear that

story.

I stood up to let the blood circulate to my lower limbs then resumed my seat and recounted to them the story of the quiet one as my husband told me.

I looked at Omar in the face and told him that the tale I was about to tell would be more relevant to him since he was the one leaving our tiny community to a bigger city. He should not judge people on the face value. Never judge a book by its cover. And he must learn to trust sparingly. You do not just trust everybody you meet.

I reminded them that in our little town, almost everyone knew everyone else. In Lafayette, the tradition had since been established that no stranger was hosted or given accommodation without the knowledge and approval of the District Head, the Hakimi. The wisdom of this tradition was to ensure that no criminal or fugitive from justice was harboured or accommodated in the village. Our culture of neighbourliness was superlative.

This was contrary to what obtained in the town. In the town everybody came and went as they pleased. Indeed, it was not inconceivable that two people living on the same street, or even next door neighbours could live for years without knowing who the other person was. In Lafayette the story was different. Everybody knew everybody else. In the case of the quiet one, everybody knew when he was born, or more precisely the circumstance of his birth.

His parents were bona fide citizens of Lafayette and they were known to be a very pious and humble couple. For several years after they were married they did not have children. It appeared, so the elders said, when they were about giving up, they consulted the services of a formidable boka, a traditional medicine man, and their wishes were granted. People give different interpretations to what actually transpired.

While some believed that the boka gave them some potent concoction for instant fertility, others believed that he was indeed the one who fathered the child. In either case, Talle was the result. He was called Talle on account that shortly after his birth, his mother died. Thus the secret of how he was fathered remained a secret. His father married another woman who also did not give birth to any child. So she helped in the upbringing of Talle.

Talle was not called the quiet one at birth. It was his reticent nature while growing up that earned him the title. He was never known to have engaged in fisticuffs with anyone even as a young lad. He withdrew into himself. And this silent character stood him in good stead whenever issues of responsibility arose in the community. He was barely twenty years old when he lost both his father and stepmother in a car accident. This compounded his state and he withdrew further into himself.

Talle was alone. Literally alone. He had no one to consult or to speak to. No one knew what he did with his evenings and nights, but from eight o’clock in the morning to four o’clock in the evening, he would go to work at the Local Government Office, where he served as a driver.

At the office, he was always on the first row during prayers. He was so dedicated to his piety that people actually believed that there was something about him that indicated holiness. Talle never argued on any issues; he hardly disagreed with anyone even if he was right. He never raised his voice on any one. That was how he got the appellation of the quiet one.

Then one day, just one day, things stopped being quiet for Talle.

He had unwittingly established a pattern in his market purchases over the years to the extent that the grocery stores he patronized knew at once what he was coming to buy. It thus became curious when suddenly the grocers discovered for over a week now, Talle’s requirement doubled. The people knew he was alone and could not possibly consume all the items he was buying all by himself. One of them thought it was wise to call the attention of the District Head.

When Talle was summoned, he gave himself away by his very inability to answer the simple questions put forward by the Hakimi, the District Head. The session began ordinarily but ended with a sad dramatic twist. “What did you buy in the market today, Talle?” the Hakimi asked.

“It was, er. a few, er, a few measures of rice and some palm oil.” Talle was fidgety and seemed suddenly ill at ease.

“What precisely did you need a few measures of rice for? Your customer here said you used to buy just a measure which lasts you a few days. The measure of gari you also used to buy suddenly doubled.”

“Yes, Your Highness. But I just thought I should buy plenty so I would not suffer want in the event I have no money.”

“So where do you get all the money to make these purchases now?” Talle bowed his head and studiously looked at the ground, the posture of an archaeologist who suddenly had a gut feeling that something precious was hidden under the very ground he stood on. He stood there mute.

The people were getting restless. They seemed to think as one that this was the one moment when the silence of the quiet one was not a virtue. He had better speak.

Just then there was a loud commotion coming from outside the gate of the District Head. There was a loud siren, as of a police vehicle or that of a military escort which came to stop outside the entrance of the Hakimi’s residence. In fact, it was not one, but three police vans that came to stop outside the gate.

The villagers were first mesmerised by this rare forceful movement and they became alarmed. It was an unholy sight. And given the speed with which they came and parked before the entrance of the Hakimi’s residence, the whole thing spelt something ominous. This had never happened in the history of Lafayette community. People thus surged to find out what was going on.

On hearing the siren from outside, Talle sprang up and bolted into the Hakimi’s house. The courtiers pursued him and brought him back. This act of attempting to run, confirmed to the people that if nothing else, Talle was guilty of something. But guilty of what? Nobody knew.

“What’s wrong with you man? Why are you suddenly scared of a siren?” one of the courtiers asked. Before Talle could respond, three policemen, armed to the teeth, barged in

on the Hakimi and his courtiers.

“Is this the palace of Hakimin Lafayette?” one of the mean looking policemen asked. “Yes.” The Hakimi replied simply and added, “I am the Hakimi.”

“We are looking for one of your subjects in connection with kidnapping, armed robbery and extortion.”

“That is impossible,” the Hakimi said. “We are a quiet and peace loving people here. Our community has never apprehended even a common thief, let alone a kidnapper.”

“Well, well, we learnt differently.” The policeman turned to one of his colleagues and said, “Go and bring Zaki in here.”

“Zaki?” Everybody was shocked as Talle repeated the name. He swooned and fell. Those who observed at close range noticed that he actually

urinated on his person. “Do you have a person

named Talle in this village?”

“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihir raji’un.” The Courtier said. “We did not ask you for any supplication, the police officer said

sarcastically.

“That was more of a pious resignation to reality,” the Hakimi said and

added, “It means from Allah we came and unto him is our returning.” “Let your man spare me his Arabic lessons. Do you have a guy named Talle here or don’t you? And why is this guy sprawled on the floor?” the policeman

was impatience personified. He did not even give the Hakimi the respect strangers supposed to accord him.

were

“That is the Talle you are asking after?” one of the courtiers volunteered.

“Oh, in that case our search is over.” The policeman now turned to the Hakimi and said, “Who can take us to his house?” “He will do that himself. But what is all this about?” “We told you that this man is an accessory to kidnapping and extortion.”

Just then, the other policeman that was sent to bring Zaki came back dragging an obviously battered Zaki who was chained arms and legs. On the sight of the chained and manacled Zaki, Talle doubled over and, if that were possible, fainted a second time.

“Get up, my friend,” the policeman said curtly brandishing a kick at Talle’s

middle.

Talle staggered up and immediately began declaring his innocence.

“Believe me, officer, I am innocent.” Talle said. “It was Zaki’s idea. He was the one who said they had a neighbour in town…” “Shut up, my friend. Nobody asked you anything. Just take us to the

house, your house” the policeman growled. The Hakimi was beside himself with confusion. He had never before witnessed anything like this. And he had been Hakimi in Lafayette for over thirty years. And, come to think of it, if any act of misdeed were to be suspected in this humble village, Talle was the last person that would come to anybody’s mind. Now it appeared Talle was not only neck deep in whatever he was being accused, he was even trying to rationalize it. God, you really never know with men. Who would

have thought… but what was it really that they had done?

“Excuse me, officer,” the Hakimi cleared his throat.

“Yes?” The policeman turned to the Hakimi.

“Whatever it is that this man here would have done, it is expedient that you take a witness from here so that we can explain his absence to those who may wish to know something about his whereabouts.”

“Please yourself, Hakimi.” But I can assure you that this man here would be absent for a very long time.”

“Who among you wants to follow them to town to report what is happening there?” the Hakimi turned to his courtiers and other members of the community who had earlier trooped in to complain that Talle was observed buying more foodstuff than he was used to buying. They had observed the trend for almost one week before they decided to take action.

The people cringed and turned their gaze away from the Hakimi. “Well, then,” the policeman said, “since nobody is following us to town, we would adequately inform you through the Hakimi whatever happened later.” He then turned to Zaki.

“Is this the Talle you told us about?” he asked.

Zaki nodded.

The policeman raised his baton, “Can’t you talk?” “Yes, yes. He is the one. That is Talle.”

“Ok. Let’s go.”

Two other police constables dragged Talle up and whisked him out of the Hakimi’s residence and into the waiting police van. As they drove slowly towards Talle’s house, the people, hitherto reluctant to follow Talle to town, now willingly followed the police vehicles to Talle’s house.

Once there, the policemen followed Talle into the house and shortly thereafter came out with a young boy of no more than thirteen years old. Talle was already handcuffed. He was hoisted unto the waiting vehicle

where Zaki was and the boy sat in the front seat with the leading police officer who obviously was the IPO, the Investigating Police Officer. The vehicles zoomed off and left Lafayette as hurriedly as they entered. That was the last anybody in the community saw of Talle. There was a rumour going on some years later that he was sighted in the border town up north where smuggling thrived. This rumour was however unconfirmed and it fizzled out as fast as it started.

Of course the Hakimi reported that the IPO sent a message detailing what

happened in the Talle saga. Talle and his fellow conspirators were sentenced to some years of imprisonment with hard labour for kidnapping and extortion. The story the police told was intriguing in its simplicity. Talle was pressed for money and he went to town on a weekend and he met Zaki. Zaki had a better idea.

He told Talle that at the GRA, there was this businessman friend of his who would always be seen driving with his son in his car. If they could abduct the son, Zaki was sure the father would pay anything for ransom. Somehow the boy was drugged and abducted and in the middle of the night they brought the boy to Talle’s house in Lafayette and kept him for one week before the police came and freed the boy.

The boy’s father had been contacted and warned never to involve the police. The father reasoned that the kidnappers were amateurs since their asking price was one million and later came down to two hundred and fifty thousand naira. Zaki was arrested at the point of collecting the ransom.

“Wow. That is some story, mum.” Omar said. “It appears to be a general admonition to all of us. Why do you say it is of particular interest to me?”

I smiled and said, “My son, you are like that young boy in the story. You are going to the university. Do not trust anyone.”

“Surely, mum…”

“I understand. Of course you will make friends and all that. Just be

careful.”

“If he likes, let him trust everybody,” Teemah said.

“Mum, I’ll…”

“Yes, I know what you will do. But whatever you would do, don’t get mixed with bad company.”

“Like kidnappers, mum?”

“Nope. Like cultists and those who engage in EMAL.”

“E- MAIL?”

“EMAL. Exams malpractice.”

“Oh, it was an acronym too?” “It has many names.

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