Staffrider Vol.6 No.2 1985 - DISA

quickly back to my place. When Ilooked back he gave me an 'I'll get you'look.When the bell rang that afternoon,I was among the first group at the door.But I got two stabs and a good punchon the head before I could get out.Winter was the most terrible season.There was a small stove in the centre ofthe classroom. Each pupil contributeda few cents or pieces of coal to keepthe fire burning. But the stove was toosmall to warm the whole class andbesides, most of the window-panes werebroken. Only the teachers and those infront enjoyed the heat. Although wetook turns in sitting at the front noteverybody got his share, due to thehigh number of the class.On Fridays we used to get rations ofa powder-like stuff called phuzamandla,a kind of porridge. It was served byolder boys in each class but Monde,young and diminutive as he was, wasone of the servers in our class.It was the survival of the strongestbecause one had to fight like mad tostay in the queue, and some went homewith empty mugs or tins. Monde's ilkusually took home a larger share thanmost. The teachers stayed aloof to avoidbeing pestered over a matter they couldnot solve.liBrhatata nevercame back after failing hisSub A. He became the bossof the Navarones gang.On Fridays we were dismissed earlierand the whole school would gather in anopen space in front of the classroomsfor prayers.One day, after our rations of phuzamandla,we assembled. Miss Masuku,the feared one, conducted the service.She told us in no uncertain terms to putour mugs and tins down before westarted praying.Reluctantly I placed my mug on theground and clutched it between myfeet, keeping a vigilant eye on Mondeand his friends. He was in the next row,pretending to be oblivious of mypresence. To accentuate his indifferencehe stood on his toes as if trying topeep over the shoulder of a tall guystanding before him. He always stoodbehind tall guys. Every day the teacherswould order him to stand at the front.But the next day he would be back tohis place at the back.I knew this tiny guy's presencemeant trouble. I was right because whenI opened my eyes after we had chantedamen, my mug was nearly empty. Andthere, between my mug and his feet,was the tell-tale trail of phuzamandla.So angry was I that I did not evenwait for the teacher to dismiss us. Igrabbed him- by the scruff of his shirtand seized the mug he was trying tokeep out of my reach behind him.Clinging to my shirt front with hisleft hand, he tried to get hold of themug I was holding up in the air with theother. The mug tipped, spilling thecontents which painted his face white.It was the intervention of Miss Masukuthat saved me from the gang's punchesthat had begun to rain on me.I did not need to do muchexplaining; the headmaster knew herregular visitors very well. They receivedmore cuts than I did.Bhatata never came back after failinghis Sub A. He became the boss of theNavarones gang, a position Monde &Company viewed with envy. Usually,during lunch or after school, (after theMunicipal police pass raiders hadpassed) the Navarones would prancedown the street past the school — theirhats pulled over their eyes and theirtrousers hanging low on their hips.Sometimes we found them smokinggrass at the shops. We would watch withenvy mixed with awesome fear. Butthey never bothered us — they had notime for small fish.In Standard One I made friends witha lanky fellow called Edward Masondo.I may attribute our friendship to thefact that we were both victims ofharassment. But most unfortunately, wetook different directions after schooland so could not share our fear.Edward was very fond of speakingEnglish whenever conversing with me. Ioften wonder how we communicated inthis foreign language because I couldnever distinguish English from Afrikaansthen. I usually identified Afrikaans withthe word 'doen' which was commonlyused in the text book. But it botheredme that I did not know who 'doen' was.At times I thought it was the boywearing a cap on the cover of the book.All the same we did communicate. Iwish now that I had had a tape recorder.Because of his small round face, thegang called Edward 'Babyface'. Hehated this name more than anythingelse which inspired them to intensifyits use. The fact that he was alwaysdressed formally might have added tohis vulnerability and their acts ofprovocation.I was called Gandaganda (tractor)because of my big feet. With my sister'sadvice I ignored them and this discouragedprovocation, but the namestuck. Later they modernized it toGandy.One day Edward brought his bicycleto school which in those days was very... Ilhe bike wasin the toilet. We found ithanging from therafters.uncommon. After school he was in for asurprise. The gang hung around hisbike like flies hang around a rottencarcass. Monde wanted a short ride —just a short one, while Killer sat on therear parcel carriage, holding on toEdward's neat blazer urging him tocycle on. Some threw awkward questionsat him while others rocked the bike. Hissmall face flushed, Edward was close totears.At last he got free after getting apowerful shove that nearly drove himinto a fence. I felt sorry for Edward butintervention would have been justinviting more molesting on my side.He brought his machine again thenext day and put it in front of theprincipal's office, chaining the backwheel to the frame of the bicycle.When the bell rang that afternoonmy joy for a promised short ridediminished when the gang entered mymind. I was so obsessed with the machineI had absolutely forgotten about them.To our utter surprise, the bike wasmissing. Edward's face reddened withanger.We tripped round the school yard,Edward leading the way. The gang kepta low profile, laughing openly now andthen.Eventually a good Samaritan told usthe bike was in the toilet. We found ithanging from the rafters. Edwardwanted to report the matter to theprincipal but quickly decided against it.He must have thought of the harassmenthe would be inviting. After all, Mondevisited the principal's office nearly everyday, but that did not change him. Theybid him farewell by throwing orangepeels at him.The next day he put the bicycle inthe same place, chaining it to the polethis time. When we knocked off, bothwheels were flat and the valves weremissing. He had no option but to wheelit home.'Babyface, why don't you ride yourbicycle?' ridiculed Monde, his lipstwisted into a smile of satisfaction.His face contorted in bitterness,Edward continued to wheel his squeakingmachine, casting an angry look time andagain at this pint sized guy wearingoversized trousers and a tie for a belt.Looking up at him with a mockingsmile, he adjusted his trousers now andthen.'You remind me of a teacher fromSTAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985 3