It was the last day of school. Tension filled the air as the teacher announced the end-of-year examination results.”Daniel, congratulations, hundred upon hundred,” said the teacher, beaming. Thunderous applause followed. “John, ninety eight upon hundred,” John started smiling like an idiot. “As the teacher continued reciting the marks for the mathematics test, I waited patiently for my marks. Just before I started dozing off, the teacher as if taunting me, said,” Ryan, last in class, forty nine and a half upon hundred.” My heart sank. I muttered under my breath,” Dad’s going to give hell to me.”
My father, Alex, was the principal of the international school. He was a man in his thirties, and today, he is going to get very disappointed when I tell him that I have failed my exams and got the lowest in class.
I trudged home wearily, dreading the thought that my father is going to cane me when I reach home and tell him my marks. I started imagining things like my father taking a few cups and hurling them at me, shattering the mirror on the wall into a million pieces. Realising that I have been standing rooted to the ground while anticipating what will happen at home, I quickly hurried back home. As I approached block thirty six, the place I stay in, I saw my dad waiting for me downstairs. Before I even had the time to speak, my dad asked me,” Upon hundred, how many marks did you get?” I replied extremely softly, ”Forty-nine.” Upon hearing that, Father turned livid and clenched his fists in anger.”OUT OF SIGHT NOW!” he bellowed.
I quickly walked away, not wanting to get into more trouble. Then, I started running and without a second thought, recklessly started sprinting across the road. BEEP! BEEP! The wailing of the car horn resounded in my eardrums, threatening it to burst. I closed my eyes and I saw my father running towards me and push me away from the approaching Ferrari. Everything went black. Was I dead? Did I make it? These two questions kept me thinking.
When I awoke, it was midnight. The smell of painkillers and ointments invaded my nostrils. I was lying on a hospital bed I turned around and winced in pained. I realised my leg was placed in a cast. On the bed beside me, I saw my father whose leg was fractured and arm contorted in awkward positions.
I began to recall. My father pushing me away from the car, his moans of agony when the car hit him and the colour of his face when he shouted when he knew I failed the end-of-year exams. I turned and relief flushed through me when the doctors informed me that my father was alive.
“I will never do reckless things again like dashing across the road like I did earlier this day,” I promised my father when he was conscious. The two incidents told me what kind of father he was. He is strict, loving and caring father. I will never forget him.