REMINISCES OF A
MISSION BOY
By Tererai R.
Mafukidze
The Boomerang Love-Letter
It was in November 1983. I was at a mine
primary school in Lalapanzi doing grade four. I had arrived a year before from
the hinderlands of Gokwe. Yes, the proper old Gokwe with two shops.
And so, we were having what must have
counted as a Shona lesson in the teacher’s plan book. We were doing tsumo. The
teacher wrote on the black board:
‘N’anga inobata mai.’
He
then turned round and demanded a meaning of the saying from my classmates and
I. We were a sea of silence. Only the exploding dynamite from the deep chrome
shafts below our classroom offered some interruption. We remained silent.
Silence is not consent in a classroom. It is certainly either ignorance, fear
or simply a collective marathon prayer
session for one hand to go up. None did. I offered salvation. I had a duty to
my classmates. If you were known to raise your hand often, you often felt
duty-bound to embarrass yourself, if necessary, just to save that clueless big
boy ‘with no hands’ in the corner. When my form one Geography teacher, Mr
Madambi, unravelled the relaxed intellectual refugee in the corner, he was
prone to give his slurred speech torrent:
‘Z-u-v-a
vhuu! Chabuda h-a-p-a-n-a! Ini zvangu, ndobva pano. Ndoinda kumba kwangu.
Ndonomwa doro rangu...randasiya mufiriji. Nomwana wangu T-e-n-d-ai...takadziya
moooo-to!’
I
had to be the saviour. I raised my hand. The teacher pointed at me with a
one-metre long wooden black board ruler. I got up, as I was required to. I
cleared my throat. And then offered my wisdom;
‘Zvinoreva kupembedza n’anga inobata
mazamu amai!’
Like
a cat on a snake, the teacher flew in my direction muttering words I cannot
recall. He gave me several blows with his weapon. The element of surprise in
the attack cost me a chance to block the blows. It was a vicious assault on one
trying to save mankind. In a flash, the teacher flew back to the front of the
class, still frothing at the mouth with anger. I was confused. I could not
understand. Seeing no one was prepared to offer wisdom in the light of my unjust
desserts, the teacher picked a piece of chalk and then wrote the answer below
his question;
‘Zvinoreva kuti unopembedza n’anga
yati mai vako muroyi!’
Every
one remained morose and motionless. The assault on me had numbed souls. I was
feeling the injustice of it. Yet, I was unconvinced by the learned teacher’s
explanation. I had already taken an undeserved punishment for trying. I believe
there is an additional sense in me that is suicidal. It does not sense danger.
It aggressively encourages me to follow danger. The sense then told me, tt
would not hurt more to challenge superior wisdom. And so, with tears running
down my cheeks, I raised my hand and the teacher stared at me. I did not wait to
be called. I asked;
‘Sir,
saka mati zviri nane kuti mai venyu vabatwe mazamu nen’anga panokuti vahi
vanoroya havo?’
The
class released its tension in the usual way! All fear thawed into the most
generous laughter at the expense of the teacher’s logic. The teacher froze. He
stared at me with eyes turning red like he had tomato sauce glands. This time,
he walked towards me with the deliberateness of a boxer. A torrent of blows
followed. This time he was dead silent. Only the sound of a wooden plank making
contact with 10-year old back, head, ribs, shoulders and behind, filled the
classroom. It went on for what seemed to be ages. I was rescued by the
headmaster who was walking past. Through the window, he screamed to my would-be
murderer;
“Zvaita sei?’
The
teacher stopped. He could not answer the chief. I was saved. Not without
incurring a few scars. That ended our class for the whole day. The teacher was
too angry to teach. And so, he picked up his ‘plan book’ and ‘scheming book’
and left. Polite girls expressed sympathy for me. But the boys typically offered
none. Even the boy in the corner did not feel I had incurred this for his sake.
The story grew legs. At break time, I was surrounded by older pupils from other
classes who wanted to see the young man who had taken on the vicious teacher!
The big girls with real breasts were equally curious.
At
the end of the eventful day I went home. I was not short of companions on the
way.
And
then later that night, my father arrived from work-via-pub. He was in a mean
mood. Without sitting down, he immediately demanded to know ‘what I had been
doing at school’. I was in trouble. He had met the stay-away teacher at their
usual drinking hole. He started to undo his belt. I was in for a third round of
thrashing. I was in trouble.
My
mother demanded to know what I had done. She aggressively repeated this demand
to my furious father. It was a non-negotiable condition to my punishment. My father stammered. He tried to say something
again, but he could not. It appeared after all, my father had just been told I
had been naughty. He had not been favoured with the full details. I smelt mbudlo. For the uninitiated, mbudlo is
the escape hole that the mouse keeps just in case danger comes through the main
door.
Gokomere’s
Mr Mapengo used to say;
‘Usatonga
mwana wechikoro. Tanga warova wozovhunza kuti zvaita sei. Ukamutonga
hauchamurovi!’
I quickly got up and offered my parents the
‘full details’ of what had happened. This is how I related it;
‘Tanga
tiri muclass. Teacher vakati: ‘”Nhai Tererai, chii chiri nane pakati pokuti mai
vako vahi nen’anga muroyi kana kuti n’anga yacho ivabate mazamu.” In hangu
ndikati mai vangu better vahi muroyi. Saka teacher ndokubva vandirova. Kana
muchida vhunzai headmaster!’
I
think they did not even hear the last sentence. My irate and screaming mother
was collecting an axe and my equally irate father fetching the biggest log from
the firewood stack outside. Within seconds, I could hear their distant
screaming voices. They were heading to the last place the teacher had been
seen. I could smell blood. I resumed my sit on the lounge floor and enjoyed the
next episode of Mukadota Family.
Disbelieve
all else you have heard. This is how I ended up in boarding school at
Driefontein Mission in January 1984. I was now in grade 5. It was a new
experience. It looked promising.
And
then
I
walked into my new class the next day. I was to sit opposite the most beautiful
I had ever seen. Having started school at independence, we had really big boys
and girls in our classes. So big I remember many of them protesting that the
school was preventing them from having ‘vasikana’. And so the moment I saw her,
I felt I needed to have a girlfriend too and she was going to be mine. Soon I
had to consider the best way to express my ‘love’ for her.
She
was so beautiful that the mere thought of asking her out frightened me out of
my wits. In fact, there were only two beautiful people I had seen then: Her and
Shirley Nyanyiwa. Shirley Nyanyiwa was every boy’s dream. Of course there was
Marshall Munhumumwe’s Vimbai. But no one had ever seen her.
By
the way, do you remember the time when Marxist-Leninist inspired Teurai Ropa
Nhongo tried to ban the Miss Lux beauty contests on the basis that it
‘cheapened women’? I know at the time the majority of you were still struggling
to put on underwear, if any, without balancing against the wall. To think that
the best strip joints import their best talent from former-socialist Eastern
Europe! (Of course, this is hearsay evidence!)
I
digress.
And
so, much of the year went by. I took no action, despite the encouragement from
friends. My heart would beat in my mouth the moment I imagined expressing my
love to the princess from Chiguhune. I don’t how many letters I wrote and tore
up undelivered. Yet she sat across the table. Every school day was torture.
And
then one day, I grew some balls. I decided that if I wrote a letter and put it
in her exercise book, I could make some progress. It was the easy way to go in
that day. But I changed my mind again. It was a dangerous route. The letter
could end up on the teacher’s desk and earn me a most vicious beating. And so,
I decided to be bold. It must have been during the break. I saw her seated,
busy with her school work. I walked up to her and said at the speed of
lightning: ‘ndinokuda.’
I
was ready to run off as soon as I got ‘my answer’. She stared at me. She was in
youthful shock. Her innocence gave a new life to her beauty. I stood there in
admiring fear. She put her pen down. Looked me in the eyes, and then released
the longest and loudest ‘nxaaaaa!’ I had ever heard. And then she dropped the
bomb on Hiroshima:
‘Unongoti
kureba somutundo wemangwanani!’
I
stood my ground and replied:
‘Usandishainira iwe zvako!
Unotokundwa nemhashu ine pitikoti!’
Ok,
I lie about answering back. I never did. I had no words to say to her. I could
never have.
I
ran for dear life. Every other classmate heard it. I had been slaughtered. I
exited the classroom at speed. I had stroked a hornets’ nest. I was in trouble.
How could I return to the classroom and sit opposite her like I had
‘innocently’ done for much of the year? I had excreted in the well.
In
order to arrest the flurry of insults, I waited for the teacher to return to
class from break first. I followed him in stealth. I took my sit. I could not
look her in the eye. By this time, everyone had heard the news! There were
incessant giggles. She stared at me like I was some apparition. I wanted to
change seats, but that required the teacher’s permission.
I
was miserable. I regretted my adventure. For the next few weeks, I avoided
being in class in the absence of the teacher. But I had limited success. The
insults did not stop. But her headline insult became legendary. Classmates
would direct it at me repeatedly. It was the worst moment to be a failed
romantic. As with all things in school, a new scandal is bound to turn up and
replace yours. So it came to pass that I recovered my classroom presence. In
fact, I discovered that the older boys in senior classes considered me a hero,
for they were also eyeing Chiguhune’s princess. But they lacked my balls.
Bravery, in any event, lies somewhere between cowardice and recklessness!
The
following year, 1985, the princess did not return to Dria. She had changed
schools. Her youthful uncle turned up to join the school. As with mission
secrets, everyone told him the misfortune that had befallen yours truly. Sputo
never tired of laughing at me over this.
In
2005, after many years, I bumped into the princess’s uncle, and within minutes
of our meeting he had repeated his niece’s 21-years old insult verbatim. We
laughed hard as we enjoyed the waters of wisdom!
I
never saw her again since she stopped sitting opposite me.
Eureka!
Eureka! Eureka!
And
then, one day in 1990, someone gave me the news that the princess had been
located. She was at Mukaro Mission. Mukaro Mission is just 10 kilometres from
my village! Talk about looking for a rat in the forest! I was excited. I wanted
to get a ‘second bite’. With ‘maturity’ and the irresistible Gokomere High
brand, I was sure I would be able to show her the error of her ways.
And
so, I decided to pen her a nice one. Strategically, it was not wise to
resuscitate your failed mission in the first letter. All I had to do was
restore contact. Once I got a friendly reply, I would then test my age-given
artillery. As they say in Shona, ‘yafamba kamwe haiteyewi!’ I addressed the
most love-neutral letter I could ever write, and yet made no secret of my joy
and discovering her lair. I re-read the letter a few times and made sure that
it conveyed the most effusive feelings of a friendly and yet endearing kind. I
did not want to suffer like I had done half a dozen years before. I dispatched
it with excitement. In those days, all you could do in the interlude was to
count the days. A letter took 5 working days to get to a ‘P. Bag’ address. I
waited. I waited. A week went by. The second week was almost done, when
something happened.
I
was walking from the hostels during the lunch break and crossing the soccer
field. Walking to the hostels from the opposite direction were Mike and
Tawanda. They were smiling at me. I smiled back. It was the polite thing to do.
But their smile had more than friendliness. I could not fathom what I had done
to deserve their grace. I kept smiling too. As we were about to pass each
other, they both stopped. I stopped too. And then Mike said:
‘Zico,
ugouya wotora tsamba yako!’
I
was confused.
‘Tsamba
yangu?’, I asked.
And
they both rolled with laughter. What letter was that, I wondered. After what
felt very awkward, Tawanda offered to put me out of my misery.
‘Tsamba
yako yabva kunaRashie?’
I
was shocked. How could my letter from the Chiguhune princess end up with these
two mates? I was embarrassed and angry! Mike was just enjoying himself. Tawanda
offered some more help.
‘Rashie
musikana waMike. Saka tsamba yawakanyora aitumira kuna Mike!’
Imagine,
I had written a letter from Bruno to Mukaro only for it to end up in Shashe!
The
witch had struck twice! Of course now I could never expect a reply. In fact, I
was no longer interested in one. I did not want it anymore! I did not even go
and collect my ricocheted letter from Mike. The boomerang had hit me hard. It was
the most embarrassing thing to do. My second misadventure had earned me a
second round of ridicule! It was unforgivable.
Eight
years later, Mike gave me the honour of being in his wedding party. I can
confirm that he did not marry the witch either!
Vincere Caritate!
This
is a series of my personal reminisces of life during Mission days. Please
respect the anonymity given to protagonists.
No comments:
Post a Comment