My Children! My Africa! Page 4

  ISABEL: Hear that, Mr. M? What did I tell you. And look at him. Smiling! Happy! Even in defeat, a generous word for his teammates.

  THAMI: What’s going on?

  ISABEL: Don’t try to look innocent Mbikwana. Your secret is out. Your true identity has been revealed. You are a good loser, and don’t try to deny it.

  THAMI: Me? You’re wrong. I don’t like losing.

  ISABEL: It’s not a question of liking or not liking, but of being able to do so without a crooked smile on your face, a knot in your stomach and murder in your heart.

  THAMI: You lost your game this afternoon.

  ISABEL: Whatever made you guess! We were trounced. So be careful. I’m looking for revenge.

  MR. M: Good! Then let’s see if you can get it in the arena of English literature. What do we deal with today?

  THAMI: Nineteenth-century poetry.

  MR. M (With relish): Beautiful! Beautiful! Beautiful! (Making himself comfortable) Whose service?

  Thami picks up a stone, hands behind his back, then clenched fists for Isabel to guess. She does. She wins. Their relationship is now obviously very relaxed and easy.

  ISABEL: Gird your loins, Mbikwana. I want blood.

  THAMI: I wish you the very best of luck.

  ISABEL: God, I hate you.

  MR. M: First service, please.

  ISABEL: Right. I’ll give you an easy one to start with. The Lake Poets. Name them.

  THAMI: Wordsworth . . .

  ISABEL: Yes, he was one. Who else?

  THAMI: Wordsworth and . . .

  ISABEL: There was only one Wordsworth.

  THAMI: I pass.

  ISABEL: Wordsworth, Southey and Coleridge.

  THAMI: I should have guessed Coleridge!

  MR. M: One-love.

  ISABEL: First line of a poem by each of them please.

  THAMI: Query Mr. Umpire . . . how many questions is that?

  MR. M: One at a time please Isabel.

  ISABEL: Coleridge.

  THAMI: “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

  A stately pleasure dome decree . . .”

  And if you don’t like that one what about:

  “‘Tis the middle of the night by the castle clock,

  And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;

  Tu—whit! Tu—whoo!”

  And if you’re still not satisfied . . .

  ISABEL: Stop showing off young man.

  MR. M: One-all.

  ISABEL: Wordsworth.

  THAMI: “Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty . . .”

  MR. M: One-two.

  ISABEL: Southey.

  THAMI: Pass.

  ISABEL: “From his brimstone bed at break of day

  A-walking the Devil is gone . . .

  His jacket was red and his breeches were blue,

  And there was a hole where the tail came through.”

  THAMI: Hey, I like that one!

  ISABEL: A poet laureate to boot.

  MR. M: Two-all.

  ISABEL: One of them was expelled from school. Who was it and why?

  THAMI: Wordsworth. For smoking in the lavatory.

  ISABEL (After a good laugh): You’re terrible Thami. He should be penalized Mr. Umpire . . . for irreverence! It was Southey and the reason he was expelled—you’re going to like this—was for writing a “precocious” essay against flogging.

  THAMI: How about that!

  MR. M: Three-two. Change service.

  THAMI: I am not going to show you any mercy. What poet

  was born with deformed feet, accused of incest and died of fever while helping the Greeks fight for freedom? “A love of liberty characterizes his poems and the desire to see the fettered nations of Europe set free.”

  ISABEL: Byron.

  THAMI: Lord Byron if you please.

  MR. M: Two-four.

  ISABEL: One of your favorites.

  THAMI: You bet.

  “Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,

  Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind.”

  Do you know the Christian names of Lord Byron?

  ISABEL: Oh dammit! . . . it’s on the tip of my tongue. Henry?

  Thami shakes his head.

  Herbert?

  THAMI: How many guesses does she get, Mr. Umpire?

  ISABEL: All right, give him the point. I pass.

  THAMI: George Gordon.

  MR. M: Three-four.

  THAMI: To whom was he unhappily married for one long year?

  ISABEL: Pass.

  THAMI: Anne Isabella Milbanke.

  MR. M: Four-all.

  THAMI: Father’s occupation?

  ISABEL: Pass.

  THAMI: John Byron was a captain in the army.

  MR. M: Five-four.

  THAMI: What other great poet was so overcome with grief when he heard news of Lord Byron’s death, that he went out and carved into a rock: “Byron is dead.”

  ISABEL: Matthew Arnold?

  THAMI: No. Another aristocrat . . . Alfred Lord Tennyson.

  MR. M: Six-four. Change service.

  ISABEL: Right. Whose body did your Lord Byron burn on a beach in Italy?

  THAMI: Shelley.

  MR. M: Four-seven.

  ISABEL: And what happened to Mr. Shelley’s ashes?

  THAMI: In a grave beside John Keats in Rome.

  MR. M: Four-eight.

  ISABEL: Shelley’s wife. What is she famous for?

  THAMI: Which one? There were two. Harriet Westbrook, sixteen years old, who he abandoned after three years and who drowned herself? Or number two wife—who I think is the one you’re interested in—Mary Wollstonecraft, the author of Frankenstein.

  MR. M: Four-nine.

  ISABEL: How much?

  MR. M: Four-nine.

  ISABEL: I don’t believe this! (She grabs her hockey stick)

  THAMI (Enjoying himself immensely): I crammed in two poets last night, Isabel. Guess who they were?

  ISABEL: Byron and Shelley. In that case we will deal with Mr. John Keats. What profession did he abandon in order to devote himself to poetry?

  THAMI: Law.

  ISABEL: You’re guessing and you’re wrong. He qualified as a surgeon.

  MR. M: Five-nine.

  ISABEL: What epitaph, composed by himself, is engraved on his tombstone in Rome?

  THAMI: Pass.

  ISABEL: “Here lies one whose name was writ on water.”

  MR. M: Six-nine. Let’s leave the Births, Marriages and Deaths column please. I want to hear some more poetry.

  THAMI: Whose service?

  MR. M: Yours.

  THAMI: “I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

  And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by . . .”

  ISABEL: “And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

  And a grey mist on the sea’s face and a grey dawn breaking. . . .

  I must go down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life,

  To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife . . .”

  THAMI: “And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

  And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.”

  MR. M: Bravo! Bravo! Bravo! But who gets the point?

  ISABEL: Give it to John Masefield, Mr. Umpire. (To Thami) Nineteenth century?

  THAMI: He was born in 1878. To tell you the truth I couldn’t

  resist it. You choose one.

  ISABEL: “I met a traveller from an antique land

  Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal the
se words appear:”

  THAMI: “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

  ISABEL: “Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

  THAMI: And that point goes to Mr. Shelley.

  ISABEL (Takes notebook from her bookbag): You’ll be interested to know gentlemen that Ozymandias is not a fiction of Mr. Shelley’s very fertile imagination. He was a real, live Egyptian king. Rameses the Second! According to Everyman’s Encyclopedia . . . “One of the most famous of the Egyptian kings . . . erected many monuments . . . but his oppressive rule left Egypt impoverished and suffering from an incurable decline.”

  THAMI: What happened to the statue?

  ISABEL: You mean how was it toppled?

  THAMI: Yes.

  ISABEL: Didn’t say. Weather I suppose. And time. Two thousand four hundred B.C. . . . That’s over four thousand years ago. Why? What were you thinking?

  THAMI: I had a book of Bible stories when I was small, and there was a picture in it showing the building of the pyramids by the slaves. Thousands of them, like ants, pulling the big blocks of stone with ropes, being guarded by soldiers with whips and spears. According to that picture the slaves must have easily outnumbered the soldiers one hundred to one. I actually tried to count them all one day but the drawing wasn’t good enough for that.

  ISABEL: What are you up to, Mbikwana? Trying to stir up a little social unrest in the time of the Pharaohs, are you?

  THAMI: Don’t joke about it Miss Dyson. There are quite a few Ozymandiases in this country waiting to be toppled. And you’ll see it happen. We won’t leave it to Time to bring them down.

  Mr. M has been listening to the exchange between Thami and Isabel very attentively.

  MR. M (Trying to put a smile on it): Who is the we you speak of with such authority Thami?

  THAMI: The People.

  MR. M (Recognition): Yes, yes, yes, of course . . . I should have known. “The People” . . . with a capital P. Does that include me? Am I one of “The People”?

  THAMI: If you choose to be.

  MR. M: I’ve got to choose have I. My black skin doesn’t confer automatic membership. So how do I go about choosing?

  THAMI: By identifying with the fight for our Freedom.

  MR. M: As simple as that? Then I am most definitely one of “The People.” I want our Freedom as much as any of you. In fact, I was fighting for it in my own small way long before you were born! But I’ve got a small problem. Does that noble fight of ours really have to stoop to pulling down a few silly statues? Where do you get the idea that we, “The People,” want you to do that for us?

  THAMI (Trying): They are not our heroes, teacher.

  MR. M: They are not our statues Thami! Wouldn’t it be better for us to rather put our energies into erecting a few of our own? We’ve also got heroes, you know.

  THAMI: Like who, Mr. M? Nelson Mandela? (Shaking his head with disbelief) Hey! They would pull that statue down so fast—

  MR. M (Cutting him off): In which case they would be just as guilty of gross vandalism . . . because that is what it will be, regardless of who does it to whom. Destroying somebody else’s property is inexcusable behavior!

  No Thami. As one of the People you claim to be acting for, I raise my hand in protest. Please don’t pull down any statues on my behalf. Don’t use me as an excuse for an act of Lawlessness. If you want to do something “revolutionary” for me let us sit down and discuss it, because I have a few constructive alternatives I would like to suggest. Do I make myself clear?

  THAMI: Yes teacher.

  MR. M: Good. I’m glad we understand each other.

  ISABEL (Intervening): So, what’s next? Mr. M? How about singling out a few specific authors who we know will definitely come up. Like Dickens. I bet you anything you like there’ll be questions about him and his work.

  MR. M: Good idea. We’ll concentrate on novelists. A short list of hot favorites.

  ISABEL: Thomas Hardy . . . Jane Austen . . . who else, Thami?

  MR. M: Put your heads together and make a list. I want twenty names. Divide it between the two of you and get to work. I must be on my way.

  ISABEL: Just before you go Mr. M, I’ve got an invitation for you and Thami from my mom and dad. Would the two of you like to come to tea one afternoon?

  MR. M: What a lovely idea!

  ISABEL: They’ve had enough of me going on and on about the all-knowing Mr. M and his brilliant protégé Thami. They want to meet you for themselves. Thami? All right with you?

  MR. M: Of course we accept Isabel. It will be a pleasure and a privilege for us to meet Mr. and Mrs. Dyson. Tell them we accept most gratefully.

  ISABEL: Next Sunday.

  MR. M: Perfect.

  ISABEL: Thami?

  MR. M: Don’t worry about him, Isabel. I’ll put it in my diary and remind him at school.

  Mr. M leaves.

  ISABEL (Sensitive to a change of mood in Thami): I think you’ll like my folks. My mom’s a bit on the reserved side but that’s just because she’s basically very shy. But you and my dad should get on well. Start talking sport with him and he won’t let you go. He played cricket for E.P. you know. (Pause) You will come, won’t you?

  THAMI (Edge to his voice): Didn’t you hear Mr. M? “A delight and a privilege! We accept most gratefully.” (Writing in his notebook) Charles Dickens . . . Thomas Hardy . . . Jane Austen . . .

  ISABEL: Was he speaking for you as well?

  THAMI: He speaks for me on nothing!

  ISABEL: Relax . . . I know that. That’s why I tried to ask you separately and why I’ll ask you again. Would you like to come to tea next Sunday to meet my family? It’s not a polite invitation. They really want to meet you.

  THAMI: Me? Why? Are they starting to get nervous?

  ISABEL: Oh come off it Thami. Don’t be like that. They’re always nervous when it comes to me. But this time it happens to be genuine interest. I’ve told you. I talk about you at home. They know I have a good time with you . . . that we’re a team . . . which they are now very proud of incidentally . . . and that we’re cramming like lunatics so that we can put up a good show at the Festival. Is it so strange that they want to meet you after all that? Honestly, sometimes dealing with the two of you is like walking on a tightrope. I’m always scared I’m going to put a foot wrong and . . . well I just hate being scared like that.

  A few seconds of truculent silence between the two of them.

  What’s going on Thami? Between you two? There’s something very wrong isn’t there?

  THAMI: No more than usual.

  ISABEL: No you don’t. A hell of a lot more than usual and don’t deny it because it’s getting to be pretty obvious. I mean I know he gets on your nerves. I knew that the first day we met. But it’s more than that now. These past couple of meetings I’ve caught you looking at him, watching him in a . . . I don’t know . . . in a sort of hard way. Very critical. Not just once. Many times. Do you know you’re doing it?

  Shrug of the shoulders from Thami.

  Well if you know it or not you are. And now he’s started as well.

  THAMI: What do you mean?

  ISABEL: He’s watching you.

  THAMI: So? He can watch me as much as he likes. I’ve got nothing to hide. Even if I had he’d be the last person to find out. He sees nothing Isabel.

  ISABEL: I think you are very wrong.

  THAMI: No, I’m not. That’s his trouble. He’s got eyes and ears but he sees nothing and hears nothing.

  ISABEL: Go on. Please. (Pause) I mean it Thami. I want to know what’s going on.

  THAMI: He is out of touch with what is really happening to us blacks and the way we feel about things. He thinks the world is still the way it was when he was young. It’s not! It’s different now, but he’s too blind to see it. He doesn’t open his eyes and ears and see what is happening around him or listen to what people are
saying.

  ISABEL: What are they saying?

  THAMI: They’ve got no patience left, Isabel. They want change. They want it now!

  ISABEL: But he agrees with that. He never stops saying it himself.

  THAMI: No. His ideas about change are the old-fashioned ones. And what have they achieved? Nothing. We are worse off now than we ever were. The people don’t want to listen to his kind of talk anymore.

  ISABEL: I’m still lost, Thami. What kind of talk is that?

  THAMI: You’ve just heard it, Isabel. It calls our struggle vandalism and lawless behavior. It’s the sort of talk that expects us to do nothing and wait quietly for white South Africa to wake up. If we listen to it our grandchildren still won’t know what it means to be Free.

  ISABEL: And those old-fashioned ideas of his . . . are we one of them?

  THAMI: What do you mean?

  ISABEL: You and me. The competition.

  THAMI: Let’s change the subject, Isabel. (From his notebook) Charles Dickens . . . Thomas Hardy . . . Jane Austen . . .

  ISABEL: No! You can’t do that! I’m involved. I’ve got a right to know. Are we an old-fashioned idea?

  THAMI: Not our friendship. That is our decision, our choice.

  ISABEL: And the competition?

  THAMI (Uncertain of himself): Maybe . . . I’m not sure. I need time to think about it.

  ISABEL (Foreboding): Oh boy. This doesn’t sound so good. You’ve got to talk to him Thami.

  THAMI: He won’t listen.

  ISABEL: Make him listen!

  THAMI: It doesn’t work that way with us Isabel. You can’t just stand up and tell your teacher he’s got the wrong ideas.

  ISABEL: Well that’s just your bad luck because you are going to have to do it. Even if it means breaking sacred rules and traditions, you have got to stand up and have it out with him.

  I don’t think you realize what all of this means to him. It’s a hell of a lot more than just an “old-fashioned idea” as far as he’s concerned. This competition, you and me, but especially you, Thami Mbikwana, has become a sort of crowning achievement to his life as a teacher. It’s become a sort of symbol for him, and if it were to all suddenly collapse. . .! No. I don’t want to think about it.

  THAMI (Flash of anger and impatience): Then don’t! Please leave it alone now and just let’s get on with whatever it is we’ve got to do.