kagablog

“There is always more than one reason to cry” Miss Mkhize taught us one day in class as she explained how one object can be used for various purposes. In the middle of that lesson which I was struggling to grasp a dry bone from an unfortunate dead cow shattered through the school window almost…

Okay, scratch, let me start this from the beginning as if I was writing a school composition.

One good thing about being eleven is that you experience first things twice as much. So when I was eleven I thought Adelaide was the most beautiful girl I had ever loved. When she laughed dimples would appear on her tomato like ripe cheeks. My love for her had no precedence, it was pure untainted and devoid of any lust.

I loved her from a distance even though she sat just in front of me in class. My love for her consisted of mainly of dreaming about saving her from imaginary school bullies like our classmate Mshini who terrorized the centers of learning. As he dragged her kicking and screaming I would emerge out of nowhere to beat him up with the karate kicks I had acquired from the Bruce Lee films. As he laid down writhing in agony on the ground I would take Adelaide by hand and lead her into the sunset where we would live happily ever after. No one knew about my secret love for her except my dear friend Advocate. As I sat behind her in class breathing down her tender neck I would be disturbed by the melodic voice of Mistress Mkhize as she called my name and instructed me to read from a book for the whole class.

Now Miss Mkhize was my other first love that was completely separate from that of Adelaide. She was everything beautiful about an older woman with her big black wig, big eyes, doll like face, two piece suits and high heeled shoes. Everyone in class knew that she had a soft spot for me and as a reward she sent me around to do all kinds of errands like buying her vetkoeks and polony from the tea room at the corner of the school. At primary school being the errand boy was a special privilege reserved only for the privileged few and the most intelligent.

I was particularly proud of being the errand boy of Clernaville, a school, situated in an area affectionately known as Tigers in the township of Clermont. I had earned the privilege of being the errand boy for my constantly good marks. In the June half yearly examination I had topped the class, again, by coming out first for which I had received a golden star certificate and a pat on my clean shaven head from the school principal in full view of the entire school assembly. My friend, Advocate, on being berated by his mother for failing his exams had responded in his defence “how could I pass mom, Desmond takes away all the marks leaving the other kids nothing”. His mother had responded jealously it was convenient that I Desmond, should come out tops, after all my father was an ex boyfriend of Miss Mkhize from their high school days.

Though I felt this was just sour grapes from a jealous mother a lot of things suddenly made sense to me. During recess and lunch breaks Miss Mkhize would shower me with gifts like biscuits and scones which I would happily wash down with a glass of Oros which we called squash for reasons unknown to me. In that process of eating and drinking squash she would ask me a lot of strange questions like how my father was doing and if he was still married to my mother.

I would innocently reply that yes my father was doing fine and yes he was still married to my mother. At home, my mother was also very curious to know about my beautiful mistress. She would ask things like “does she still wear those crimplene suits? On finding out about the occasional lunch I received from Miss Mkhize she was enraged “You must tell that whore of yours Pretty Mkhize to stop feeding my son rotten food, she will poison him with her love for you”.

My father, who was by nature a calm person just sighed and muttered “women” as he continued reading from his Daily News. At times I found adult talk very strange, how could anyone poison you with love? And why did adults always conversed as if children were not around? I wondered. Through these conversations I soon gathered my father and Miss Mkhize had once been lovers at high school and at one time they were even engaged to be married. But my father, a talented saxophone player and stage actor at the time who was also very popular with women had broken off the engagement. He had suddenly left with his band on a tour of Europe leaving Miss Mkhize heartbroken.

When he came back a more matured and worldly man he had married my mother who she had impregnated while they were acting in the same drama group. When I heard this I was temporarily devastated. I could never understand the logic of my father dumping a mistress for a housewife. Had they been married with Miss Mkhize, I would have been the son of a mistress.

“There is always more than one reason to cry” Miss Mkhize taught us one day in class as she explained how one object can be used for various purposes. In the middle of that lesson which I was struggling to grasp a dry bone from an unfortunate dead cow shattered through the school window almost hitting one of the classmates. Chaos broke out as we ran around screaming. We were to soon find out that some naughty kids, playing outside the school gates had been throwing various objects at each other one of which was a dry bone that came in through the window.

In the commotion that followed I found myself slipping the bone into my plastic which served as a school bag for no apparent reason and soon forgot all about it for some few weeks.

One day my friend Advocate who was five years older than me, (Advocate had herded cattle in the rural areas of Nongoma for five years before going to school) and was more experienced when it came to girls decided I should do something about my love for Adelaide. He suggested I write her a letter. So I quickly scribbled a letter with some good tips from him which read
“Dear Adelaide, the address is love street, when I think of you the gates of Jericho are opened and my heart jumps like a frog, to me each day starts by thinking of you and ends by dreaming of you, I always miss you like sugar misses water”.
I passed on the letter to Adelaide with a trembling hand as Advocate looked on approvingly. She was a still reading the love letter with a hidden smile on her face when Mshini, the feared class bully snapped it away from her.

He quickly read it and gave it to his friend Polite who passed it on to Felicitas who gave it to Goodenough (pronounced Goodnough) who handed it to Wiseman. Soon the letter was like a ball being passed on from one player to another in the whole class. I moved swiftly to try and intercept the ball from a boy called Psychology, but the letter was soon flying all the way to Miss Mkhize’s table. She had a good laugh before giving me five hot strokes for playing adult games and throwing the letter into the bin. During lunch break, Advocate decided the letter which now resembled a tissue paper was now fine enough to be used for toilet purposes. He rescued it from the bin and flushed some of my very first writings down the toilet.

After school, with the Bic pen I had used to write the letter to Adelaide I boldly stabbed Mshini in the back. But the sadistic bully, looking unhurt was not to be rushed to war. Mshini was a tall athletic figure who it was rumored did not feel the cold. He never wore a jersey and would walk bare footed for the whole year, winter or summer. He would kick stones with his toes just to show off his well trained feet. When I first heard the definition of the word ogre he immediately sprang to my mind. He simply challenged me to an open fight on Friday after school. The Friday after school battles were legendary. They were called “pero” for reasons unknown to me and the whole school would gather at the gates cheering on the winner. They were also called “fair fights” pronounced as “fear fight” as no weapons were allowed in the duel.

On the scheduled Friday of the fight Mshini dropped me so many times I lost count. But I rose up every time he dropped me until everyone stopped cheering and begged me to stay down. A defeated Mshini finally gave up and walked away. With a swollen eye and blood oozing from my nostrils Advocate and Adelaide nursed me with an ice block and saw me home. I was really proud of myself and hoped that Adelaide would be impressed by my courage in the face of the adversity called Mshini. When I told my parents I had hit a pole playing soccer they gave me a knowing look that said we have been there done that.

As the year was drawing to a close it was time for all pupils to be busy with handcraft which went to the final year examination marks. Through some stroke of inspiration I remembered the bone in the plastic bag. I simply wrapped beads of all colours around it and wrote my name Desmond with the beads. I was particularly proud of this name since my father had named me after a famous priest he liked who had gone on to win the Nobel peace prize. I tied the bone and let it hung loose like a necklace with a string. With a little help from my father I created a wooden frame for it and hung it like a work of art. It was beautiful.

The bone that had been some poor cow’s limb, one man’s meat and another’s poison, then some naughty boy’s weapon of war and some creative genius’ work of art was now Miss Khumalo’s end of the year gift. I had finally understood the lesson: There is always more than one reason to cry. When I finally presented my handcraft to Miss Khumalo she burst down and cried. “You are such a poet, just like your father” she said clutching the work close to her bosom and walked away. Me I thought anyone who cried over a decorated bone was a poet.