The classroom is arranged in neat group tables with one desk accommodating up to three pupils joined to an equally large desk on the opposite side. The pupils dare not raise their eyes for the fear that if they are seen, they will join the group of those being punished. So they all bury their heads in their books and pretend to do the work assigned to them.
No one speaks.
‘Why are you late?!!’ Mrs Mwalubemba exclaims smacking the book hard onto the table making the whole class jump. The only one who giggles is Hannah. She is the teacher’s pet. Mrs Mwalubemba stands up and walks towards and tells us to form a single file. She then lands a huge smack on our faces and twists our ears. The ringing in my ear is so intense that I can no longer tell whether it is my imagination or I am so late that it is break time already. She dishes each one of us the same dosage but my face is not in theleast bit accommodating. It illustrates its resentment by flashing red and threatening action by holding evidence of the injustice accorded to me. It maintains the hand print that is now marked on my face. I cannot help but cry. The only place I ever get smacked is school. Normally it is enough for someone to tell me what they want done and I do it but smacking is never the answer for Mama.
Just when I think the worst is done, Mrs Mwalubemba takes a hold of my pony tail and in a split second….down comes my ponytail. ‘It is having pretty hair that makes you late for school! That is why your friends do not have permed hair!’ the whole classroom gasps at the sight of what has just happened. I hold my hair which used to once fall to below my shoulders, barely touching my shoulders.
Sorrow grips me so hard that not even Hannah laughs. ‘Now go to your seat!’ I fumble on the ground for my Japan bag and walk with tears strolling down my face. Mrs Mwalubemba returns to her seat without a sign of remorse on her face. The lesson continues with an ear burning first class of Mathematics. Lucky for me she does not ask for the homework.
At break time, I decline to have any lunch from the tuckshop. My appetite is completely gone and all I long for is to go home and tell Papa about what happened. No doubt he will have something to say about this. But the day is going to be long with all the chores lined up for us.
At lunch time, I seek out my brother Chisanga at the grade 7classrooms. His friend Kevin, the male version of my friend Janet intercepts me their classroom door ‘Akaiche ka kwa Chisanga!’ he squealed drawing all eyes to me. I do not know why he always felt the need to draw attention to me but whatever. I have been crying and feeling nervous about doing detention later. So far I have not seen or heard from Sharon. The only conclusion I can reach isthat she is not in school today and I will have to fight my own battles. Chisanga takes one look at me and is furious at the sight of my hair. The curly locks are callously tied in a desperate attempt to make my hair look neat.
‘Who did this to you? Was it Robert?’ I wish it were that simple. Perhaps if it were Robert who had done this to me, Chisanga would summon all the strength within him to be brave and take it to the grounds withRobert. But this was an adult. We are not allowed to talk back at them. Mama says that the teacher is our school parent and we must not give them lip.
‘Shekinah, who did this to you??’ I tell him Mrs Mwalubemba cut my hair because I was late for class and Chisanga gets so mad that you can seethe veins in his neck he pushes past his friend and marches to our classroom. Itry my hardest to keep up between sobs and sniffing and wiping my nose. The heat sucks all the energy out of me but I dart after him all the same. The classroom is empty with only the teacher for company. Chisanga storms in and grabs my hand then pulls me to his side.
‘Yes young man can I help you?’
‘You better grow this hair back before my father sees it do you hear me?’
‘You cannot speak to me like that or…’
‘Or what you will tell Robert to punish me? He has already punished me for today. I don’t think he can do more than that but you, you will be hearing from my father soon.’
I fear I have only made things worse but to my surprise my teacher goes quiet. Chisanga kisses his teeth and walks out with me trotting after him. Some kids must have heard him raise his voice and where now in aweof him watching him with admiration as he walked back to his classroom. I had never been more proud to be his little sister even if the world thought I wasonly half entitled to him, I was still his baby sister and lucky to be loved by him.
The day drags on slowly. Whispers are still going round about my brave big brother. The only conversation I have is with my stomach which growls a desperate plea to be fed. There is no chance of that happening anytime soon as we still need to do maintenance after school, plus it is my groups turn to sweep the classroom.
NGGGRRRRR NGGGRRRR! The bell yells at last. The message telling the excited other pupils that we done for the day but telling Janet andI that the day was only just beginning. We would not be heading home until15:00 hours. Janet and I reluctantly head out of our classroom past the blocks to the field the area near the science block and start picking litter there. Wedo not speak for the hunger strikes us with such a vengeance that our lips protest in anger. A strike has been summoned against all manner of speech to be conducted between my lips and the world. As though daring the seriousness of the situation, Janet tries to speak. Her lips defy the rules of gravity and simply refuse to cooperate.
Robert sends other kids to start sweeping the classroomareas where we are picking litter and orders us to head on back to theheadmasters office to finish picking litter there.
In my silence, I dare to dream. That perhaps one day I should be a writer, then I could write about Mrs Terror Mwalubemba. I could write songs like the ones in books and maybe I could write something much nicer sounding than ‘this is Jellita. She is sweeping. She is sweeping the floor. She is sweeping the floor of her classroom…’ No I did not want to write like that. I had grown out of those books. I wanted to write the books that Papa was proud enough to hold on his bookshelf in the living room. The books that they printed with very small words. Yes I wanted to write and maybe one day be named a great…..au…au...nevermind. Papa uses a posh word to describe those writers.
I allow myself to dream as far as the school field. For the Christmas pageant I have chosen to recite poetry. I should be very good at that and…. I bump into someone and immediately worry that they are going to tell me off for not watching where I am going. The voice giggles instead and asks ‘are you ok?’ I raise my head and look up. That’s when I saw her.
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