The Tyranny of the Textbook: My First Lesson in Puberty and Power.
My first test in secondary school in Ghana was a small catastrophe disguised as confidence. I finished first—confident, smug even—thinking I had conquered Social Studies once and for all. Forty-seven students sat behind me, still sweating over their answers, while I leaned back in triumph.
Unfortunately, my teacher decided to turn my triumph into public theatre. She began marking my paper right there in class, reading each answer aloud as if hosting a quiz show from hell.
Then came the final question: “When does puberty begin and end for girls?”
I had written, with all the conviction of a future expert, 12–17 years.
She froze. Her eyes widened. Then, with righteous fury, she yelled, “WRONG!” and drew a dramatic red “X” across my paper. I could feel forty-six pairs of eyes drilling into me.
The “correct” answer was 13–17 years. That single digit—one—ruined everything. I had fallen victim to the tyranny of the textbook.
Everyone else, having witnessed my downfall, quickly adjusted their answers. Everyone except me.
Secondary school was never the same. Neither was my relationship with women.
Looking back, I realize that moment was my initiation—not into puberty, but into the politics of knowledge. The teacher’s pen was mightier than logic. Puberty, apparently, had an official start date, and I had failed to respect it.
It taught me early that confidence doesn’t matter if you’re not quoting the “right” authority. That even truth, when it arrives too early, is marked wrong in red ink.
