Greeting to all my dear readers,
In this cycle of life, I guess no one is spared from those days when everything seems to go wrong. We all have moments that make us feel like we're living in a slapstick comedy, where every step forward is met with a trip, a stumble, or a hilarious mishap.
Today, I want to share with you the tale of an unforgettable and embarrassingly disastrous day in my life. One of many past events still embedded vividly in my memory.
It was the early 70s, and I was a 13-year-old in my first year of government secondary school. English wasn't my mother tongue, and public speaking wasn't my forte. So, when I was picked to recite a poem in English for Teacher's Day, I felt like a fish out of water.
My English teacher, Mr. Hamzah, a man with a formidable mustache and a kind heart, took it upon himself to coach me. For two weeks, every afternoon after formal classes ended, he drilled me in the art of poetry recitation. His booming voice filled the empty classroom as he demonstrated how to enunciate and project, while I tried my best to emulate him, though my voice trembled like a leaf in the wind.
The day of the recital arrived, and my stomach was in knots. I felt like I had swallowed a hive of bees as I stood behind the curtains of the stage, waiting for my turn. Mr. Hamzah gave me a reassuring nod and patted my shoulder. His confidence in me was unwavering, even if mine wavered with every passing second.
The school hall was packed with students and teachers. The din of chatter was overwhelming, and I felt my knees buckle slightly. I took a deep breath, clutching the poem tightly in my hand, the paper slightly crumpled from my nervous grip. The emcee called my name, and the chatter died down as I walked to the podium, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest.
As I began to speak, my voice cracked, and a few snickers rose from the audience. I paused, took another deep breath, and started again. This time, I focused on Mr. Hamzah's teachings. I could almost hear his voice guiding me, "Project from your diaphragm, not your throat. Believe in the words you're saying." I straightened my posture, and as I recited the poem, the words began to flow more naturally.
Halfway through the poem, I made the mistake of glancing up. The sea of faces seemed endless, and my mind went blank. My hands started to shake, and I could feel the panic rising. Just then, I saw Mr. Hamzah in the front row, his mustache twitching with a smile. He gave me a small nod, and I could see the belief in his eyes. It was enough to steady me.
I took another deep breath and continued. The words returned and I finished the poem, but I didn't know how many verses were skipped. And I didn't know whether the audience could grasp the meaning. I heard people applaud, yet I couldn't tell if it was an ovation or mimicry. Anyway, I felt relieved and overjoyed to escape the gallows. I had done it. I had faced my fear and come out on the other side, not unscathed.
But the most embarrassing moment of that day wasn't my trembling voice or my mind going blank. It was when I realized, to my utter horror, that my pants were wet and quite warm too. Whether it was from the spilled water I drank nervously backstage or something else, I wasn't sure. As I walked off the stage, I heard the whispers and saw the pointing fingers. My cheeks burned with humiliation.
I wanted to run and hide, but there was nowhere to go. Head down, half running half walking, I found the farthest sanctuary, a student toilet, only to enter the female one. A few female students yelled at me, and fortunately, no teachers came as I hurried to the adjacent block, for the male restroom. I stayed inside for what felt like an eternity until Mr. Hamzah came to pull me out and pillion me home.
Reflecting on that day now, I realize how much it shaped my future. At that moment, I thought my life was over, that my peers would never let me forget my public disgrace. But, surprisingly, the days that followed were kinder to me than I had expected. Mr. Hamzah, ever the supportive mentor, continued to encourage me.
Years later, when I started giving public speeches as part of my career, I often reflected on that day. The initial fear, the stumbles, the wet pants—all became a humorous anecdote I would share during my talks to illustrate the importance of perseverance.
The memory of Mr. Hamzah's unwavering support stayed with me, guiding me through the most challenging presentations and helping me connect with my audience on a deeper level.
Those early lessons in overcoming fear and embracing vulnerability became the foundation of my career. It was the imperfections and the embarrassing moments that made my journey unique and relatable.
Love
The Old Man Em Jay