They Called It Academic Genocide Part 5

Someone in the crowd suggested we go to the Dean’s Complex. We did. I estimated the number of people to be somewhere between 800 and 1000. When I saw Darlington Zaranyika, whom we also called Dalas, in the crowd, I felt yet another bout of relief. Darlington and I had been friends for over four years. I vividly recalled the first day we met for the first time. What a confident lad, I thought as he was quizzing me about where I was coming from, what I was studying and my O level grades. This was my first A level day. He was studying commercials and I was doing sciences but Mathematics was our umbilical cord. Even if there was no such connection, Darlington appeared like someone I could trust and hang around with. Our first conversation was quickly aborted when a Senior Master, Mr Sanyamandwe, appeared on the window. He quickly glanced at everyone before setting his inquisitive eyes on us, Darlington and myself. I felt uneasy but Darlington didn’t appear bothered at all. Perhaps because he had been at this school for a much longer period than me. In contrast, this was my very first day. “You two are making noise. You…,” the unimpressed teacher pointed at Darlington, “sit properly”. Darlington’s chair was turned around so he could speak to me. He was also sitting on the wrong side of the chair. His chest was leaned on the back of the chair and his arms embracing it. I looked at Darlington praying he would comply. He did, I sighed. The tall teacher, wearing a heavy white beard and an afro, walked away convinced he had instilled some discipline in our little and 'receptive' heads. Little did he know the compliance was not to last. Almost immediately, Darlington repeated his stance. 

We started again, continuing from where we had left. ‘This boy’, I thought quietly whilst attempting to do justice to the pouring questions. Which subject do you like most? Why? He was showing no indications of ever stopping… And the Senior Master reappeared on the same window… “You two, what did I say?” We quickly obliged and I looked away, avoiding direct eye contact with him. He immediately left. Although I assumed Mr Sanyamandwe, also known as Bobo, was gone, I never thought Darlington would do it again. And boy, I was wrong. He did it again. This time before we could speak for long, Bobo came back and walked straight into the class. “Imimi uyai pano, munonetsa maningi imimi” (You two come here, you are stubborn). That’s all he could say. We left the class for a very long life orientation lecture outside. He told us about his kids and what they were doing. Some girls, also suspected of making noise, were asked to join us. We would laugh and smile as the man was dishing wisdom and comedy from his mixed bag. “Ndakauuya pano ndichiri jaya muna 1972. Hondo yakazoitwa ndawe pano. Ndikaroora mukadzi wangu muno. Izvozvi ndawe sekuru…” (I came here in 1972 as a bachelor, before the war. I got married here and now I am a grandfather…) He said it in a very deep Manyika accent that made all of us smile. Those we had left in the class wished to join us. When we were finally dismissed, just a few minutes before knock-off time, my friendship with Darlington had been confirmed. I like his confidence, I thought as we were parting ways.  

In the Hall at St Joseph's High School. Photo courtesy of My Mother's Album

The Dean was literally startled and unsettled by the crowd. He decided to get off his office, which was situated on a vantage point, to address us. Everyone acceded, only that the Dean was taking his time to leave his office. People waited for him, still singing and still dancing. Finally, he showed up with a beaming and, perhaps, deceiving smile. It was not normal for one to smile under these circumstances unless they were not appreciative of the gravity of the matter. Still wearing his smile, the Dean tried addressing people whilst his fist was clenched. Everyone disapproved it. No need for hand signals for it was not a political rally. In Zimbabwe clinched and unclenched fists are identifying insignias for two rival political parties. Dean’s conduct was, unsurprisingly interpreted, as a confirmation of affiliation to one of the two. It was therefore interrupted and condemned immediately. No partisanship or polarisation was needed, we were equally affected. The Dean heeded.

He got into the bucket of his bakkie - pick up truck - to address people. He went straight into his speech but people would not let him do so before chanting the UBA/USA Slogan. That was the passport for one to start speaking. He tried resisting but in vain as the students started singing, ‘Slogan! Slogan! Slogan!’ Realising he was never going to win it, the Dean grudgingly complied and chanted the slogan much to the delight of the expectant students. To confirm their happiness, the students broke into another song. ‘Dean wedu! Dean wedu!’ (Our Dean). The Dean, who was clearly relieved and melted by this approval, smiled once again.