“Kuthiwe uyabizwa ngu-Head ewofisini… (You are being called by the head in her office),” the word came by Raphael (Matsotsi)… Ah what, me and the head’s office, it can’t be, why? I am only a few weeks old here after all and I have not done anything. My thoughts ran frantically everywhere, searching for any lead to what could be bringing me at odds with the head so early in the day, because back then, that May 2007 I had just started my Lower Sixth Grade at that school and I was a very quiet and well behaved young man. It was just after break and we had Literature. I had no option but to look for the late J. J. Ncube, our teacher by then to tell him about the developments. He encouraged me to go there and find out.
Now, the issue is, each time you heard that you were being summoned at ebenchini, it was rare for you to return from there smiling…I resignedly went there to hand myself over. I took the shortest route around the Form 4 Block, then to the “bench” as it was notoriously called, but this time around I was not supposed to wait there, but to proceed right away to the head’s office, imagine, and I am just some two or so weeks old there! I carefully placed my feet on the floor which was shinny that day, took the bend to the office corridor and boom, the door exposed itself right before my eyes! Adrenalin took charge of all my systems and I became very weak and nervous. I almost stumbled and fell but somehow, my last drop of courage propelled me forward. Like a timid little girl who has been summoned by a harsh step mother, I motioned myself at the doorstep, tuck in my shirt properly, fixed my tie, and knocked at the door! “Come in,” said a soft voice from inside, much to my relief! I entered. “Oh it’s you young man, please take a seat, welcome to my office,” said the lady, sharp eyes on me, reading glasses almost hanging on her cheeks. I sat down and my eyes momentarily scanned the office for any clue of the sjambok, but it was not there, and the Black Book, it was not on the table too, just a diary and a Bible, that was all. My mind quickly thought, is it a sermon or what? Then I resigned to fate and waited to be slaughtered.
“Young man, word has gotten to my office about your issues, can you please sit down here and tell me everything, am all ears,” the old woman said, sitting down attentively. I was very relieved hearing this and I couldn’t even believe that Mr. V. Matiwaza, the Senior Master had after all relayed to the head everything I had told him about my situation. He had appeared very casual about it when I told him my problem.
“Thank you Ma’m”. I said as I also sat upright on my chair. I started relating to the lady, the then acting head of Dombodema High School, Mrs D. Masuku the whole journey of my education. I related to her how I had finished Grade 7 in 2000 only to be told there was no money to take me to Secondary School, subsequently making me spend the years 2001 and 2002 at home while most of my peers and classmates proceeded to secondary school; I related to her the pain that I felt everyday of those two years especially when peers passed by our home, clad in secondary school uniforms, seemingly mocking me. I related to her how a brother volunteered to send me to school in 2003 but only changed his mind later, almost dumping me in the middle of an ocean and how bitter but determined I became thereafter. I related to her how, before my brother could start sending me money or uniforms from South Africa I decided to lead the way by selling okra (delele) in Botswana to buy books and uniforms for myself till he eventually sent me something in second term of Form 1. I related to her how in the third term of Form 3 I almost dropped out of school because there was no one else to pay fees for me, and how I refused to give up on myself and schoolwork, how in the August holidays of my Form 3 year, foreseeing that situation, I had taken it upon myself to do menial jobs in my community to raise fees for myself: one job was to clear a field in Bhangale, the other was to construct a goat kraal at Bharayithi with a young man called Zamani. I related to her how as from that August Form 3 holidays onwards I resorted to working in Botswana during holidays to raise fees, crossing illegally for I had no passport. I related to her how I was unable, as a result of this to do extra lessons in preparation for my O Level final exams like other students who could afford. I related to her how I almost failed to raise the registration fee for my O Level exams which was ZWL 4,7million by then. I related to her how life was stressful for me as a destitute and how I resorted to studying at night and eventually scored 5As, 2Bs, a C and a D, at O Level, despite the odds. I related to her how after Form 4 there was absolutely no one to pay my A Level fees despite that tantalizing score from a disadvantaged student like me. I related to her how I refused to see my dream of a great future come tumbling down and then went into Botswana in April 2007, (by then it was last month), did menial jobs as usual, raised enough money for fees, books, uniform and other essentials and enrolled myself for A Level, and how I was determined to see myself through A Level. I was done with my long story.
When I finished narrating to her, the lady broke down and cried, I joined in and cried too. It was a long 15 minutes of emotion and tears in that office and for the first time, I realised how tough my life had been. All along, when I was doing it, I never even noticed, I just did it and sailed through. Having shared that story, I felt free. When we finally calmed down, the lady told me to be strong and to go back to class. I had spent a good 1 hour 30 minutes in that office, narrating my story. Little did I know that in that 1 hour 30 minutes I was actually building a strong foundation that will turn my life for good! I went back to class, Literature was over!
Two days later…
“Uyabizwa nguMamfundara (You are being called by the head),” came another messenger and this time it was Matthews Sibanda, a homeboy from Hhingwe. This time around I never panicked. I went straight to that office, knocked and was welcomed in. “I have spent the last two days working on your issue young man. I secured a place for you to stay in one of these homesteads here, but again I am not comfortable with it. I want something better for you. So meanwhile, please take heart we are seriously looking into your issue as a school and we will definitely help. So for now, go and calm down and concentrate. It will be fine. I will get back to you next week,” she said as she closed her diary. There was a new sense of hope as I left her office that day.
To take you back a little. Remember when I resolved to go for A Level, I wanted Dombodema High, it was my dream school but the challenge was accommodation. As a first step, I wanted a place which was at least within 10km of the school and I knew that once there I was then going to manoeuvre my way from there until I found a place close to the school. God was with me, because in Village 26, just 8km Southwest of the school was Matamatisi my uncle who agreed to accommodate me. That did it. Once at school, I approached the late Mr. J. J. Ncube asking him to be my guardian and accommodate me at his cottage. He rather advised me to table my issue with the senior master, Mr V. Matiwaza. I promptly went to him and told him my story. He was very casual with it but promised to tell the then head, Mrs D. Masuku who also doubled up as the School Chaplain. The way Mr Matiwaza appeared during the conversation did not give the hope that he would take up my issue. So when the news that I was being wanted by the head came that is why I never linked the two.
Moving on, it was Monday the following week when the best news came to me. As usual, the head called me after break. This particular Monday was however a different one. “Young man, take a seat,” she said as I got into her office. “Your issue is finally sorted,” she said as she opened a certain book besides her. “Now I want you to listen, and promise me…,” she continued. “I got a place for you at the clinic and your guardian will be Mrs Tsambani, the Sister in Charge there, do you know her?” she asked. “No, I don’t but I am ready to know her,” I answered. “Good,” she continued. “Now, the issue is that following some misunderstanding over a misbehaviour of some boys who stayed at the clinic some years back we as a school had issued a decree that no student of your age should ever stay there. But I found your issue so touching that I ended up walking back on that resolution. Now, young man, as you go to stay there, observe utmost good behaviour. This is your only chance and you must use to your best. The relationship between the school and the clinic now depends on you,” she said as she stared into my eyes. But who was she telling that, me? I was very determined not to let anything ruin the journey that I had fought for so long.
“Ma’m, count on me for all that,” I said as I put my feet together. “In fact, I am going to fix that shattered relationship for you, count on me. I am a relationship builder myself. My moto is: land me there and I will finish up the rest!” I concluded.
“Okay, good. Now, the school is going to take care of some of your issues. We will take you to the clinic to your new mother. The school, through the Chaplaincy, will give you blankets, grocery every month, give you meat each time we slaughter a beast and at some stage, we will invite more well wishers into your case,” she concluded. I was overwhelmed that day. I was overjoyed.
It was 28 May 2007 when I was finally taken to the Clinic where I was to stay throughout my A Level. Favours flew across my face from there: at the D.H, the staff were made aware of me so each time I went there, I was immediately assisted without question. The “Small Gate” was a no go entry point for students, but those keys were surrendered into my hands. They became my keys and I had authority over the gate. At the Clinic, the late Mrs Tsambani gave me a full cottage with a kitchen, a bedroom and a sitting room, what more…with electricity and water! Ngake ngahlala kuhle bantu yoh! Everyone I met was just supportive in one way or the other. Sooner, I had forgotten about my pain. But most importantly, I remained more humble than ever. I fixed the relationship between the school and the clinic.
Today, on this last day of what is undoubtedly one of my brilliant years, I celebrate the legacy of Rev. Mrs D. Masuku (pictured), the one you used to call “Mamfundara”. That lady fought a great battle in my life and today as I stand here on the plains of Europe, it’s all thanks to her for having allowed the Lord to use her to lay a foundation whose fruits would be realised 14 years later. She stood up and looked oppression into its eyes and commanded it to leave my life and it left.
Long live Rev D. Masuku, may your legacy live forever in my life. You are an “unsung” hero of my struggle to mastery. Long Live!!!!
No comments:
Post a Comment