Education Struggle Part 2 : Primary school mayhem

In keeping with struggle Friday, here's the long and rambling second installment of the education struggle.

In my early years I was one of those rambunctious kids, when other kids walked I ran, when they ran I flew. I was an energizer bunny on steroids, which unfortunately meant that someone would get hurt in the carnage that ensued. Usually I would inflict damage on myself, either I’d fall of a tree or fall into a hole, a swimming pool, smash into a pole, get traditionally disciplined for dropping a glass plate (whipped!), run into a wall or a braai (barbeque) stand.  But on rare occasions an innocent bystander would get caught in the crossfire, yes even in childhood there is collateral damage.

I started primary school in 1993 in the second term because I loved kindergarten too much; they fed us nice cookies there (I just realised that 1993 was 20 years ago, damn! I am getting old). Kindergarten was the shit! Even though I don’t even remember what it was named. It was run by a collective of locals and American volunteers, so as you can imagine our English was on point. The basics that I learned in kindergarten have remained with me to the present day, I have a good grasp of the English language because I got it right from day one and kept on improving (mainly because my aunt left reading material around the house, she still does it to this day). The best part was singing the national anthem every morning, I would periodically stop singing and listen to the other kids just for fun, and boy was it fun. I had to restrain myself with all my strength, the way little kids make up their own words is amazing, we sang the melody right every time but I’m not going to say that we didn’t spice it up a little bit when it came to the words . 

The fine institution that I attended my first grade (grade 1) was called Oshakati Junior Primary school (I believe it still goes by that name), the infamous concentration camp called Ingozi was just across the road, I would later spend three wasted years in that dump but I prefer to leave that dark tumultuous chapter for another time.

Grade 1 was a blur, I still have no recollection of what happened there but I know that all the events of this story unfolded while I was in grade 2, my grades were bad in first term because I bunked school ; a combination of toxic friends and unwanted dark spirits “oombepo oombwinayi”.  During the second term I hardly stepped out of line, I really tried hard to behave however all those efforts would be undone by an unfortunate accident.

It was the last week of the term hence the teachers were busy with other important things, we were left to ourselves. Which perhaps was bad decision making on the teachers part because as soon as she left pure anarchy ensued, it was pure chaos; the events that would unfold were tantamount to sectarian violence. I was minding my business sitting quietly reading the English book while the other Timo and Lala’s were making more noise than Eveline Street on payday. All of a sudden sand rained down on me from out of nowhere, I was convinced that it was a terrorist attack so I hid under my table.

From under the table I saw the sand flying through the window, it was war; the misfits from the grade 3 class were at it again. So being the brave descendant of freedom fighters that I was; I ran under the tables and tried to close the window, but even with all my strength (chicken power) the damned thing would not close it was like something was preventing it from closing, so I tried again but to no avail. But it was closed enough to stop the avalanche of sand. I backed away from the window and stood up, to my horror I saw why the window would not close; my heart sank. A kid was slumped between the wall separating two windows, with his arm raised, I quickly realised that his arm was raised because his fingers  was caught in the window, his fingers were the reason the window would not close and there was no way I could see him from under the table. Why the little Bugger did not scream I have no idea, but I figured the pain must have been too much, to the point where he could not even scream.

I panicked like a Namibian thief hijacking an armoured money truck, but in my panic I opened the window to release his fingers and as quick as a lion chasing a springbok I smothered his fingers in my hand to stop the blood spurting, poor dude had turned blue and hardly said a word. He was bleeding all over the floor; my hands could not hold all the blood. Okay I will admit that I over exaggerated the bleeding for dramatic effect, there was blood but nothing compared to a scene from the movie 300. The other Timo’s and Lala’s went on without even blinking, I screamed at them to get help. The teacher eventually came but as soon as she saw the blood she ran screaming like a girl watching a horror movie, a male teacher came with a towel (from where? I had no idea, was still panicking big time). He wrapped it around my hands and told me to let go, I was horrified to the point where I froze, I didn’t release my hands until he told me like seven times. 

I let go and soon as I did I felt horrible, I had just crippled my classmate, My aunt was going to kill me; I was about to run for it when the teacher came back to get me, I just stared at the dude. I had panicked to the point where I forgot that I still had blood all over my hands, if you walked in you would assume that it was my fingers that got caught in the window. The dude kept saying something but I had lost all power of hearing; I was in shock, most teachers would have hit me (it was still legal back then) to knock sense back into me but clearly sensing my distress he led me off to the teachers bathroom with one hand on my shoulder, I felt like I was being led from a crime scene in handcuffs the way half the school was staring.

30 minutes later my ability to speak had returned, I explained as best as I could but fear had enveloped me. I was going to get the sjambok or worse electrocuted. The other teachers kept insisting why had you not seen him? I tried to explain that from under the table you can’t see someone standing at the spot where he was. The dude who bought the towel asked the one question I never thought of, why was he standing there between the two windows in the first place?  Turns out he was one of the instigators as he threw orange peels through the window and the Grade 3 class threw sand in retaliation, but that did not save me. I got five lashes with a PVC pipe on my hands (yes it was still okay back then), now some of you would think getting them to the backside would hurt more but those who have shaken my soft girlie hands and seen them after I hammer a rock would know how easily they bruise, my hands were a mixture of orange and yellow and blood clots had formed on three of my fingers.

When I got home I knew what was waiting for me, the belt had already been fetched and was waiting to instil discipline into me. I did not protest, neither did I protect myself because my hands hurt so much that using them as a shield would mean losing them for a week. Luckily the disciplining did not last long, a few blows to the legs, one misplaced one that hit me on the eye and a few to the backside later, the discipliner gave up because I put up no fight. At dinner I could hardly eat, the guilt of having maimed my classmate and the pain my hands were in put paid to that.

Funny enough a few years later I met him and his fingers had recovered but he was in no laughing mood, naturally I apologized but he explained that he missed a whole year of school and had to change schools. At that point I suspected that the only reason he didn’t give me two black eyes was because it would have been a bit hard for me to navigate my way home with my eyesight impaired. But even to this day I feel really bad about the events that transpired that day.