Beneath the Shiny Surface

I was applying for a certain Master’s degree scholarship online and all was proceeding fairly well, until I got to this question in the form that really got my mind cogitating. I can’t really recall the exact way in which it was phrased but it was something of this sort: “Have you done any voluntary r charity work? Name the organisations you’ve volunteered for and what your role/position was.” In parentheses was that, voluntary or charity work you have done reflects that you care about the community and that you’re not too academically oriented.

   I reckon at face-value there seems to be nothing wrong or the matter with this question and its assertion that acts of charity show concern for humanity on the part of the applicant. But as you probe deeper, you open sort of a Pandora’s Box. The first question I asked myself was that why my voluntary work should be judged within the purview of a formal organisation and position? This led to other follow-up questions: What about that student with excellent grades in his undergraduate degree with academic awards to go with it, who dedicated his or her time to studying and with the little spare time that they had, squeezed in a part-time job to feed their poverty-stricken family? Or, for that matter, that student who, during his studies, worked part time, to pay for his or her younger siblings’ school fees? Do these foregoing selfless acts count within confines of the question quoted in the opening paragraph? Probably not. In any case, they’d think you are making it up. Perchance, to one not exposed to poverty, these questions I’ve raised are quite far-fetched, yet hypothetical as they may be; I personally knew people in almost similar circumstances during my university days.

   On another note, I asked myself how far does this criterion serve to sidetrack the scholarship board from its main aim of funding excelling students from disadvantaged communities/countries. In all candour, it is visible that to serve the disadvantaged has never been a priority. What this criterion translates to is that the scholarship is open to the so-called “burgeoning middle-class”, where charity and voluntary work is something to be quantified and recorded meticulously under the aegis of philanthro-capitalism.

My gripe is that this only serves to institutionalise bourgeois values, while turning a blind eye to the real poor folks. It would’ve been better if some of these scholarships never claim to be for the disadvantaged because they are not. They are for a middle-class who haven’t just enough quid to further post-graduate education. There you are ladies and gentlemen; it is something of a travesty. Once again, poor man, you are own your own.

Down Memory Lane

Down Memory Lane

The fact that I grew up being thrashed hard by both of my parents is indisputable. Perhaps, more to the point, all of the children in my family know what it is to be beaten by a belt, wooden spoon, or any other object deemed fit for discipline. I am not complaining though. Some of my friends had it worse. And, in retrospect, I was quite a stiff-necked and naughty little boy.

   I was about eight years old, if my memory serves me correctly, and the past week had been particularly bad: I am referring to the beatings. There had been many reasons for these, but I can’t remember each and every one of them (there were quite a lot). But I do remember that in a particular instance, in the week in question, I had come home way after the five o’clock in the evening curfew my mother had imposed during the winter season.

   In my defense, I hadn’t quite noticed that it was running late because we’d been playing inside my friend’s house with the curtains drawn closed. It was the purpose of the game: to get the room dark and play hide and seek. It was after a couple of hours of that monotonous game, when I had gone to the kitchen to drink some water, that I noticed the wall clock showing a quarter past five and ticking. I couldn’t believe it! I was almost convinced that something was wrong with the clock because it did look old and worn out. How come the rest of the house was still so bright, I had asked myself? Then I realised that the lights were on. To confirm that it was indeed a quarter past five, I dragged a stool to the kitchen window, climbed on it and drew the curtain open. I was satisfied: a reflection of myself on the window pane in the pitch black night.

   As you might have already guessed, my mother would hear none of this story. It was all a beautifully made up lie, she had concluded. She threw my tiny body on to the bed and stripped off my corduroy trousers and my red undies. Then the pinching of my equally tiny and black buttocks began. The period had seemed unending, but now when I think about it, it was not more than one-and-a-half minutes. I cried like a baby and hated my mother for it, for about an hour or so.

   Later, on the Saturday of that same week, my sister and I were supposed to go to church for our catechism classes, but we never got there on that particular day. Believe me; we hadn’t any intention to abscond these lessons. What happened was that we had walked from home to church; the Roman Catholic Church of the Mater Dolorosa Parish. It was a walk able distance, if one was really prepared; and we were. We’d set off earlier than usual, and had pocketed the money our father had given for transport. We now had other plans for the money.

   As we got to town, my sister (who was five years older than me) had made a suggestion that we buy boiled groundnuts from the street vendors that sat along Johnson Street who also sold a variety of fruits and vegetables. I readily agreed. There was nothing that I enjoyed than steaming groundnuts in a cold morning. We bought two packets, at two Emalangeni each, and had sat on the steps leading to the Mbabane National Library munching on our favourite snack. I honestly cannot recall how long we had sat there, but it was over an hour because when I ran to peek through the library glass door for time, the big clock hanging on the wall just above the wooden counter showed that it was twenty-five minutes to ten in the morning. The catechism classes had begun at nine o’clock.

   My sister had considered the situation for a few moments and came up with what seemed like a brilliant plan at the time. It was not. She’d said that it was no use going to church because the lessons would be over in just below twenty minutes. Knowing exactly that that was not the main reason for my panic (and hers too), she said we’d simply tell our father that we had attended those lessons, and how informative and inspiring they’d been! In case of an interrogation from my father, she would do the talking, and all I had to do was to show a solemn face as best as I could to whatever story she would spin. I agreed and trusted her. She had got away with it a few times, and I hoped we would put this one among the successful ones. But it was not to be.

   When we got home later that day, my father had enquired on how the classes had been. My sister did the talking. I tried to act calmly, but the more my father figured the questions, the more I became a nervous wreck. I thought I was sweating, but I wasn’t. I placed my palm on my forehead, in a bid to remove the sweat but it was dry as fallen autumn leaves. Then suddenly, my father forcefully bumped our heads together and a loud sharp sound, like that of the bell at school, ran through my big head. Still in that confused state, I heard my father call us “pathological” liars. I too, did not know what that meant at that time, but it did sound dreadfully terrible.

   He had told us that he had phoned the nun in charge of the catechism lessons, Sister Berletelli, and she’d told him that we that we never showed our faces that day. Our plan had failed, and we were dumbfounded. We got the hiding of our lives, administered with a whip, which is locally called “insilane”. I had vowed that day not to ever try and outsmart my father again. That too, was just wishful thinking. I probably broke my vow a couple of months after that incident.

   Now, after I had had the terrible experience the other week, I tried to behave. I tried to stay at home on this particular day, even though the weather was a fine one, except for the cold breeze that blew now and again, as if to remind one that it was the middle of the winter season. My mother called me, and told me to run to the shops, as fast as my short legs could carry me, to buy a few things that she needed to use that evening. The shop was about two kilometres away.

Not willing to disappoint, I took a short cut to the grocery store, to try and save time and impress my mother. Indeed, in a short while, I got to the grocery shop, bought my mother’s things, and a half-a-loaf of bread that belonged to a security guard who had stopped me on my way and asked me to buy him this item.

Now, because I was early, I decided to relax my pace. I tucked the security guard’s bread under my arm and held the plastic bag with the house’s shopping with my other hand. As I turned the corner at the end of Small Street, to join Crescent Street, at the end of which my house was located, a gate on one side of the street swung open. I was immediately worried and uneasy.

   The residents on this side of the street were notorious for the big and terrifying dogs they kept behind those tall “stop-nonsense” wall fences. Most of them were white people, very much concerned with safety. Nevertheless, I continued to walk, now at a quicker and panicky pace. Just when I was opposite the gate, trying by all means not to look at what was in the yard, there was a loud and ferocious bark from that house. My head and eyes (the latter now as big as two golf balls) involuntarily moved to that direction. I saw a white lady, heading for a navy-blue Opel Astra station-wagon, presumably to drive out of the yard. But I couldn’t have cared less, if she’d been headed to a chocolate and sweets factory, and wanted to offer me a ride. My eyes were focused on the two Alsatian dogs that were almost my height, which were now growling at me. The dark-red gums in their salivating mouths contrasted well with their white and sharp canine teeth; and made me all the more frightened.

   Now that I seriously think about it, I reckon the white woman did say something along the lines of: “Don’t run, these dogs are harmless”, but at that time I was at full speed, homebound. The darn things, or to be more precise, these terrible creatures were in pursuit. Worthy of mention is that, at some point in the ensuing chaos of flight and pursuit, I tripped and fell prostrate on the ground. I got up as quickly as I had fallen, looked back to find that the two dogs were covering ground, then ran like one whose life really depended on it. I did not want to die! But, I must give credit to myself in this life-threatening situation: I never dropped my mother’s plastic bag, or the security guard’s bread. Talk about loyalty.

   When I shot past the house where the security guard was stationed, I simply tossed the brown bread sideways to the direction of the gate, not stopping one minute. The guard shouted something—presumably thinking that I was up to some shenanigans—and fiddled with the padlock but, upon seeing the dogs come, he returned his keys to his pocket. The dogs, perhaps upon realising that they had no chance in having me for dinner, settled for the half-a-loaf that lay derelict on the lawn, next to the road. As for me, I did not rest until I got near our house’s main gate.

   I went in, still breathing heavily and my heart still pounding. As I eased into the kitchen my mother shouted from the other room: ‘Luzuko, is that you? You naughty boy! Your teacher just called me and said that you were in a fight last week.’ And there, on top of the table that stood at the centre of the room, lay a brown leather belt. I couldn’t say anything. My heart just sank.