Foreword
I have a really checkered and colourful childhood and formal education environments to match. The theatrical production that is my formal education has a weird mix of dramatis personae from my aunt/teacher/principal(one person) to Idi Amins of the classroom(brutal force included), sjambok wielding head mistress,throw in extremely bad tempered geriatric German nuns and you have the makings of quite a tale. It doesn't end there. Fast forward to bewildered white teachers whose interaction with black folk had until then probably been limited to the housekeeper and the cashier at the local Spar and finish it off with an Adventist mission college pantomime.
NOW that I have at last resumed studying after a very long sabbatical I look back at the times, people and spaces that contributed to the person that I am today with wonder, some admiration and in McDonald Carrey's voice I can smile and say "these are the makings of my life."
Act I Scene 1: The Early Years
My first few years were spent in Clermont, a township just outside of Pinetown in Kwazulu-Natal.
I have fleeting memories of Sibusisiwe(meaning "we are blessed") Preschool, none of which are fond may I add.
I remember being forced to sleep at designated hours in rows along sniveling children some of which smelled of scented vaseline, an assortment of sulfuric skin ointments(ring worms were in and I had a few), and just hint of shit(some kids were still acquainting themselves with the concept of wiping their own arses.
Failure to sleep instantly on command was rewarded with sharp wraps across the ankles with a piece of narrow plank and to this day I can't figure out what sort of sadistic spirit inspired the thought of bringing traditional weapons to a preschool class.
Sibusisiwe Preschool also ensured that I hated Royco Soup for the rest of my life. It could be a classic case of post traumatic stress for all I know but there's something about the smell of Royco soup that takes me back there and I don't want to go back there.
I met my first bully there, an obnoxious arsehole whose name I never bothered to remember.
I only remember one teacher there, mam Ndlovu who was our neighbour and had been tasked with walking me home in the event that the designated "fetchers" didn't pitch, a common drama . The rest of the teachers(glorified nannies if you ask me), about two more I think, are a fuzzy blur in blue overalls and black berets.
I did not like this place one bit.
I once disappeared from Sibusisiwe in broad day light. I had seen my friends walk past from big school and I just joined them. They could not have been very old or mature either because a child walking out of preschool should have been a cause for worry.
I had my parents going through Clermont with a fine tooth comb until they found me in the evening watching tv at the friends' house; not a care in the world. The look on my parents' faces when they walked into my friends' lounge was priceless.
I just didn't get what the fuss was all about though.
I think I was about six or seven years old when I was shipped to Ntabankulu, Transkei(now Eastern Cape) to live with my mom's sister. My Durban drunk nanny was getting old, my mom worked ridiculously long hours as a nurse at Shifa Hospital and my dad worked out of town building and repairing roads.
This was an interesting period in my life, for starters I had to learn a new language, isiXhosa. I grew up speaking isiZulu.
My aunt's three daughters; Khalipha, Camagwini and Zonke became the sisters I never had. My older brother was also raised by my aunt.
My aunt was the pioneer teacher and head mistress of Madwakazana Lower Primary School. There were only three teachers back then aptly named Miss Omdala, Mam and Miss Omncinci which literally meant Older Miss, Mam(she was the only one married) and Younger Miss respectively.
Back then the lines between school, home and play centre were blurred.
This was refreshing from Sibusisiwe preschool because now I was part of the aristocracy; I was after all Miss Omdala's child and as such I enjoyed quite a few privileges.
The village of Madwakazana was and to a large extent is still somewhat isolated and backward. This was a village that was cut off from the rest of the world because the roads are horrid and there's a huge forest encircling it. The forest, incidentally, has been Madwakazana's source of livelihood because of the timber and associated employment opportunities. Back in my days in Madwakazana in the early 80's it was as if time had forgotten this village.
We didn't really have a school uniform though khakis for boys were popular. Only a limited number of the children had shoes which became quite an experience in winter when the ground would frost over. I know this because I lost my shoes quite often.
We never went to school in heavy rains for the fear of Unomdlezane, a river that ran close to the school. In the event that it would start raining during the day we were often dismissed for the day. The rush was not only to cross the river before it became a raging bitch but we could often see the sky turn menacingly dark through gaping holes in the roof.
I remember how carrying lunch to school meant eating it in hiding or be ready to contend with the entire school begging "for just a crumb" in whining voices and pitiful looks that everybody adopted at the sight of food. Interestingly there was always enough to go around even if it meant that you ended up eating a crumb as well. To say "no" to someone begging for something to eat was generally frowned upon and earned one notoriety as a social misfit. I remember how Tonono, this girl in class, once had to dissect an orange to smithereens in order to feed the masses. This was one place where a crowd of five thousand strong could easily dine on five pieces of fish and loaves of bread and still have enough left for winter to feed a small army. In later years I would be rudely shocked out of that culture.
I don't know whose rule this was but it was tradition that Wednesdays was "amagele" day. "Amagele" were legume like plants that we would dig up from a nearby hill during lunch break. Wednesdays meant spades, hoes and sharpened sticks. It was not uncommon to compare instrument sizes. Everyone had something to dig with. There were also rules and strict protocol in scavenging for these subterranean delicacies; you just did not stand directly in front of someone digging up "igele" because that would jinx it and cause it to snap underground, and nobody wanted that. Those who borrowed tools were expected to share their lot.
There was also the traditional cry that alerted others of a find and a triumphant "Gquku ngegele!" Could be heard at various spots along the hill after which the fortunate person would immediately be swamped by eager faces hoping to share in the find with limited success, more of these finds meant you had extra to share with the teachers back at school.
Another exciting event that I remember with fondness was when the inspectors called. My aunt would go out of her way to be accommodating.
Inspectors meant food, and lots of it. Chickens would be slaughtered or frozen chicken pieces were bought from town. My aunt also made sure there was enough cool drink for the inspectors. Coming from privileged stock I watched the inspectors eat knowing that as a teacher's kid I would soon be enjoying the left-overs. I loved inspectors.
The teachers , through the learners, worked at fever pitch as the inspection day closed in: cow dung was collected to clean the floors, litter was picked, the local women folk came to clean the school walls with lime and we were all reminded to take a bath on the day. On inspection day my aunt, a drama queen by birth, would wake up very early to go to school and along the way she would shout out the learner's names. I remember as we walked past Nomakula's house she shouted "Kuuuuuula! Kuboooooomvu!" which literally meant "code red"
When the inspectors came my brother and I would shine. We were apparently very bright and had an above average command of the english language, something I can attribute to mam Diko, my sub b and std 2 teacher.
Speaking of mam Diko, I saw her as recent as 2010 when I was invited to make a speech at her farewell.
Madwakazana only went up to std 2 or grade 6 so when I completed std 2 I was ready for Ntabankulu Junior Secondary School. This worried me somewhat because Ntabankulu JSS as notorious fro corporal punishment. I was terrible at maths and numbers and I had nightmares about going to the school. My brother Msa, my cousins Khalipha and Camagwini were already at junior school and they only had harrowing tales to tell.
I am happy to report that Madwakazana has improved somewhat from the mud structure that it was when I was growing up, prefabs(not much improvement but improvement still) have replaced mud buildings and there's more teachers.
End Of Act 1 Scene 1
Coming up next:
Act 1 Scene 2: Junior School Sadists And Catholic Gargoyles In White
Friday, June 1, 2012
I Giggled Through School: An Educational Journey In Collage
Foreword
I have a really checkered and colourful childhood and formal education environments to match. The theatrical production that is my formal education has a weird mix of dramatis personae from my aunt/teacher/principal(one person) to Idi Amins of the classroom(brutal force included), sjambok wielding head mistress,throw in extremely bad tempered geriatric German nuns and you have the makings of quite a tale. It doesn't end there. Fast forward to bewildered white teachers whose interaction with black folk had until then probably been limited to the housekeeper and the cashier at the local Spar and finish it off with an Adventist mission college pantomime.
NOW that I have at last resumed studying after a very long sabbatical I look back at the times, people and spaces that contributed to the person that I am today with wonder, some admiration and in McDonald Carrey's voice I can smile and say "these are the makings of my life."
Act I Scene 1: The Early Years
My first few years were spent in Clermont, a township just outside of Pinetown in Kwazulu-Natal.
I have fleeting memories of Sibusisiwe(meaning "we are blessed") Preschool, none of which are fond may I add.
I remember being forced to sleep at designated hours in rows along sniveling children some of which smelled of scented vaseline, an assortment of sulfuric skin ointments(ring worms were in and I had a few), and just hint of shit(some kids were still acquainting themselves with the concept of wiping their own arses.
Failure to sleep instantly on command was rewarded with sharp wraps across the ankles with a piece of narrow plank and to this day I can't figure out what sort of sadistic spirit inspired the thought of bringing traditional weapons to a preschool class.
Sibusisiwe Preschool also ensured that I hated Royco Soup for the rest of my life. It could be a classic case of post traumatic stress for all I know but there's something about the smell of Royco soup that takes me back there and I don't want to go back there.
I met my first bully there, an obnoxious arsehole whose name I never bothered to remember.
I only remember one teacher there, mam Ndlovu who was our neighbour and had been tasked with walking me home in the event that the designated "fetchers" didn't pitch, a common drama . The rest of the teachers(glorified nannies if you ask me), about two more I think, are a fuzzy blur in blue overalls and black berets.
I did not like this place one bit.
I once disappeared from Sibusisiwe in broad day light. I had seen my friends walk past from big school and I just joined them. They could not have been very old or mature either because a child walking out of preschool should have been a cause for worry.
I had my parents going through Clermont with a fine tooth comb until they found me in the evening watching tv at the friends' house; not a care in the world. The look on my parents' faces when they walked into my friends' lounge was priceless.
I just didn't get what the fuss was all about though.
I think I was about six or seven years old when I was shipped to Ntabankulu, Transkei(now Eastern Cape) to live with my mom's sister. My Durban drunk nanny was getting old, my mom worked ridiculously long hours as a nurse at Shifa Hospital and my dad worked out of town building and repairing roads.
This was an interesting period in my life, for starters I had to learn a new language, isiXhosa. I grew up speaking isiZulu.
My aunt's three daughters; Khalipha, Camagwini and Zonke became the sisters I never had. My older brother was also raised by my aunt.
My aunt was the pioneer teacher and head mistress of Madwakazana Lower Primary School. There were only three teachers back then aptly named Miss Omdala, Mam and Miss Omncinci which literally meant Older Miss, Mam(she was the only one married) and Younger Miss respectively.
Back then the lines between school, home and play centre were blurred.
This was refreshing from Sibusisiwe preschool because now I was part of the aristocracy; I was after all Miss Omdala's child and as such I enjoyed quite a few privileges.
The village of Madwakazana was and to a large extent is still somewhat isolated and backward. This was a village that was cut off from the rest of the world because the roads are horrid and there's a huge forest encircling it. The forest, incidentally, has been Madwakazana's source of livelihood because of the timber and associated employment opportunities. Back in my days in Madwakazana in the early 80's it was as if time had forgotten this village.
We didn't really have a school uniform though khakis for boys were popular. Only a limited number of the children had shoes which became quite an experience in winter when the ground would frost over. I know this because I lost my shoes quite often.
We never went to school in heavy rains for the fear of Unomdlezane, a river that ran close to the school. In the event that it would start raining during the day we were often dismissed for the day. The rush was not only to cross the river before it became a raging bitch but we could often see the sky turn menacingly dark through gaping holes in the roof.
I remember how carrying lunch to school meant eating it in hiding or be ready to contend with the entire school begging "for just a crumb" in whining voices and pitiful looks that everybody adopted at the sight of food. Interestingly there was always enough to go around even if it meant that you ended up eating a crumb as well. To say "no" to someone begging for something to eat was generally frowned upon and earned one notoriety as a social misfit. I remember how Tonono, this girl in class, once had to dissect an orange to smithereens in order to feed the masses. This was one place where a crowd of five thousand strong could easily dine on five pieces of fish and loaves of bread and still have enough left for winter to feed a small army. In later years I would be rudely shocked out of that culture.
I don't know whose rule this was but it was tradition that Wednesdays was "amagele" day. "Amagele" were legume like plants that we would dig up from a nearby hill during lunch break. Wednesdays meant spades, hoes and sharpened sticks. It was not uncommon to compare instrument sizes. Everyone had something to dig with. There were also rules and strict protocol in scavenging for these subterranean delicacies; you just did not stand directly in front of someone digging up "igele" because that would jinx it and cause it to snap underground, and nobody wanted that. Those who borrowed tools were expected to share their lot.
There was also the traditional cry that alerted others of a find and a triumphant "Gquku ngegele!" Could be heard at various spots along the hill after which the fortunate person would immediately be swamped by eager faces hoping to share in the find with limited success, more of these finds meant you had extra to share with the teachers back at school.
Another exciting event that I remember with fondness was when the inspectors called. My aunt would go out of her way to be accommodating.
Inspectors meant food, and lots of it. Chickens would be slaughtered or frozen chicken pieces were bought from town. My aunt also made sure there was enough cool drink for the inspectors. Coming from privileged stock I watched the inspectors eat knowing that as a teacher's kid I would soon be enjoying the left-overs. I loved inspectors.
The teachers , through the learners, worked at fever pitch as the inspection day closed in: cow dung was collected to clean the floors, litter was picked, the local women folk came to clean the school walls with lime and we were all reminded to take a bath on the day. On inspection day my aunt, a drama queen by birth, would wake up very early to go to school and along the way she would shout out the learner's names. I remember as we walked past Nomakula's house she shouted "Kuuuuuula! Kuboooooomvu!" which literally meant "code red"
When the inspectors came my brother and I would shine. We were apparently very bright and had an above average command of the english language, something I can attribute to mam Diko, my sub b and std 2 teacher.
Speaking of mam Diko, I saw her as recent as 2010 when I was invited to make a speech at her farewell.
Madwakazana only went up to std 2 or grade 6 so when I completed std 2 I was ready for Ntabankulu Junior Secondary School. This worried me somewhat because Ntabankulu JSS as notorious fro corporal punishment. I was terrible at maths and numbers and I had nightmares about going to the school. My brother Msa, my cousins Khalipha and Camagwini were already at junior school and they only had harrowing tales to tell.
I am happy to report that Madwakazana has improved somewhat from the mud structure that it was when I was growing up, prefabs(not much improvement but improvement still) have replaced mud buildings and there's more teachers.
End Of Act 1 Scene 1
Coming up next:
Act 1 Scene 2: Junior School Sadists And Catholic Gargoyles In White
I have a really checkered and colourful childhood and formal education environments to match. The theatrical production that is my formal education has a weird mix of dramatis personae from my aunt/teacher/principal(one person) to Idi Amins of the classroom(brutal force included), sjambok wielding head mistress,throw in extremely bad tempered geriatric German nuns and you have the makings of quite a tale. It doesn't end there. Fast forward to bewildered white teachers whose interaction with black folk had until then probably been limited to the housekeeper and the cashier at the local Spar and finish it off with an Adventist mission college pantomime.
NOW that I have at last resumed studying after a very long sabbatical I look back at the times, people and spaces that contributed to the person that I am today with wonder, some admiration and in McDonald Carrey's voice I can smile and say "these are the makings of my life."
Act I Scene 1: The Early Years
My first few years were spent in Clermont, a township just outside of Pinetown in Kwazulu-Natal.
I have fleeting memories of Sibusisiwe(meaning "we are blessed") Preschool, none of which are fond may I add.
I remember being forced to sleep at designated hours in rows along sniveling children some of which smelled of scented vaseline, an assortment of sulfuric skin ointments(ring worms were in and I had a few), and just hint of shit(some kids were still acquainting themselves with the concept of wiping their own arses.
Failure to sleep instantly on command was rewarded with sharp wraps across the ankles with a piece of narrow plank and to this day I can't figure out what sort of sadistic spirit inspired the thought of bringing traditional weapons to a preschool class.
Sibusisiwe Preschool also ensured that I hated Royco Soup for the rest of my life. It could be a classic case of post traumatic stress for all I know but there's something about the smell of Royco soup that takes me back there and I don't want to go back there.
I met my first bully there, an obnoxious arsehole whose name I never bothered to remember.
I only remember one teacher there, mam Ndlovu who was our neighbour and had been tasked with walking me home in the event that the designated "fetchers" didn't pitch, a common drama . The rest of the teachers(glorified nannies if you ask me), about two more I think, are a fuzzy blur in blue overalls and black berets.
I did not like this place one bit.
I once disappeared from Sibusisiwe in broad day light. I had seen my friends walk past from big school and I just joined them. They could not have been very old or mature either because a child walking out of preschool should have been a cause for worry.
I had my parents going through Clermont with a fine tooth comb until they found me in the evening watching tv at the friends' house; not a care in the world. The look on my parents' faces when they walked into my friends' lounge was priceless.
I just didn't get what the fuss was all about though.
I think I was about six or seven years old when I was shipped to Ntabankulu, Transkei(now Eastern Cape) to live with my mom's sister. My Durban drunk nanny was getting old, my mom worked ridiculously long hours as a nurse at Shifa Hospital and my dad worked out of town building and repairing roads.
This was an interesting period in my life, for starters I had to learn a new language, isiXhosa. I grew up speaking isiZulu.
My aunt's three daughters; Khalipha, Camagwini and Zonke became the sisters I never had. My older brother was also raised by my aunt.
My aunt was the pioneer teacher and head mistress of Madwakazana Lower Primary School. There were only three teachers back then aptly named Miss Omdala, Mam and Miss Omncinci which literally meant Older Miss, Mam(she was the only one married) and Younger Miss respectively.
Back then the lines between school, home and play centre were blurred.
This was refreshing from Sibusisiwe preschool because now I was part of the aristocracy; I was after all Miss Omdala's child and as such I enjoyed quite a few privileges.
The village of Madwakazana was and to a large extent is still somewhat isolated and backward. This was a village that was cut off from the rest of the world because the roads are horrid and there's a huge forest encircling it. The forest, incidentally, has been Madwakazana's source of livelihood because of the timber and associated employment opportunities. Back in my days in Madwakazana in the early 80's it was as if time had forgotten this village.
We didn't really have a school uniform though khakis for boys were popular. Only a limited number of the children had shoes which became quite an experience in winter when the ground would frost over. I know this because I lost my shoes quite often.
We never went to school in heavy rains for the fear of Unomdlezane, a river that ran close to the school. In the event that it would start raining during the day we were often dismissed for the day. The rush was not only to cross the river before it became a raging bitch but we could often see the sky turn menacingly dark through gaping holes in the roof.
I remember how carrying lunch to school meant eating it in hiding or be ready to contend with the entire school begging "for just a crumb" in whining voices and pitiful looks that everybody adopted at the sight of food. Interestingly there was always enough to go around even if it meant that you ended up eating a crumb as well. To say "no" to someone begging for something to eat was generally frowned upon and earned one notoriety as a social misfit. I remember how Tonono, this girl in class, once had to dissect an orange to smithereens in order to feed the masses. This was one place where a crowd of five thousand strong could easily dine on five pieces of fish and loaves of bread and still have enough left for winter to feed a small army. In later years I would be rudely shocked out of that culture.
I don't know whose rule this was but it was tradition that Wednesdays was "amagele" day. "Amagele" were legume like plants that we would dig up from a nearby hill during lunch break. Wednesdays meant spades, hoes and sharpened sticks. It was not uncommon to compare instrument sizes. Everyone had something to dig with. There were also rules and strict protocol in scavenging for these subterranean delicacies; you just did not stand directly in front of someone digging up "igele" because that would jinx it and cause it to snap underground, and nobody wanted that. Those who borrowed tools were expected to share their lot.
There was also the traditional cry that alerted others of a find and a triumphant "Gquku ngegele!" Could be heard at various spots along the hill after which the fortunate person would immediately be swamped by eager faces hoping to share in the find with limited success, more of these finds meant you had extra to share with the teachers back at school.
Another exciting event that I remember with fondness was when the inspectors called. My aunt would go out of her way to be accommodating.
Inspectors meant food, and lots of it. Chickens would be slaughtered or frozen chicken pieces were bought from town. My aunt also made sure there was enough cool drink for the inspectors. Coming from privileged stock I watched the inspectors eat knowing that as a teacher's kid I would soon be enjoying the left-overs. I loved inspectors.
The teachers , through the learners, worked at fever pitch as the inspection day closed in: cow dung was collected to clean the floors, litter was picked, the local women folk came to clean the school walls with lime and we were all reminded to take a bath on the day. On inspection day my aunt, a drama queen by birth, would wake up very early to go to school and along the way she would shout out the learner's names. I remember as we walked past Nomakula's house she shouted "Kuuuuuula! Kuboooooomvu!" which literally meant "code red"
When the inspectors came my brother and I would shine. We were apparently very bright and had an above average command of the english language, something I can attribute to mam Diko, my sub b and std 2 teacher.
Speaking of mam Diko, I saw her as recent as 2010 when I was invited to make a speech at her farewell.
Madwakazana only went up to std 2 or grade 6 so when I completed std 2 I was ready for Ntabankulu Junior Secondary School. This worried me somewhat because Ntabankulu JSS as notorious fro corporal punishment. I was terrible at maths and numbers and I had nightmares about going to the school. My brother Msa, my cousins Khalipha and Camagwini were already at junior school and they only had harrowing tales to tell.
I am happy to report that Madwakazana has improved somewhat from the mud structure that it was when I was growing up, prefabs(not much improvement but improvement still) have replaced mud buildings and there's more teachers.
End Of Act 1 Scene 1
Coming up next:
Act 1 Scene 2: Junior School Sadists And Catholic Gargoyles In White
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