Out of Shadows (11 page)

The only real changes were headline sports (cricket and hockey this term as we returned to summer) and afternoon clubs—I got out of having to go to computer club with Simpson-Prior and joined photography with Ivan and Klompie instead. But almost straightaway photography closed because there was no film in the country, so Ivan managed to get us into the rifle club. I've no idea how he managed it.

The other new thing that term was chemistry, or rather the chemistry teacher, because old Mr. Pines, who must have been teaching since the white man first stepped foot in the country, was increasingly ending his experiments with his pupils having to open all the windows. Mr. Bullman had reduced his classes and got someone else in to help. However, even private schools couldn't pick new teachers at will without the government having some input.

He was trying hard not to, but I swear Mr. Bullman looked distinctly embarrassed as he stood center stage at First Assembly. Of course we'd all spotted him by then, one shining black head in the sea of white staff.

Ivan nudged me. “Uh-oh. We got a fly magnet.”

“. . . Haven is proud to be able to offer this position to the school's first black teacher,” Mr. Bullman was saying. “A
symbol of willing unification as we all look to the future,” he read.

As we jostled out, I heard senior boys swearing about fucking government spies and the thin end of a wedge.

If Mr. Mafiti was a government spy then he wasn't a very good one because he clearly loved his job, especially the experiments, and he often ran over the bell just so that we could see the final explosion or extraction of gas or whatever it was. That was the only point to chemistry, after all, so the more we enjoyed it the less time he spent on giving us prep or doing boring dictation.

Even when a lesson was dull it would have been hard not to like Mr. Mafiti. He had a kind face, and outside the lab he possessed an endearing naivety toward all things, often floating around the school like a dazed child at the fair. Some boys teased him, of course, flicking bits of chewed paper when his back was turned, or patting his jacket with the board eraser so that it went all white. But he never got angry. Not once. He found these things funny. I guess we enjoyed him because he was such a breath of fresh air.

As far as a few boys were concerned, however, he was weak, so they were cruel.

Ivan really pushed it and started smoking at the back of the lab, ducking low behind the bench to take drags while Mr. Mafiti wrote on the board. Mr. Mafiti would pause and sniff the air, but if he suspected anything he never said so.

And then there was Pittman, who once put up his hand in the middle of an experiment and asked, “Excuse me, sir, are you a bastard black?”

Mr. Mafiti's everlasting smile dipped momentarily.

“I . . . ehmm . . . I did not hear. What did you say?”

“I said, are you pleased to be back? In the country? You said you lived in Tanzania while the war was on.”

“Yes, I am very pleased to be back.” The smile reappeared. “Thank you for asking.”

Another time, someone locked an owl in Mr. Mafiti's lab so that in the morning he walked in to find feathers everywhere and an extremely agitated bird of prey banging into the windows.

The culprit was never found; all we knew was that he must have had a tough time catching something like that. What I am sure of is that he was there to get his satisfaction as we watched Mr. Mafiti come running and shrieking with tears in his eyes.

“It's only a stupid owl.” I tried to cover the fact that I felt sorry for our chemistry teacher. “It wouldn't harm him.”

“He's a Shona,” Ivan told me matter-of-factly. Unlike the rest of us, neither he nor Pittman had had much to say about the whole episode. “And Shona hate owls. Bad omens. Some mumbo jumbo about seeing one during daylight means something really bad will happen. They actually believe shit like that.”

Chemistry was the only class Ivan seemed to enjoy, but that had nothing to do with learning. End-of-year exams were coming, yet, while my own grades hovered typically somewhere between average and must-ask-more-questions, his rolled around the bottom.

“The way I see it, I can either work hard and sweat or I can take it easy. It won't change anything because you don't need exams to farm. I feel sorry for you guys.”

Around the middle of term a Mercedes with government plates appeared outside the Admin Block and was there for hours.

That evening, Taylor gathered everyone for a house war cry out on the lawn. He said he wanted us to remember which was the best house in the school, that it would always be the best, and that we had every right to feel proud to be a part of it. For a moment it looked like he had tears in his eyes. He wiped them and then told us there was to be a special announcement so the whole school had to go to the theater hall before supper.

Questions buzzed as we took our seats. When Mr. Bullman showed he looked really gray and serious, as if the skin on his face had come loose. He climbed the stage and swept back the longer strands of hair from his forehead. He stared straight out. There were no notes.

“As you may or may not have been aware, my boys”—my boys—“today was the Annual General Meeting of school governors. And this year we were joined by a special . . . 
guest
, the minister for education, Mr. Chapalanga. The Ministry has decided it should sit with the boards of all schools from now on. It wants, it said, to listen, to learn, and to have the chance to provide input of mutual benefit.”

Was this it? Was that all?

“Our school, Haven School, is proud to have been built on a foundation of history and tradition, upon which we have endeavored to establish a sound education system. It is why the boardinghouses are named as they are, after the founding pioneers of our once nation. And we believe that we, the providers of this education, have been successful in delivering this strong foundation as we prepare you for your tomorrows.

“You may not realize it now, but you belong to a very privileged club. This is a special place, and you are part of the granite upon which this establishment was founded—solid, immovable, and here for a bloody long time to come.”

He was smiling broadly so everyone laughed. Bully had made a joke!

“But as solid and unmoveable as we are, we must still adapt to our ever-changing surroundings, as all things must. Change should not be denied. Change should not be feared. Change by its very nature requires malleability. If we are to survive we must embrace it.”

Mr. Bullman steadied himself. He swallowed hard.

“This is why we have been made to . . . have made the decision
with the government to bring the school up-to-date, and to commemorate the modern era.” He paused. “Specifically, we shall be renaming all of the boardinghouses.”

There was a shared gasp. Heads turned one way and the other.

Mr. Bullman had to raise a hand.

“Heyman, Forbes, Burnett, Willoughby and Selous . . .” he spoke loudly over us.

The names peeled off in slow succession, doleful shots into the air.

“. . . Next term, at the start of the new academic year, we shall celebrate the founders of our
current
ruling party and rename the houses respectively: Sithole, Takinira, Nkala, Chitepo, and Hamadziripi. Your housemasters have been informed and, of course, welcome this . . . necessity.”

This time he did nothing to stem the mutterings that rose like a flood.

“All I hope,” he said, “is that . . . All I ask is that you . . .”

He bowed his head.

“Dismissed, boys. Dismissed.”

“Hamadziripi.” Ivan broke the silence, lifting his head from his hands. “What kind of name is that?”

We were in shock. Everyone in the dining hall was talking about it, even the tables with black boys on them though in a more jokey way. Outside, the night seemed thicker than usual.

“Hamadzi-fucking-ripi. Fuck.”

“I'm leaving,” Klompie declared, nodding. “This school is wanked. I'm hauling it somewhere better next year. Peter-house, or Falcon. Or as far as Plumtree. You watch.”

“What's the point?” Ivan sulked. “They'll get the same. Didn't you hear what Bully said?”

Klompie chewed angrily on a third slice of bread. “Then I'll gap it down south.”

“Don't be so bloody stupid, if you run away you're just letting them win. Except you, Jacklin.” He turned on me suddenly. “You're not from here. You may as well piss off to your grandmother in Pommieland now.”

I shook my head. “No ways. I'm not gapping it anywhere.”

Although I couldn't tell him why. Ivan wasn't really listening anyway. His hands went back into his head, pushing up his bangs.

“Shit.”

At that precise moment, Nelson timed things spectacularly badly and walked behind with a bowl of extras. Ivan leaped up as though he'd been stung.

“Hey.
Hey!
Ndube, you piece of shit. What do you think you're doing?”

Reluctantly, Nelson crept back.

“I'm sorry, Hascott.” He didn't know what he was apologizing for.

Ivan reached across the table for one of the large metal serving spoons and stood with it, but by the time he'd turned back around Nelson had gone and Kasanka was in his place. The rest of us took a sudden interest in our plates.

“Leave him, white boy.” As he spoke, Kasanka's top lip curled like there was a bad smell. “Didn't you hear Mr. Bullman? This isn't your country any longer, and now this isn't your school. It never was. We're taking it all back.”

Ivan stood firm. Kasanka came closer.

“I said, leave him.”

Did I imagine it or had the hall quietened to listen?

Ivan sat.

“Stupid Kaffirs,” he growled, though only after Kasanka and Nelson were well out of earshot. “Don't worry—one day
they're sticking together, the next they're stabbing each other in the back. I'll get him another time.”

The table made agreeing noises. I hid by joining in and nodding, even though I could see Kasanka still throwing glances in a way that made my stomach lurch like a dying animal.

Two weeks before
the end of the school year and another aimless Sunday.

I was alone in the dorm reading
Cujo
because inside was cool and outside was a cloudless day that rained dry November heat.

Simpson-Prior came in. He went to his side of the dorm and lay down, sniffing. I pretended not to hear. In the end he sat up again and started going through his locker for his tracksuit and tennis shoes.

“I'm going out into the bush,” he said.

After the surprise of hearing him talk to me I thought, Good, wanting him gone because these days I didn't know how to be when he and I were alone together.

“And after it gets dark I'm going to run away from this place. I'm not coming back.” His nose trumpeted. “I can't take it anymore.”

I continued to give him nothing. Whatever he wanted from me I couldn't give it. Or wouldn't. That's a difference I still have difficulty admitting to myself.

“You should never have done what you did to me last term, Jacklin. It was cruel,” he said, reluctantly easing on his takkies, and now I felt angry with him because I knew he was right.

“Well, you shouldn't have put my tie in the piss trough in the
first
term just because I didn't let you copy in the math test. Remember? You pissed in your bed, so now we're even.”

“But I didn't . . .”

“Greet gave me bruises I can still feel. You know he did, you poof, you saw them.” The words gritted my mouth.

“But I didn't touch your tie,” he replied simply.

“
Ja?
Then who did?”

He just looked at me knowingly so I hurled my book into a corner.

“You're such a liar, Prior. Run away, then. Go and play with your stupid snakes, you weirdo.” It would have been so much easier if he wasn't around. “See if I care. See if anyone cares.”

The dorm seemed to be closing in. I needed to get beyond it and breathe fresh air. Simpson-Prior did nothing, just sat trying to do his laces and getting his fingers tangled. To this day I don't know if he actually spoke, but as I neared the door I heard, perfectly lucid: “I didn't do anything to you. I didn't do anything wrong.”

I stopped. Eventually I turned to him and, just as I opened my mouth, three figures appeared at the top of the stairs.

Ivan shouted through cupped hands.

“Hey, Jacko, we're going to the Cliffs. Stop strangling your cock and come with us.”

Klompie was with him, and Pittman had come over from Heyman. Pittman seemed to have become one of Ivan's new best friends. I still didn't know much about him, only that I wasn't sure I liked him and that I was too scared to admit that to anyone.

“What are you waiting for? Are you coming or are you going to be gay?”

Simpson-Prior was a sorry smudge in the corner of my eye. Two steps forward and he was gone, and my sight was clear again.

Klompie was carrying shovels, and when we got there Ivan told us we had to dig long drops because if this was going to be our camp, then we shouldn't just shit in the bush like blacks or the place would start to stink.

The ground was dry and hard and made us sweat, so it wasn't long before we had to break for a jump. The water was crisp but the level must have gone down because we really graunched ourselves on the rocks beneath the surface and hurt our feet even with shoes on, so we only did the one. We splashed around for a bit then climbed back up and hung our shirts out to dry.

Ivan scratched all our names on a tree and produced a packet of Madisons.

“Go on,” Ivan told me. “Don't be a faggot all your life.”

Pittman muttered something under his breath that made the other two laugh so I took one. Ivan nodded approval.