Spilt Milk Read online

  Mohumagadi had not noticed that the priest had entered their school hall until she heard the children and some of the teachers gasp.

  “How peculiar,” they whispered.

  “His white skin,” some murmured.

  “He is so pale,” others pointed out.

  Mohumagadi frowned as she watched the man trying to wiggle his way quietly onto the stage where she and the rest of the staff were sitting. She looked at her watch. He was very late. Morning assembly was halfway through and he was only arriving. His face looked a little familiar, but it was hard to make it out with all the excitement in the hall. It really was quite a spectacle. Some of the kids right at the back were standing on their chairs to see, so that Dr Ngwenya had to get up and seat them back down. It was not often that white people came into this school, not to clean, or to fix, or to speak, let alone to teach. And never ever so poorly dressed.

  Announcements were made. “Pupils from grades Five to Seven will notice that an article titled ‘Africa is giving nothing to anyone apart from AIDS’ by one Kevin Myers has been posted on the senior noticeboard. Responses are encouraged and should be sent to Dr Kgwadla, who will forward them to the author.”

  But no one was listening. “The man, he is so pale.”

  “The symposium on Lessons from Zimbabwe has been postponed until further notice due to the recent arrest of one of the speakers.”

  But the children could not focus. “His skin is all pink.”

  “Those Grade Sixes leaving for Geneva for the green week are to meet after this assembly to receive their reading packs.”

  “His hair, it has no colour!”

  When the speaker stopped abruptly, exasperated at the mumbling and finger pointing that was going on, the man looked up. He had not noticed that all the children, try as they might, could not keep their large eyes off him. And it was only then that Mohumagadi caught a clear view of his face. It was William Thomas, Bill Thomas, now of course Father Bill Thomas. Mohumagadi felt herself crumble immediately. Heard the locks and bolted doors within her fly open and old demons that she thought she’d finally put to rest, reclaim her. Before she could think, or plan an escape of some sorts, or tell him privately that he was in fact no longer needed and that there had been a terrible mistake, a note was passed across the stage urging her to introduce the man so that the school could carry on with their assembly.

  Oblivious to the consternation he was causing, Father Bill had fallen into a dark hole in his memory. That voice. He knew that voice. He hoped he was wrong, but he knew he wasn’t. Even after fifteen years he could recognise that voice in a room anywhere in the world. It was her and he knew it for sure. Before he could think it through, they were all standing up and singing the school song.

  “Ri thuphiwa zwinzhi

  Fhedzi ri si pwashekanyiwe

  Ra tovholwa, fhedzi ri si shae Moya

  Ra tsimbeledzelwa fhasi, hone ri shi lovhe.”

  We are the school of excellence

  Despite the time of turbulence

  Unafraid of impediments

  Destined for success.

  Sekolo sa Ditlhora, Sekolo sa Ditlhora,

  Sekolo sa Ditlhora

  Destined for Success!

  “Re dikilwe thoko tsohle

  Mme ga re pitlaganywe

  Re a phoraphora

  Mme ga re gakanege

  Re a tlaiswa

  Mee ga ra lahlega

  Re digelwa fase

  Mme ga re senyege.”

  Child of a diff’rent providence

  In our hearts truth is prominent

  Believing in our competence

  Destined for success.

  Sekolo sa Ditlhora, Sekolo sa Ditlhora,

  Sekolo sa Ditlhora

  Destined for Success!

  “Siyabandezelwa ngeenxa zonke

  Singaxineki

  Siyathingaza, singancami

  Sitshutshiswa asiyekeleli

  Sikhahlelwa phantsi

  Asitshatyalaliswa.”

  The world awaits the coming of us

  Here we go with wholeheartedness

  Bold enough to carry the cross

  Destined for success.

  Sekolo sa Ditlhora, Sekolo sa Ditlhora, Sekolo sa

  Ditlhora

  Destined for Success!

  Mohumagadi hurried back to her office, hoping not to bump into any of the teachers along the way who would certainly want to speak further about the new presence in the school. They had had numerous meetings pending his arrival, but everyone was still a little anxious about the implications of having this man in their midst. But she couldn’t talk now, she needed to get to her sanctuary. Her black and red patent heels hammered their way down the corridor. She would take the most obscure route she could think of, behind Makeba Music Room, quickly down the staircase they’d nicknamed Victoria Falls and around the Timbuktu History Centre. She did not think she would be able to hold it together if she had to face any of them. She was sure they would see that she was rattled and could not afford to let her staff see her that way. Kilimanjaro Climbing Wall, Taharqa Lego Room, Tenkamenin Model Court, she was nearly there; just past ‘1994 in Pictures’ and round the giant glass trophy cabinet and she’d be in her office. She needed to think.

  How could she have been so careless? She should have asked the bishop for a name but she hadn’t thought to, hadn’t cared to know. And now this. But what were the chances? What were the chances that after fifteen years when she was looking for a priest for their school the person they would send would be him? She had spent years thinking about how not to think of him. It changed nothing, she told herself. It was a long time ago and they were both different people now. It would not be a problem at all, she would make sure of that. She would simply pretend she did not know who he was and in fact she wouldn’t be faking; fifteen years was a really long time.

  A whole congregation of people was waiting for her outside her office. Mohumagadi felt her core collapse. She immediately sensed from the way they were all standing, excited, faces animated, arms gesturing, that the priest was probably sitting inside her office. Dr Liyema, the Music History teacher, was, as usual, in the crowd. His lessons only began after lunch and he was at the scene of anything intriguing happening in the school. All three security guards stood waiting too, ready to report the morning’s incident of the white man who had mocked them upon his arrival, been denied entrance, and then proceeded to sneak into the school when their backs were turned. The four children, whom she now remembered she had asked to come to her office straight after Monday morning assembly in order for her to brief them on their detention programme, sat on the bench outside her door. She knew she was often quietly criticised for not involving the staff in her decision making but this time she had. This time she had allowed them to decide jointly how best to discipline the children, and look what it had brought the school: absolute chaos. She sighed.

  Had she made an error in judgement by bringing this man in? She did not make mistakes often. She had meditated on the matter for days before sending her letter of acceptance. If the whole thing was a mistake, it was one she was going to have to live with.

  “Molweni,” she greeted them with her biggest grin.

  “Molweni, Mohumagadi,” they all replied together.

  “Ninjani namhlanje?”

  “Siphilile, Mohumagadi.”

  “That is wonderful to hear. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “Yes Mohumagadi, a beautiful day for teaching and learning.”

  “Well, if there is nothing else, I will see you all at teatime, then.” Giving then no chance to reply, she closed the door behind her.

  Father Bill had been sitting in one of the mahogany armchairs in front of Mohumagadi’s twin-pedestal mahogany desk, kneading his thoughts in his hands. He had been shown into the office by a Miss L, who had been waiting for him with a clipboard and a smile at the exit of the school hall. She had been very kind, making small talk and laughing politely as they walked. She told him Mohumagadi would join him shortly to brief him on the next few weeks. She asked what he would like to drink. The question stumped him. He was used to only having two options from the tea ladies at the church: ‘Tea or coffee, Father?’; ‘Some juice or water, Father?’ He had never been offered the opportunity to wet his throat with anything his mind could conjure.

  She repeated the question when she saw the confusion on his face.

  “What is it you would like to drink, sir? We have everything, even alcohol, if that’s what you would like.”

  “No,” he said quickly when he realised she thought his hesitation was because he was too embarrassed to ask for liquor this early in the morning. He wondered what the people at the school had been told about him. “No. No. Tea for me please. I never take alcohol,” he lied, making the mistake of over-emphasising the point. He hadn’t needed to lie. Hadn’t needed to feel embarrassed or ashamed. Priests were allowed to drink and it wasn’t as if he drank very much anyway. But the circumstances. The circumstances made it all very complicated.

  “What kind of tea will that be, sir?” She really was very sweet, very professional. He appreciated that.

  “Any tea, ma’am. Tea is tea, right?” he said, chuckling for the first time since his arrival.

  “Sure, tea is tea,” she said, smiling that smile again.

  But all tea was certainly not tea. It still sat there on the table with its bits of what tasted like ginger floating to the surface. He had tried to drink it, not wanting to be rude, but it was pink with straws of cinnamon and soggy chunks floating in it and made him want to gag.

  “Mohumagadi never starts a day without a cup,” Miss L had said jovially, as she placed the cup down on the wild cherrywood coffee table with a plate o
f equally peculiar green biscuits alongside it.

  The tea tasted like the stuff his doctor had made him drink the night before he went for his bowel scope. Perhaps with a bit of sugar in it he could try to swallow some, he really did not want to be impolite, especially because he had asked for it. But there was no sugar on the table. His thoughts drifted off as he tried to work out what he would do or say if it really was her, and he soon forgot all about the foul tea. When Mohumagadi came in, almost, but not quite, slamming the door behind her, he had still not touched it.

  “I gather you do not like our tea, Father Bill,” were her first words to him.

  It was her. He had really hoped it wouldn’t be, but it was. What now? What was he going to say? After fifteen years where would he begin?

  “I hope you found your way to the school without too much trouble. I would love to take you around myself but am unfortunately quite tied up this morning with a series of meetings, so I will ask one of the pupils to give you a little tour.”

  Perhaps he was wrong. She looked at him briefly whilst rummaging through her desk, pulling out notebooks, looking for a pen, switching on her laptop, opening up her briefcase. But there was no sense that she knew who he was.

  “I understand you will be with us for the next six weeks, Father Bill.”

  Was that a question? He wasn’t sure. She didn’t wait for a response, just carried on.

  “As per discussions with the bishop, you will host the afternoon detention class from 3 to 5 p.m. every day. During this period the children will be required to read a variety of texts by different authors on self-discipline, personal restraint, appropriate conduct in public places, et cetera et cetera, and then use what they have learnt to work on a series of exercises, which they will have to hand in at the end of the six weeks.” It was her, he was almost certain.

  “You are not expected to teach them anything as such, in fact we would prefer it if you didn’t.”

  Did she not remember him? Had he changed that much? Her voice was exactly the same, older, harder, but hers.

  “We have a very structured curriculum that is carefully planned to the very last detail so we are very careful when we have a new staff member join us, and go to great pains to ensure that they know exactly what is expected of them.” She stopped, looked at him, right into his eyes. It was her, but there was no recognition. “So I hope you do, Father Bill? Understand what is expected of you?”

  “Yes ma’am. I do understand, thank you.” No, she did not remember him. “Thank you very much for having me here at your school,” he continued. Perhaps he would remind her. “I feel very privileged. Um, I’m sure you know the circumstances under which I was sent here and—” but she did not let him finish.

  “Yes, thank you, Father Bill, we are delighted to have you. Welcome to Sekolo sa Ditlhora. This is a great place. I am sure there will be much you will be able to take with you from your stay.” She looked relieved when the phone interrupted her. It was the secretary, the sweet Miss L who made the vile tea, reminding Mohumagadi that the four pupils she had requested to see were still waiting for her outside her office, and asking if she would let her know when she should allow them in.

  “Send the first one in now please, Sisi.”

  Mohumagadi realised she had overreacted. The man did not remember her, and perhaps she was wrong, perhaps it wasn’t even him. She watched him as he sat across from her, carefully writing down everything he told her, what was expected of him, what the school would not tolerate. She stole some moments between words to observe him, his skin, the freckles on his nose, the crustiness at the creases of his eyes, his cracked lips, a yellow blister at the corner of his mouth. Why do white people not moisturise? He was like a child. A small boy in a big man’s body, swallowed whole, lost in it. The way he grasped his pen, so clumsy, fingers wrapped awkwardly around it. He bored her. Everything he represented bored her. Surprisingly, she felt no anger towards him, no hatred, not even irritation. Just complete and utter indifference. She had completely overreacted. This man was a joke.

  A confident knock on the door wrenched her from her thoughts and reminded her why the priest was in her office, in her school, back in her world, in the first place. She needed to focus on what up to this point she had done so well: run the school.

  “Come inside please.”

  It was Ndudumo Mazibuko, daughter of Ntombovuyo Pooi. ‘Ten years old and sexually conscious’ is how Ndudumo liked to describe herself. She walked into the office, her head held up high, a thick layer of gloss smeared onto her lips, clear nail polish shimmering off her fingertips, the gold string of the black school tunic hanging loosely around her buttocks. Mohumagadi bit her lip and just smiled.

  “Molo, Ndudumo. Take a seat.”

  In the early years Mohumagadi would have told her to leave her office and return only when she looked appropriate, but she had learnt over time that some battles were not worth the fight. Children always found a way around every rule and she could not keep making new ones. There was too much else to be concerned about: economic independence, social integrity, national pride. She had come to accept that if she could instill even some of those principles in the children then they could wear all the lip gloss they desired.

  “Molweni, Mohumagadi. Molweni, Tata,” the young girl said, greeting them both whilst carefully seating herself on the chair across from Mohumagadi’s.

  “Are you well today?”

  “Very well thanks, Mohumagadi,” she replied quickly.

  “I understand your mother is overseas.”

  “Yes, Mama has been very busy since the launch of her book; the response it has received has been overwhelming for us all. We are so delighted.” Ndudumo turned round in her chair and looked over at Father Bill who was holding a small piece of paper and pen in his hand. She directed the next bit to him. “You might have heard of my mother – Ntombovuyo Pooi? We have different surnames because she chooses to write using her maiden name; she believes that is where she begun and thus that is where her writing should begin. Anyway, my mother, Ntombovuyo Pooi, wrote a book on the sexual emancipation of black women, a sexual awakening of sorts, a wonderful, timely book that has really just liberated so many of our African sisters.”

  “Yes, thanks for that, Ndudumo. But perhaps before we get a little derailed, let us address the matter at hand,” Mohumagadi said, feeling her patience wane. She could not help but shake her head as she watched the man scribbling away in his chair. She should probably have asked him to leave her office before the girl came in, but it was too late now. She would have to continue with him sitting clumsily in the corner jotting down every spoken word like a court stenographer.