Be Corny

Gaborone 2023 - The last time my siblings and I were all in the same country, I found a watermelon significantly larger than my head.

Prefects are selected at the beginning of the academic session in most secondary schools in Nigeria. Thinking about it now, this vestige of the British education system is an intriguing parallel to how imperial Britain governed Nigeria and other "colonies" despite being heavily outnumbered. The colonial government exercised their indirect rule by propping up indigenous leaders, controlling them, and then having these leaders do their bidding in the general society. Similarly, in secondary schools, a committee of teachers selects a number of students who are "well-behaved role models" to serve as prefects who oversee other students to ensure the smooth running of the school. In my secondary school, prefects walked around with silver badges prominently pinned on their school uniforms. Their designated roles glistening for all to see. Assembly Prefect, Library Prefect, Social Prefect, Chapel Prefect, Deputy Head Boy, Head Boy. From my first week in secondary school, when the prefects were announced at the school assembly meeting, I knew I wanted to be in that position in five years. In particular, I wanted to be Head Boy, the top prefect.

There was however one snag. My family had moved countries around when I was to transition from primary to secondary school. And because of differences in educational systems (Swaziland had 7 years of primary and 5 years of secondary school, Nigeria had 6 years of primary and 6 years of secondary school), I ended up starting secondary school in Nigeria the same year as my sister, Wura. She had been a year ahead of me in primary school in Swaziland, but the logistics of our family's move had us start secondary school together. Wura was the kind of person who had "it" in secondary school. She was the first person in our school to get As in 13 subjects in the national junior secondary school exams. Maybe even the first in the country (need to fact check this but probably correct). She displayed incredible charisma among fellow students. She also had that knack, not uncommon among firstborns, to get adults to rely on her. Of course she wanted to be a medical doctor, and she grew up to be just that. I wasn't bad myself, but I wasn't always as buttoned up and was a bit more experimental with rules in general.

Anyway, I reasoned that if I was in any other class, I had a fair shot at being Head Boy. But with 150+ students in our class, would the teachers really choose siblings as Head Girl and Head Boy? I didn't fancy my chances. Nevertheless, I didn't harbour any resentment towards my sister. At that age, there are certain things one just accepts. She would be Head Girl. My best hope was Deputy Head Boy, if I played my cards right. So in the 4th and 5th years of secondary school, I tightened things up a bit. I knew which teachers were on the committee and made sure to stay in their good graces. I only got sent out of class for misbehaving once or twice in those years. And I managed to successfully de-escalate when classmates tried to bait me into a fight during extra classes one Saturday (separate post on this later, perhaps!). Being involved in a fight for whatever reason would have meant two weeks suspension from school and absolutely zero chance of being a prefect. So far so good.

On the day prefects were announced, I was ready. School uniform crisply ironed. Hair combed. Beard trimmed... Okay, I was fifteen and didn't have a beard, but you get the picture. I was my most presentable self. The prefects were announced and presented to the school in "ascending order". Officially, apart from the Head Boy/Girl and their deputies, there was no hierarchy. But somehow people believed that Library Prefect > Food Prefect > Assembly Prefect etc. The human mind somehow has an innate need to assign hierarchy to almost anything regardless of how random or meaningless it is. So on that day, as each person was announced, they'd get up from their seat, and walk to the stage in the middle of the whole school of roughly 1000 students and a couple dozen teachers. As the assembly progressed, I was increasingly excited as my name wasn't called. Of course, I didn't show this excitement outwardly. I was way too cool for that. We got to the final four names. I was announced as Deputy Head Boy and Wura was Head Girl. No big surprised here. Things had played out pretty much how I expected the would. I had still held onto a flicker of hope that I could be Head Boy. But I knew that was unrealistic. I felt that I got what I deserved. Wura reached out to hug me. I avoided her arms like a professional rugby player avoiding a tackle, brushing her off in front of the whole school, at the peak of her secondary school career. I didn't think much of it then. It was just something I did. Since that day, I've questioned my rationale every time that story comes up. I have several theories. Maybe I didn't want to draw attention to the fact that we were siblings. Okay, that's lame! Everyone and their parents knew we were siblings. Any doubts would have been cleared by the fact that prefects were announced by their first AND last names. More likely, I just didn't want to be corny.

Of all the attributes and behaviours that get lost between childhood and teenage, corniness often gets overlooked. To be more specific, the things we stop doing because we don't want to appear corny. I'm writing this in January, at the coldest time of the year. Not necessarily meteorologically cold. But for many, the socialising of late December is sufficiently emotionally draining, that there doesn't seem to be much love and warmth left to give in January. On that assembly morning in 2005, I didn't want to be seen as too nice, or too sentimental, even to my sister. A few years later working to change that. I realised that it's okay to be corny.

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By being corny, I don't mean be trite, boring and unoriginal. Quite, the contrary! Do what has faded out of the ordinary. On a random day of the year, do the sentimental little things that we now only reserve for Christmas and birthdays. Don't be worried about what others think about your shows of love and acts of kindness.

2026 has begun with its lingering conflicts, rekindled conflicts, and threats of future conflicts. The loudest voices appear to be the most hateful. And the feedback mechanisms built into political and digital systems feed on and then in turn fuel negative energy. Honesty and authenticity have been ruthlessly devalued. It's also uncanny that the hottest trend of the past few months has "artificial" in its name. Most of us are not in the position to change the whole world. But we can change our worlds and touch a part of the worlds of those around us. As performative cruelty proliferates, it's time to counter it deliberately with overt kindness. A little corniness can go a long way.

Be corny to your neighbours. Bake those muffins. Invite them to brunch. Yes, some of them will be suspicious, but even if they turn you down, they will feel the warmth of someone reaching out to them.
Be corny to your coworkers. Give that shoutout. Send that DM commending someone who did a good job. Handwrite that note. Don't worry about appearing ingratiating to your boss or "giving leverage" to your peers and direct reports. You spend most of your waking hours with these people. Do your bit to make it a positive environment.
Be corny to random people. Give a smile and thumbs up to the person in the car alongside yours at the red light. Commend that person on the great outfit in the bakery, smile, and walk away. Don't be creepy, be corny.
Be corny to your friends and family. Let them know what they mean to you. Show them in words and in actions. Make a video. Send a letter - a real letter - with stamps.
Be corny with yourself. Say those affirmations. Scroll through your old pictures and be proud of your growth. Write that blog post. Allow yourself to dream of a better world.

I wish you a corny 2026! Happy New Year!