Tribute To My Teacher

We all did have that Grade Seven primary school teacher whom we feared worse than ghosts and tikoloshes ( the closest thing I can think of are leprechauns) that wreaked havoc in the tales our mothers and fathers told us when we were young. This teacher was usually a man (no surprise there) and was famous for his agility in administering corporal punishment to the errant and insubordinate student, as well as to the well-behaved. I reckon that is where the consolation laid—no one was safe from this marauding beast. You could be doing something as innocent and necessary as adjusting your undies beneath your khaki shorts, and you’d be accused of “playing” and not concentrating.

   This bully-teacher would go out of the classroom for a few minutes and when he returned, anything as low giggles, the drop of a pen, silent whispers—or anything that his ear caught—would be classified by him as  abhorrent noisemaking. And by extension that would mean lack of discipline on the part of the defenceless pupils. Thereafter it would be game time. You’d be thrashed with a dry bamboo stick, whipped with an electric cord, or flogged with a leather belt. You see, the weapon of choice depended on the mood of the teacher; the great exacting educationist.

   Now let me make it clear that this kind of a teacher was a preserve—and a creation I dare say—of government or public schools. So as such, some of my friends and all those who went to private schools had no experience of this kind of education. They would listen to us in rapt attention, jaws agape, as we the unfortunate victims of public education, told our arresting stories of our Grade Seven teachers, who were sent straight from the dark and murky dungeons of hell— with compliments.

   With childishness, they’d envy (can you believe it!) us and wish that they were also in on the action that went down every day on the “public side”. Now when I think about it, I realise that they kind of felt isolated because the majority of us went to public schools didn’t find their teachers at the “private side” interesting. Hell, if anything, we thought private education was a bore! The punishments (that is what they called it) seemed bizarre and a bit of a joke: with all the two-hour detentions, time-outs (whatever on earth that is) and extra homework. So in our uncanny way, we were the heroes in the eyes of our friends who went to private schools and that kind of felt good. But the flogging didn’t.

   Let it be put in the open that there was always a heated debate amongst us who attended kaHulumende (government) schools, on who had the worst Grade Seven teacher. Each and every one of us within my circle of friends (there were three of us) would come back from our different schools to tell of the torture we’d undergone that day. We’d try to outdo each other in our stories and, no doubt, we added a bit of curry and garlic here and there in a bid to have the most tantalising story. And stories did come out. One of my friends would begin, as solemnly as he could: ‘Today I had a donkey-ride.’ Satisfied with the puzzled look we’d offer in return of this brief and indeed puzzling statement, he’d continue to tell us that the “donkey-ride” was a kind of punishment their teacher had inflicted on them, He’d then go into all the gory details and end by noting that after their teacher was done, everyone was crying, including the beard-shaving seventeen year old boy who sat at the front row. In fact, he’d add, this old boy had been the first one to “ride” and cried like a baby.

   There’s tonnes of these stories we shared amongst ourselves, but the most important thing when narrating your experience was to make it seem as bloody as possible, and of course, a scar, or some kind of scratch on your face, hand or behind; or wherever really, got you the bonus points. It was only then that we’d take you seriously. Notwithstanding my two friends’ ability to spin a pretty good and convincing yarn, I still held that I had the worst Grade Seven teacher. “You needed to be there bafethu,’ I would say resignedly when I realised that my story had not been very convincing. ‘You are playing man,’ one of my friends would answer back, smug as ever. This was normally the chap who a good story and evidence (scars and that sort of thing) to back it up. ‘You too have no idea what happens at my school.’

   The only time I recall having narrated the most-convincing butt-thrashing story was this one time when our teacher (from now on to be referred to as Mr Beast) pulled this unbelievable stunt on some of my classmates and I. I swear I am not making this up. It was a cold winter day and we were just a few hundreds of metres away from our school. Grade Seven lessons had been shifted to begin at 0700 hours sharp, to “cover lost time”, as it was customary in most public schools. Might I humbly add that there hadn’t been “any time lost” but just slacking on the part of our teacher, usually in the previous year. So now we had to accommodate that laziness and catch up. It was for our own good, he’d say, or the exam would murder us. No one wanted that, so we obliged. I digress.

   It was a bunch of us Grade Seven As and we were walking to the school, talking or should I say shouting about something that had happened the previous day at school. Then, out of the blue, a man clad in a greyish pair of trousers, a black shirt and a pink tie flapping in the cold and dry winter air over his shoulder dashed past us at full-speed. When he was about ten metres ahead of us, he looked back at us over his shoulder and his face had that unmistakable evil toothless smile that we both feared and hated. The man was Mr Beast. We tried running after him, and maybe catching up or out-pacing him, but in vain. He was a lean-built fellow with long legs like the spider a daddy-long-legs spider. The fact that he was already ahead of us and that we had heavy school-bags strapped on to our tiny backs didn’t help either.

   The long and short of the story really is that we found Mr Beast waiting for us in class with a bamboo stick lying in anticipation on the wooden teacher’s desk. We weren’t really late; it was not yet seven o’clock. But Mr Beast said that we had to be reminded that pupils must never come after the teacher in class. He had asked the pupils who were already seated in their red chairs whether that was not the case, and an all-resounding YES! Boomed and filled the four-cornered classroom. We had been charged, tried and pronounced guilty. It was time for the sentence. We were given twelve blistering strokes, four on either hand, and eight on the buttocks. From that day forth, I got to school at half-past six in the morning. Just in case.

Sticking by a Friend: Swaziland and Taiwan's Relations

While the rest of Africa is running helter-skelter in excitement because of investment the People’s Republic of China (hereafter referred to as mainland China) is pouring into Africa, Swaziland has continued to stick to her guns, and has continued to be a faithful ally of the Republic of China on Taiwan (hereafter referred to as Taiwan). In fact, Swaziland is one of the few countries in Africa (others being the Gambia and Burkina Faso) that has diplomatic ties with Taiwan. And it seems, if Swaziland’s former Foreign Affairs Minister, Lutfo Dlamini’s words are anything to go by, the relationship is one that is still going to be around for quite a long time. The minister was quoted in the media as having described Swaziland’s relationship with Taiwan as, “a marriage that will not end in a divorce, even if mainland China were to approach the country”.

   But the question that boggles people’s minds is why Swaziland has continued to stick by Taiwan’s side when mainland China throws in hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of investment and other infrastructural projects in Africa. There is no easy or definite answer to such a question but one can raise a series of postulations that seek to understand and explain such a position. The first one relates to the fact that Taiwan is not necessarily picky when it comes to its allies in spite of flaunting democratic credentials. It has lost most of its allies ever since it was kicked out of the United Nations (UN) in 1971, and its seat was handed over to mainland China. Therefore its general position of not meddling into a country’s local politics, it is argued, has given the regime of Swaziland one less ally to worry about in as far as benchmarks such as the respect for human rights and adherence to democracy and good governance are concerned. Yet a counter argument could be that mainland too has been known for dealing and supporting despotic regimes so long as her ends are met, and she too has a questionable human rights record.

   Another reason could be that of the investment that Taiwan has brought to Swaziland over the past forty-two years or so. Taiwan’s investment in Swaziland over the decades is estimated at about US $90 million. Also, Taiwan has been involved in many development projects in the country such as rural electrification, medical missions working in hospitals and rural clinics. All of these projects have in a sense impacted the lives of the ordinary people in the rural areas. It is also said that there are about twenty-five Taiwanese-owned factories in Swaziland—mostly in the garment sector—employing about fifteen thousand people, mostly women. It must be noted though, that these companies have time and again been accused of unfair labour practices and paying the workers starvation wages. Yet even with this argument, it does not necessarily follow that Swaziland wouldn’t reap the same benefits—or even more—with a relationship with mainland China.

   The relationship between these two nations is not only one-sided but does have a dimension of reciprocity to it. Swaziland lobbies for Taiwan’s inclusion in the UN and in other international and multilateral institutions. Again, the former Foreign Affairs Minister was quoted as having said: “We are proud of ourselves that we have always stood by Taiwan, even in the UN. This is why we take pride that today Taiwan is part of the World Health Organisation (WHO), and this is our wish that one day Taiwan will be recognised by all the bodies because of the value and role the people of Taiwan play in the development of the world.

Perhaps what also influences Swaziland’s stance is its unwillingness to switch sides from an ally they’ve had cordial dealings with for over four decades, to a country they’ve absolutely no idea of how it operates, and that is mainland China. The authorities may fear that in their dealings with mainland China, they would have to compete with other African countries for investment, of which they may not be able to secure a large share. But there is another view that it may not necessarily boil down to choosing between the two countries. It has been pointed out that the relations between China and Taiwan have been thawing recently, and therefore Swaziland could have the best of both worlds.

   And indeed, the Swaziland government seems to be open to such a possibility. Asked by reporters if China has tried to force the country to switch allegiance to Beijing, the former Minister of Foreign Affairs is supposed to have said: “…they (China) have yet to approach the country”. He continued to say, “But let me give this example: When you are young and beautiful, a lot of men want to marry you, and there is nothing wrong with that.” Another aspect to it maybe that China doesn’t see Swaziland as that important, from a strategic and cost-benefit analysis point of view, for her to coax the latter into a establishing ties with her.

It must be noted though that having concurrent diplomatic relations with both China and Taiwan can prove untenable for Swaziland, especially in connection to her foreign policy stance. Swaziland’s would find herself between a rock and a hard place, especially between her position of lobbying for Taiwan to be accepted in the UN and China’s hard line approach of meddling in other states’ foreign policy positions (the case of the Dalai Lama’s denied visit in South Africa provides a classic example).

   It is for that reason that I am sceptical as to whether Swaziland will be having any diplomatic relations with China anytime soon, unless of course the is a major development on the front of China and Taiwan relations.

Everything and nothing

Don’t you sometimes wish that you were simple? Not giving two-pence for what happens around you and the world over. Sometimes I do. It usually comes as a passing feeling—transitory, I think, is the right word. Almost just like the feeling you get when an attractive woman passes by. When she’s out of sight, you forget you ever saw her. Perhaps the feeling that surged within you when you saw her would return, perhaps not. Ignorance is indeed bliss.

   When I board a kombi home, I listen to an overzealous man (it’s always a man) causing a din; he talks about what is wrong about the politics of our country and what he—if of course afforded the handsome opportunity—can do to right the wrongs. At times he makes valid points in his argument, but most of the time what he speaks about is irrelevant and doesn’t make (a lot of) sense. The other passengers are usually deferring, or is it that they just don’t have the energy to engage in an argument after a long day at work? One is not too sure. All the same, murmurs and grunts, mostly of approval I think, of the man’s speech fill the kombi. Who dare disagrees with this public transport intellectual? For when he speaks, a sort of passion burns in his eyes and he raises his voice above any other and the roaring and old engine. It is as if he has convinced himself that the louder his voice, the more valid his arguments. I listen half-interestedly, but after the discourse (how dare you think of it as anything less?) has ended, I say to myself; it’s not that simple.

   I turn on the radio at home and fiddle with the tuning knob, hoping to listen to something interesting. But all I find is a boisterous pastor preaching about prosperity. Prosperity this, prosperity that. Lower dimension, higher dimension. “You are blessed!” he declares. “The poor have no one to blame but themselves,” he warms into his sermon. Then I switch off my ears. I am a Christian, but I do not think that it is that simple. Certainly not all poor people are like that because they want to. For the sake of Heavens, I don’t reckon there’s anyone who enjoys a life of squalor, I muse. It’s because they are lazy, someone will say. I jerk my head to take a look at the speaker, and more often than not it’s those wool-on-the-eyes middle-class bourgeois type, who’s had a silver spoon in their mouth since birth. The Basotho people have a saying: “O keke ua utloa monate ua khoho u sa tsebe bohloko ba tlala,” (You will never appreciate the taste of chicken meat if you’ve never felt the pain of hunger). Others prefer to flaunt a rags-to-riches story and I’ll note that that is more of an exception than the rule.

   Poverty is now stripped off its ecology and presented at its barest. Poor equals lazy. Finish and klaar. No two ways about it. So social class has absolutely nothing to do with it? How about bad governance? The lack of adequate resources? Geography? Politics? They scoff and say social deprivation stems from the mind. I say to them your minds are deprived.

   There is a view spun somewhere in our societal circles that education equals money. I say, humbly, that it does not necessarily follow. “I can’t wait to complete my B.A degree,” and enthusiastic student will say, “so that I can have money” (money here can be substituted with the word ‘rich’). Really? You think education is solely about money-making? I ask. I beg to differ. Education ought to teach you how to live, and judging from your talk, you haven’t learnt much. No wonder why our society is so messed up, students pursuing education for big cars, not for anything qualitative in value. It has been reduced to as a ride towards ostentatious living—a kind of hedonism dominant in our society.

   I proffer my unsolicited advice that the best way to make money is to go into business. That is where the money is made; in that dog-eat-dog world. A balanced view of education is to see it as the nurturing of the mind foe its own sake. Because, as they say; a head without knowledge is a heavy load on the shoulder. Quantitative benefits ought to be secondary. You must think I’m a deranged man, but just think about these matters.

   Money equals happiness, they will argue. I say not exactly. Fine, they’ll say, then look at it this way: It is better to be unhappy and bogged down by problems in a mansion than peace and quiet in a shack. I say, is that a joke? I would rather have a piece of bread in peace and quiet than a banquet in a house full of strife. We all as humans need some money to make ends meet; but I see money purely as a means to an end than to pursue it purely as an end, which is what some people do. Lend me your ear and do not misconstrue my words; I do not bar people from living their lives as they please, but all I’m saying is that we are not motivated by the same things. That is my story and I intend to stick by it.

You must really think I am a deranged man—philosophising because of want to do—but thinks about these things. It’s not that simple.

Corruption. Corruption this, corruption that. It seems to be the ‘it’ word amongst most of our politicians in our beloved African continent. “We will fight against corruption,” they will shout at the top of their vices during election campaigns. Usually, such hackneyed declarations will be met with thunderous applause by the gullible—or is it just hopeful?—crowd. Yet once they are in power it’s all systems go—business as usual. No change. As I see it, it’s just rhetoric; just political humbug. Politicians’ tongues are usually sharp against corruption, yet their day-to-day actions invalidate the big talk.

   Once these gentlemen (and the ladies too) are in power, they realise how much they’ve missed out over the years. So much wealth to amass in spite of the poor people who struggle to make ends meet. There are little or no repercussions. They collude with big business, the powerful bureaucratic bourgeoisie, and they eat. I know for instance that in South Africa and in Swaziland there is a justification—flimsy at it may be—for one’s helping themselves to public funds. It goes, “Badlile labanye, sekudla tsine” (Others have already eaten; now it’s our turn to eat).

   To validate the rhetoric of fighting corruption and to ‘eat’ in peace, most of our governments form anti-corruption commissions or units. Such a step is always accompanied by flare. These units are hailed as the saving grace in societies where ‘kugcobisa sandla’ (the greasing of one’s palm) or paying a bribe is a common way to get services from the government bureaucracy. But in many cases, this is just a decoy, a trick to make the public believe that something’s being done to curtail corruption. They’ll haul one or two expendable chaps (within the ‘eating’ scheme) to court; the case will drag for years and soon everybody forgets about it. When an overzealous civil society organisation begins harping about corruption this, corruption that: the authorities will use the aforementioned cases as a point of reference. “We have high profile cases already in court,” the government spokesperson will officially note, “and all we can do is to let the law take its course. We all know the wheels of justice grind slow, but very fine,” he or she will end self-importantly and very pleased with their response.

   But I dare you to scratch beyond the shiny surface. You will find that most of these anti-corruption initiatives are half-hearted and the agencies ill-capacitated, and consequently have their hands tied, in as far as dealing with this societal ill is concerned. For an example, Swaziland has the Anti-Corruption Commission (ACC). It is empowered by the establishing Act to investigate, and if satisfied that it has built a case, send everything to the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions (DPP) for prosecution. That corruption case, which may have had tongues wagging, joins the long queue of cases—criminal, commercial or what have you—that have to be prosecuted by this overworked office. The corruption case may make it to the court roll in the next two months or two years; no one knows, these things are beyond anyone’s control, or so we are made to believe. The public ends up apathetic and questioning themselves if there’s anything wrong with embezzlement and misuse of public funds in the first place. Why? Not even a single big head is rolling.

If the graft-busting unit is well-capacitated and doing its job fairly well then it poses a threat to the elite, especially the political elite. Therefore means will be made to cut it into a manageable size. Politicians and their cohort do not like an anti-graft unit that is getting too big for its own boots. Yet that is not what they will say once they begin cutting it down to size. The words will be along the lines of ‘restructuring’ r ‘capacitating’. Take the case of South Africa; the Scorpions had a respectable anti-graft unit that had quite an impressive conviction rate. But its target at that time had been chiefly amongst the business class, without the requisite political connections. Once it began investigating the political hot-shots, there were grumblings in the corridors of power. The Scorpions had begun desecrating holy ground. Next thing you knew, they were disbanded under a masquerade f restructuring and that they had become a law unto themselves (a privilege reserved for politicians).

   Citizens of Africa, it’s nothing personal, our elites would like to help themselves on our taxes with no one breathing down their necks every time they stick their hands into the cookie jar. You see, the so-called fight against corruption must be dexterously balanced with the mantra ‘Others have eaten already, now it’s our time to eat’. Whether this is the best way to deal with the problem really depends on who you ask. 

Home truths about Democracy in Swaziland

 Recently, the spokesman of South Africa’s ruling party, the African National Congress (ANC) reaffirmed the commitment of his party in fostering democratic reform in the kingdom of Swaziland. Mr. Jackson Mthembu, speaking at a policy conference of his party said that they, in principle had no qualms with the monarchy of Swaziland. He asked why the monarchy of the country could not emulate that of the kingdom of Lesotho—that is allow multi-party contestation of political power and extricate itself from the day to day rigours of active politics. At the moment, political parties are banned in Swaziland and some have been proscribed as terrorist organisations under the Suppression of Terrorism Act of 2008.

In essence, this statement by South Africa’s governing party means that the government of that country will continue to attach the rather unsettling (to the political elite of Swaziland) condition of social and political reform to the 2.4 billion rands loan that Swaziland had sought from her “big brother” neighbour, in a bid to solve the financial crisis she currently faces. But as thing stand, the loan has not yet been released to Swaziland because the aforementioned condition continues to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. So controversial is this condition to some senior figures within the higher echelons of the traditional authorities that a senior prince once declared that Swaziland would not sell her birth right to South Africa.

Indeed, within the ranks of the pro-democracy camp in the country, this mere pronunciation by the ANC has caused great joy and has been hailed as a milestone in the fight for democracy and human rights in the country. Yet I have reason to take this pronouncement and its intended effects with a pinch of salt. Perhaps against this backdrop one may ask: What is the predetermining factor of positive change—socio-political change—within a country? To rephrase the question: Which is the most formidable force of constructive change in a country, one engineered from outside or one which the people are fully committed to and determine its course?

The reason for my skepticism regarding the position of the ANC—well-meaning as it may be—vis-à-vis socio-political reform in Swaziland is that even though such a stance may be enshrined as policy in the former’s elective conference late this year; that is hardly a guarantee of an aggressive approach at government level in pursuance of such. Real politik will tend to militate against such. By the foregoing statement I mean that interactions and dealings at the highest government level of South Africa and Swaziland—taking into account their history and traditions—may result in nothing concrete aimed to achieve the goal of reform in the latter. If anything, the approach of the former may be lax and placating—to the chagrin of those who might have liked it to be a bit more aggressive—and might not change anything in the long run. Such is not impossible, as we have witnessed not very long ago of South Africa’s approach to the Zimbabwean crisis. The final result was a superficial reconfiguration of the political system which resulted in a unity government that has threatened to be asunder ever so frequently and hasn’t brought much benefit for the ordinary man; save for the halt in violence that had seen the country teetering on the brink of civil chaos. Otherwise, poverty and stark inequality are still the grim daily realities.

Therefore, notwithstanding the important role that external factors may play in the process of social and political transformation in the kingdom, the ball primarily falls in the court of the people of Swaziland. As the country goes through the current turbulences—protracted teachers’ and civil servants’ strikes and fiscal (?) challenges—the people must stand up and voice their opinions appertaining to the future of the country. Civil society groups still face the herculean task of conscientising the people on the goings-on in our society and explain to them the causes of such.

The current protest actions by teachers and civil servants do not necessarily translate to strife for democratic reform per se. So long as a tight iron lid remains on the most popular media—the radio—and the rural folks are consequently kept ignorant of the rocking government boat and its iniquitous acts, the political elite and their cohort consider themselves safe—if only for a while. The true power of democratic social and political reform lies within purposeful efforts in educating the poor masses—69 per cent according to the World Bank—on why they find themselves in such odious conditions of poverty and underdevelopment.

So long as the masses’ minds are held hostage under the masquerade of culture and a mystique of intact traditions—which must be followed to the letter, when the select few who determine its course do not even try to abide by them—democratisation is only a distant mirage. People must know that debate and questioning in political discourse is not taboo. If anything, it is a norm.

A culture of holding our leaders accountable ought to rise and be buttressed in our society. Gone are the days of governance through the unquestionable “wisdom of the right thigh”, to quote the words of writer, Can Themba. We cannot be held ransom in a country we have every right (?) to be in as our leaders. We must therefore all act to change such a pitiable state of affairs.

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.