My Children! My Africa! Page 3

  MR. M: I didn’t know what to expect. I knew that you would give me a sympathetic hearing, but that I would be swept off my feet, literally and figuratively . . . no. I was most certainly not prepared for that. Does my silly little idea really mean that much to you?

  ISABEL: None of that, Mr. M! It’s not silly and it’s not little and you know it.

  MR. M: All right. But does it really mean that much to you?

  ISABEL: Yes it does.

  MR. M (Persistent): But why?

  ISABEL: That visit to Zolile was one of the best things that has happened to me. I don’t want it to just end there. One visit and that’s it.

  Mr. M listens quietly, attentively, an invitation to Isabel to say more.

  It feels like it could be the beginning of something. I’ve met you and Thami and all the others and I would like to get to know you all better. But how do I do that? I can’t just go after you chaps like . . . well, you know what I mean. Roll up and knock on your doors like you were neighbors or just living down the street. It’s not as easy as that with us is it. You’re in the location I’m in the town . . . and all the rest of it. So there I was feeling more and more frustrated about it all when along you come with your “silly little” idea. It’s perfect! Do I make sense?

  MR. M: Most definitely. Make some more.

  ISABEL: I’ve been thinking about it you see. When I told my mom and dad about the debate and what a good time I’d had, I could see that they didn’t really understand what I was talking about. Specially my mom. I ended up getting very impatient with her which wasn’t very smart of me because the harder I tried to make her understand the more nervous she got. Anyway, I’ve cooled off now and I realize why she was like that. Being with black people on an equal footing, you know . . . as equals, because that is how I ended up feeling with Thami and his friends . . . that was something that had never happened to her. She didn’t know what I was talking about. And because she knows nothing about it, she’s frightened of it.

  MR. M: You are not.

  ISABEL: No. Not anymore.

  MR. M: So you were.

  ISABEL: Well, not so much frightened as sort of uncertain. You see, I thought I knew what to expect, but after a few minutes in Number One Classroom I realized I was wrong by a mile.

  MR. M: What had you expected, Isabel?

  ISABEL: You know, that everybody would be nice and polite and very, very grateful.

  MR. M: And we weren’t?

  ISABEL: You were, but not them. Thami and his friends. (She laughs at the memory) Ja, to be honest Mr. M, that family of yours was a bit scary at first. But not anymore! I feel I’ve made friends with Thami . . . and the others, so now it’s different.

  MR. M: Simple as that.

  ISABEL: Simple as that.

  MR. M: Knowledge has banished fear.

  ISABEL: That’s right.

  MR. M: Bravo. Bravo. And yet again Bravo! If you knew what it meant to me to hear you speak like that. I wasn’t wrong. From the moment I first shook hands with you I knew you were a kindred spirit.

  ISABEL: Tell me more about the competition.

  MR. M: First prize is five thousand rand which the bank has stipulated must be spent on books for the school library. We will obviously divide it equally between Camdeboo and Zolile when you and Thami win.

  ISABEL: Yes, what about my teammate. What does he say? Have you asked him yet?

  MR. M: No, I haven’t asked him Isabel, and I won’t. I will tell him, and when I do I trust he will express as much enthusiasm for the idea as you have. I am an old-fashioned traditionalist in most things young lady, and my classroom is certainly no exception. I Teach, Thami Learns. He understands and accepts that that is the way it should be. You don’t like the sound of that do you.

  ISABEL: Does sound a bit dictatorial you know.

  MR. M: It might sound that way but I assure you it isn’t. We do not blur the difference between the generations in the way that you white people do. Respect for authority, right authority, is deeply ingrained in the African soul. It’s all I’ve got when I stand there in Number One. Respect for my authority is my only teaching aid. If I ever lost it those young people will abandon their desks and take to the streets. I expect Thami to trust my judgment of what is best for him, and he does. That trust is the most sacred responsibility in my life.

  ISABEL: He’s your favorite, isn’t he?

  MR. M: Good Heavens! A good teacher doesn’t have favorites! Are you suggesting that I might be a bad one? Because if you are . . . (Looking around) you would be right young lady. Measured by that yardstick I am a very bad teacher indeed. He is my favorite. Thami Mbikwana! Yes, I have waited a long time for him. To tell you the truth I had given up all hope of him ever coming along. Any teacher who takes his calling seriously dreams about that one special pupil, that one eager and gifted young head into which he can pour all that he knows and loves and who will justify all the years of frustration in the classroom. There have been pupils that I’m proud of, but I’ve always had to bully them into doing their schoolwork. Not with Thami. He wants to learn the way other boys want to run out of the classroom and make mischief. If he looks after himself he’ll go far and do big things. He’s a born leader Isabel, and that is what your generation needs. Powerful forces are fighting for the souls of you young people. You need real leaders. Not rabble-rousers. I know Thami is meant to be one. I know it with such certainty it makes me frightened. Because it is a responsibility. Mine and mine alone.

  I’ve got a small confession to make. In addition to everything I’ve already said, there’s another reason for this idea of mine. When you and Thami shine at the Festival, as I know you will, and win first prize and we’ve pocketed a nice little check for five thousand rand, I am going to point to Thami and say: And now ladies and gentlemen, a full university scholarship if you please.

  ISABEL: And you’ll get it. We’ll shine, we’ll win, we’ll pocket that check and Thami will get a scholarship.

  Mr. M’s turn for an enthusiastic response.

  MR. M (Embarrassment and laughter): Your unruly behavior is very infectious!

  ISABEL: My unruly behavior? I like that! I caught that disease in the location I’ll have you know.

  MR. M: The future is ours Isabel. We’ll show this stupid country how it is done.

  ISABEL: When do we start?

  MR. M: Next week. We need to plan our campaign very carefully.

  ISABEL: I’ll be ready.

  SCENE 4

  Mr. M alone. He talks directly to the audience.

  MR. M: “I am a man who in the eager pursuit of knowledge forgets his food and in the joy of its attainment forgets his sorrows, and who does not perceive that old age is coming on.”

  (He shakes his head) No. As I’m sure you have already guessed, that is not me. My pursuit of knowledge is eager, but I do perceive, and only too clearly, that old age is coming on, and at the best of times I do a bad job of forgetting my sorrows. Those wonderful words come from the finest teacher I have ever had, that most wise of all the ancient philosophers . . . Confucius! Yes. I am a Confucian. A black Confucian! There are not many of us. In fact I think there’s a good chance that the only one in the country is talking to you at this moment.

  I claim him as my teacher because I have read very carefully, and many times, and I will read it many times more, a little book I have about him, his life, his thoughts and utterances. Truly, they are wonderful words my friends, wonderful, wonderful words! My classroom motto comes from its pages: “Learning undigested by thought is labor lost. Thought unassisted by learning is perilous!” But the words that challenge me most these days, is something he said towards the end of his life. At the age of seventy he turned to his pupils one day and said that he could do whatever his heart prompted, without transgressing what was right.

  What do you say to that?

  Think about it. Anything his heart prompted, anything that rose up as a spontaneous urge in his soul, without transgressing
what was right!

  What a heart my friends! Aren’t you envious of old Confucius? Wouldn’t it be marvelous to have a heart you could trust like that? Imagine being able to wake up in the morning in your little room, yawn and stretch, scratch a few fleabites and then jump out of your bed and eat your bowl of mealie-pap and sour milk with a happy heart because you know that when you walk out into the world you will be free to obey and act out, with a clear conscience, all the promptings of your heart. No matter what you see out there on the battle grounds of location streets, and believe me, there are days now when my eyesight feels more like a curse than a blessing, no matter what stories of hardship and suffering you hear, or how bad the news you read in the newspaper, knowing that the whole truth, which can’t be printed, is even worse . . . in spite of all that, you need have no fear of your spontaneous urges, because in obeying them you will not transgress what is right.

  (Another shake of his head, another rueful smile) No yet again. Not in this life, and most certainly not in this world where I find myself, will those wonderful words of Confucius ever be mine. Not even if I lived to be one hundred and seventy will I end up a calm, gentle Chinese heart like his. I wish I could. Believe me, I really wish I could. Because I am frightened of the one I’ve got. I don’t get gentle promptings from it my friends. I get heart attacks. When I walk out into those streets, and I see what is happening to my people, it jumps out and savages me like a wild beast. (Thumping his chest with a clenched fist) I’ve got a whole zoo in here, a mad zoo of hungry animals . . . and the keeper is frightened! All of them. Mad and savage!

  Look at me! I’m sweating today. I’ve been sweating for a week. Why? Because one of those animals, the one called Hope, has broken loose and is looking for food. Don’t be fooled by its gentle name. It is as dangerous as Hate and Despair would be if they ever managed to break out. You think I’m exaggerating? Pushing my metaphor a little too far? Then I’d like to put you inside a black skin and ask you to keep Hope alive, find food for it on these streets where our children, our loved and precious children go hungry and die of malnutrition. No, believe me, it is a dangerous animal for a black man to have prowling around in his heart. So how do I manage to keep mine alive, you ask. Friends, I am going to let you in on a terrible secret. That is why I am a teacher.

  It is all part of a secret plan to keep alive this savage Hope of mine. The truth is that I am worse than Nero feeding Christians to the lions. I feed young people to my Hope. Every young body behind a school desk keeps it alive.

  So you’ve been warned! If you see a hungry gleam in my eyes when I look at your children . . . you know what it means. That is the monster that stands here before you. Full name: Anela Myalatya. Age: fifty-seven. Marital status: bachelor. Occupation: teacher. Address: the back room of the Reverend Mbopa’s house next to the Anglican Church of St. Mark. It’s a little on the small side. You know those big kitchen-size boxes of matches they sell these days . . . well if you imagine one of those as Number One Classroom at Zolile High, then the little matchbox you put in your pocket is my room at the Reverend Mbopa’s. But I’m not complaining. It has got all I need . . . a table and chair where I correct homework and prepare lessons, a comfortable bed for a good night’s insomnia and a reserved space for my chair in front of the television set in the Reverend Mbopa’s lounge.

  So there you have it. What I call my life rattles around in these two matchboxes . . . the classroom and the back room. If you see me hurrying along the streets you can be reasonably certain that one of those two is my urgent destination. The people tease me. “Faster Mr. M” they shout to me from their front doors. “You’ll be late.” They think it’s a funny joke. They don’t know how close they are to a terrible truth . . .

  Yes! The clocks are ticking my friends. History has got a strict timetable. If we’re not careful we might be remembered as the country where everybody arrived too late.

  SCENE 5

  Mr. M waiting. Isabel hurries on, carrying hockey stick and togs, and her bookbag. She is hot and exhausted.

  ISABEL: Sorry Mr. M, sorry. The game started late.

  MR. M: I haven’t been waiting long.

  Isabel unburdens herself and collapses with a groan.

  Did you win?

  ISABEL: No. We played a team of friendly Afrikaans-speaking young Amazons from Jansenville and they licked us hollow. Four-one! It was brutal! God they were fit. And fast. They ran circles around us on that hockey field. I felt so stupid. I kept saying to myself “It’s only a game Isabel. Relax! Enjoy it! Have a good time!” But no, there I was swearing under my breath at poor little Hilary Castle for being slow and not getting into position for my passes.

  (Laughing at herself) You want to know something really terrible? A couple of times I actually wanted to go over and hit her with my hockey stick. Isn’t that awful? It’s no good Mr. M, I’ve got to face it: I’m a bad loser. Got any advice for me?

  MR. M: On how to be a good one?

  ISABEL: Ja. How to lose graciously. With dignity. I mean it. I really wish I could.

  MR. M: If I did have advice for you Isabel, I think I would be well advised to try it out on myself first . . .

  ISABEL: Why? You one as well?

  Mr. M nods.

  I don’t believe it.

  MR. M: It’s true, Isabel. I’m ashamed to say it but when I lose I also want to grab my hockey stick and hit somebody.

  A good laugh from Isabel.

  Believe me I can get very petty and mean if I’m not on the winning side. I suppose most bachelors end up like that. We get so used to having everything our own way that when something goes wrong . . .!

  So there’s my advice to you. Get married! If what I’ve heard is true, holy matrimony is the best school of all for learning how to lose.

  ISABEL: I don’t think it’s something you can learn. You’ve either got it or you haven’t. Like Thami. Without even thinking about it I know he’s a good loser.

  MR. M: Maybe.

  ISABEL: No. No maybes about it. He’d never grab his hockey stick and take it out on somebody else if he didn’t win.

  MR. M: You’re right. I can’t see him doing that. You’ve become good friends, haven’t you?

  ISABEL: The best. These past few weeks have been quite an education. I owe you a lot you know. I think Thami would say the same . . . if you would only give him the chance to do so.

  MR. M: What do you mean by that remark, young lady?

  ISABEL: You know what I mean by that remark, Mr. Teacher! It’s called Freedom of Speech.

  MR. M: I’ve given him plenty of Freedom, within reasonable limits, but he never uses it.

  ISABEL: Because you’re always the teacher and he’s always the pupil. Stop teaching him all the time Mr. M. Try just talking to him for a change . . . you know, like a friend. I bet you in some ways I already know more about Thami than you.

  MR. M: I don’t deny that. In which case tell me, is he happy?

  ISABEL: What do you mean? Happy with what? Us? The competition?

  MR. M: Yes, and also his school work and . . . everything else.

  ISABEL: Why don’t you ask him?

  MR. M: Because all I’ll get is another polite “Yes Teacher.” I thought maybe he had said something to you about the way he really felt.

  ISABEL (Shaking her head): The two of you! Its crazy!

  But ja, he’s happy. At least I think he is. He’s not a blabbermouth like me, Mr. M. He doesn’t give much away . . . even when we talk about ourselves. I don’t know what it was like in your time, but being eighteen years old today is a pretty complicated business as far as we’re concerned. If you asked me if I was happy, I’d say yes, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t got any problems. I’ve got plenty and I’m sure it’s the same with Thami.

  MR. M: Thami has told you he’s got problems?

  ISABEL: Come on, Mr. M! We’ve all got problems. I’ve got problems, you’ve got problems, Thami s got problems.

  MR. M: But did he
say what they were?

  ISABEL: You’re fishing for something, Mr. M. What is it?

  MR. M: Trouble, Isabel. I’m sorry to say it, but I’m fishing for Trouble and I’m trying to catch it before it gets too big.

  ISABEL: Thami is in trouble?

  MR. M: Not yet, but he will be if he’s not careful. And all his friends as well. It’s swimming around everywhere trying to stir up things. In the classroom, out on the streets.

  ISABEL: Oh, you mean that sort of trouble. Is it really as bad as people are saying?

  MR. M: There’s a dangerous, reckless mood in the location. Specially among the young people. Very silly things are being said Isabel, and I’ve got a suspicion that even sillier things are being whispered among themselves. I know Thami trusts you. I was wondering if he had told you what they were whispering about.

  ISABEL (Shocked by what Mr. M is asking of her): Wow! That’s a hard one you’re asking for Mr. M. Just suppose he had, do you think it would be right for me to tell you? We call that splitting, you know, and you’re not very popular if you’re caught doing it.

  MR. M: It would be for his own good Isabel.

  ISABEL: Well he hasn’t . . . thank God! So I don’t have to deal with that one. (Pause) If I ever did that to him, and he found out, that would be the end of our friendship you know. I wish you hadn’t asked me.

  MR. M (Realizing his mistake): Forgive me Isabel. I’m just over-anxious on his behalf. One silly mistake now could ruin everything. Forget that I asked you and . . . please . . . don’t mention anything about our little chat to Thami. I’ll find time to have a word with him myself.

  Thami appears, also direct from the sports field.

  THAMI: Hi folks. Sorry I’m late.

  ISABEL: I’ve just got here myself. Mr. M is the one who’s been waiting.

  THAMI: Sorry teacher. The game went into extra time.

  ISABEL: Did you win?

  THAMI: No. We lost one-nil.

  ISABEL: Good.

  THAMI: But it was a good game. We’re trying out some new combinations and they nearly worked. The chaps are really starting to come together as a team. A little more practice, that’s all we need.