Play with Colours.

Source: Pinterest

I remember when I was in JSS1. I’d been looking forward to resuming there because of the good reports from my elder brother about how the students were always clean and coordinated, how being the best in your primary school didn’t guarantee you wouldn’t drop to 17th place if you didn’t step up, how the field was lush green, how the boarding house spaghetti was something worth anticipating and how the laboratories made practicals feel like magic.

But he never mentioned the Fine Arts teacher.

On my first day, I got to school late. I’d already made a friend during the entrance exam, so when I arrived and saw students returning from fellowship, I just packed my stuff and walked into JSS1B. It looked like the best class, but I wasn’t prepared for what awaited me.

I sat at the front. My seatmate came in, short, just like me. I thought that was going to bond us. Nope. He had this annoying habit of bending his chair backward, and no matter how many times I complained, he never stopped.

Then Friday came. Fine Arts class… yayyyy

Mr. Ayilara walked in with sharp confidence. He went to the board and wrote “Fine Arts” in handwriting so fine it looked like it belonged in a museum. Mehn, the man had a fake accent that made his charisma and jokes even funnier. Honestly? He was the most loved teacher for almost every student.

He made me appreciate fine and applied arts more.

One Friday, he gave us a project titled Play with Colours. We were all excited, eager to see everyone’s final work.

Me being me, I ignored the “play” part and structured my painting perfectly. Neat and coordinated brush strokes, everything in order. Presentation? A+. Creativity? …well, don’t judge.

When the results came in, I got 4 out of 10.

Four.

*weeps in Gods of our land

Meanwhile, those who actually “played” with colours, messy brush marks, wild blends, no rules, bad paintings, were scoring 6 and above. The highest mark was 9½, and that work looked like an accident, like someone accidentally poured loads of paint on the paper and called it art.

That was the day I realised… maybe perfection is overrated and messy sometimes means beautiful. Or maybe Mr. Ayilara just didn’t like straight lines.