SHORT STORY

A Rare Phenomenon

It is believed that coming events cast shadows before them, but this one did not. It was on a sombre February day at Madeza secondary when circumstances weighted against my favour. I got an urgent call from the headmaster, Ndakwiya, who wanted to see me at his office.

Ndakwiya, as well as being a rigid disciplinarian, was a man who detested extricable manners. Rumour had it that he gave his kids a good drub if they misbehaved. His mood was usually good except when he was under the influence of drink.

In a moment, I was at the office. Ndakwiya’s office was spick and span except for some books, chalk boxes and papers that lay higgledy-piggledy on the shelves. He sat easily on his chair and to his left, laid Kabudula, the biology teacher. Kabudula’s face was a mask of ugly bruises. His mouth was swollen and his hand was in a sling. He was a figure in great distress and it took me sometime to recognise that it was him. He looked at me with a fierce countenance that made my fresh crawl as I entered the office.

“Sit down, Pilira,” Ndakwiya said. There was something in his tone that puzzled me. He seemed angry. I took the seat. “How could you do this to your teacher?”

I goggled at him in surprise. “I…I don’t understand…”

He emitted a profound sigh and frowned. “You mean Kabudula here does not convey to you anything?” he asked pointing at Kabudula. Again, I looked at him in surprise. He took a swiftly look at me and said: “Your actions surprise me, Pilira. Do you have a sieve memory that your teacher here doesn’t remind you of something?” he emitted a spasm of coughs, hesitated a moment and then turned to Kabudula. “Sir, remind him please.”

My heart made a tumble as he began acquainting me with facts of my call…

“Yesterday, I was at the pub in town, when this impostor splurged into the pub gobbling on a roasted maize cob. Immediately, I went to him and asked what it was he was doing in the pub, but he laughed and called me absurd.”

“I warned him of the behaviour he was displaying, but he retorted in an arrogant tone that I was wasting his time. Surprised with his contumacy, as you know that he is a good student here, I tried to reason with him further, but then he jabbed his fist into my side.”

“I responded by slapping him in the face, but that was a grave mistake. I just could not have done that. Sir, he assailed me. His fists came like streaks of lightening and before chucking me out of the pub, he hit me at the crotch,” Kabudula finished his story.

“I don’t believe this even an ounce,” I said, sweating at every pore. “This whole thing is a canard, an unjust accusation. I don’t know what you’re talking about…this is blatantly untrue,” I grumbled a deluge of protests.

Ndakwiya dismissed me with the wave of his hand. “I recall to have given you an exit to town yesterday…” he left the sentence hanging, and as he wiped sweat from his brow said, “that was a folly to do.”

“Sir, I went to town to attend to a sick relative. Not to do that. You’re talking of beer here, sir. I mean…I don’t drink beer and to be honest with you, I have never tasted it in my life,” I protested with unflagging stubbornness, “I don’t understand all this, not in the slightest sense.”

Both Ndakwiya and Kabudula flung me a scornful look. “That’s a flimsy excuse, Pilira. I can’t sit down and cook all this up and Kabudula here can’t make all this on you son. These are serious allegations,” Ndakwiya’s face was ablaze with anger, “what you did is both ridiculous and revolting. That was wilful disobedience, Pilira, and I being the head of this school, I can’t grant amnesty to country bumpkins like you!”

“But sir, don’t vent your spleen on me. I’m speaking in all sincerity…” But my plea was a drub. Ndakwiya slammed his fist on the table and flounced about the office berserk with rage. “You think you’re smart, kid, don’t you? Here’s evidence that speaks volumes of truth.for itself. You committed a flagrant offence and Kabudula here is a credible witness. What kind of person is you that even when confronted with evidence you’re refusing to retract? You put on a serene expression as if you didn’t do anything!”

He gasped for breath and continued: “Pilira, your simulated innocence surprises me a great deal.” He emitted a wan smile and looked at me appraisingly snorting with rage.

I kept mum.

“I thought you’re a good student, Pilira: an emblem of an honest hardworking student. Oh! Good heavens, you’ve proved me wrong,” he said shaking his head sadly in incomprehension. “I’m no simpton and neither is Kabudula here. I’ve sifted through the evidence. Pilira, you’ve been found guilty and I’m expelling you from school sine die,” Ndakwiya pronounced with finality.

The words struck me like a series of blows to the stomach. I looked up at him aghast with a face clamming with tears. I tried to talk, but to no avail. He granted me no audience. He took a letter from one of the drawers and threw it at me, a letter that attested my fate with his signature appended at the bottom. I read it twice, and turned it over to see if anything was written on the back, perhaps a second note suggesting it was all a joke. There was nothing. I was astounded. My mind was weighed down with confusion. I flopped down to my feet begging Ndakwiya to lend me his ears, but he dismissed me.

“Didn’t I warn you against truculent behaviours and vile habits, Pilira, didn’t I?” my father screamed reluctant to acquiesce my story. “I told you to stop shuffling with your life son. Look now. It’s not my future you’re playing with. It’s yours. You’ll face the wrath of this world alone if you don’t get yourself educated.”

The following morning, I sat at the veranda deep in contemplation trying to approach the issue with a serious mind. It was a cloudy morning that presaged a wet afternoon. I was brooding whether life was worth living. The whole thing was convoluted and ambiguous. It was an equation with so many variables missing. I could not find a solution. I had not beaten Kabudula, someone had done it, but the crux of the matter was why had Kabudula implicated me. A feeling of ineffable rancour bivouacked in my bruised heart. My equanimity was disturbed. I didn’t know what to do; I was utterly helpless.

Still deep in thought, I heard a sound of a car, interrupting my train of thoughts. I looked up. It was (and saw) an old rickety police cruiser screeching to a halt near my home. Two stockily built cops got out of it and approached my home. They walked like they had taken lessons in deportment. Behind them was the head boy of school whose presence made my heart skip a beat.

One cop had a massive forehead with shaggy eyebrows and a bristly unshaven chin. He carried a baton in his hand. The other cop was walleyed and bald-headed with a well razored chin. He had teargas canisters on his waist belt and an AK 47 strapped on his chest. The bald-headed cop asked after my parents in a voice that toned fittingly with his massive body. My parents came immediately when I called them.

“We’ve a warrant of arrest for Pilira. Yester night, he beat his teacher unconscious,” the bald-headed cop told my parents. The other approached and snapped a handcuff around my wrists. My parents and I were stunned with the news. I struggled to get free from his grip wailing in protest. My mother’s eyes were suffused with tears.

“Pilira was here,” she protested with a tremor in her voice, “You’ve arrested him on trumped up charges,” but her attempt was barren of results.

“Don’t allow them take me,” I bawled hopelessly. The cops hassled me into the cruiser. In a moment, the cruiser’s engine kicked into life and drove off to the station, leaving behind my parents screaming in terror. The thought of being immured in a windowless cell gave me shudders. I was distraughetd and gripped with artistic fear.

When the cruiser reached the station, the first sight that caught my gaze was that of Ndakwiya talking uneasily to a senior police officer. Then, the officer summoned the two cops and began whispering something to them. The two cops occasionally shot cursory glances at me and looked away guiltily as they listened shaking their heads in incomprehension. Later on, the wall eyed cop approached me and removed the handcuffs. He bleated an apology and then slinked to a nearby office. His revulsion and capricious mood surprised me a great deal.

My mind was in a maze. Ndakwiya was nervous too. He had an aura of je ne sais quoi about him. He was avoiding my eyes. I longed to know what was happening. I needed someone to explain the madness to me. Why had I been unhandcaffed before a statement had been taken? I wished I had known. A cloud of unanswered questions was buzzing above my head.

Then, Ndakwiya came towards me at an amble, his face still down.

“Pilira,” he said. “I’m sorry…really sorry that this happened to you. Forgive my costly mistake…forgive Kabudula your teacher…forgive everyone. It was inevitable,” he confessed and each word came hard. A vacuous smile was on his lips and in a moment tears began cursing down his cheeks.

“What’re you talking about, Ndakwiya? What’re you? Whom shall I forgive? Why? I mean…I don’t understand what’s happening? Why are you sorry? Why are you crying?”

“Pilira, you see, it’s another boy…he looks like you, like an identical twin. His eyes, height, and complexion…I mean everything. He was the one doing all this mischief. The police caught him this morning at the depot. He admitted to all charges…I’m really sorry, Pilira.”