A Step Back in Time, A Step Into the Future

Around ten kilometres before you reach Monze, from Mazabuka, if you looked carefully on the right side of the road, you will be greeted by a motley assortment of women and youths selling different farm produce. There are many among the women who are housewives, attempting to sell their sweet potatoes. You might also meet a timid youth, resting on a bicycle, while one leg nervously draws invisible patterns in the earth. He will hardly lift his head to look in your eyes. When spoken to in Tonga, he will most likely answer back in nervous whispering tones and chuckle uncomfortably trying to determine what your real mission is.

This is Kayuni.

Each time my travelling takes me past Kayuni, it is like time freezes and I am transported to those times I was just one of those boys. You see, this ground and terrain is more than familiar territory, it is home to me. Not too long ago, there was a veritable chance that, that nervously chuckling boy standing by the roadside market, hoisting anything from a  chicken, a container of fresh milk or a pumpkin every time a vehicle passed, hoping for a sale, would have been me.

A few metres after the make-shift market, a rugged dusty road turns from the tarmac, pointing in the direction of Kayuni Basic School. Though rugged, the road is still passable, there is evidence of some patchwork done to it probably to ease the movement of farming inputs during the rainy season. On either side of the road, harvested maize fields stretch into the distance while a few animals can be spotted sporadically, engrossed in decimating the maize husks that might have remained in the fields.

Going back to Kayuni Basic should have happened sooner rather than later for me. But then it is easy for one's life to get crowded with "life". Unfortunately, this robbed me of the chance to talk to Mrs Hamayangwe, who used to be head teacher when I was at Kayuni Basic. 

Back then Kayuni Basic was a tiny church building flanked by hauntingly tall mango trees. These would cast long shadows on the building making it look even smaller. The trees would also often serve as makeshift classes in the event of the all too familiar scheduling challenges that one classroom catering for multiple grades inevitably encounters.

The little church flanked by mango trees

Our teachers must have been miracle workers in their own right. How do you handle at least five grades when the only classroom available is a small church building? Somehow they did it. Sometimes combining two classes for certain lessons, other times choosing to perform reading exercises outdoors.

Yet it was here where all of us from around the farms came to drink from the fountain of education, often travelling long distances and at times braving the elements. Learning how to read and how to count.  At the time school apart from being school, also provided a welcome disruption from our routine cattle herding activities. Although school was supposed to be a whole new experience, and in many ways it was, the attitudes that governed other spheres of our lives followed us everywhere. This meant we would approach school the same way we approached cattle herding. Unrelated farm rivalries steeped in forlorn tales involving cattle that once strayed into someone’s yard, would inevitably spill over into our school life. We would almost always be barefoot, without a care in the world and choosing to settle disputes through fights.

My initial keenness for fighting was replaced with first a reluctance and finally a mortal fear for any sort of physical confrontation. It is a fear that I have retained to this day. I have a lesson that I was humiliatingly taught by a skinny girl (for the record I was equally skinny and some would argue still am to this day) to thank for that change.

You see, I had foolishly underrated a skinny girl from a neighbouring farm one day on our long walk home from school. And to be honest, there was nothing in the physical make-up of the girl to suggest anything other than an outright and mismatched win for me should our argument come to a physical fight. Well, our argument did develop into a physical fight…one which was over in a matter of a few seconds.

In response to her taunting, I swung a right hook aiming for her head. Either I was too slow or too obvious, because she saw it coming and ducked away. The momentum of the punch unfortunately, took me staggering beyond her and exposed my back to her. She took the opportunity to sink her long nails in my neck. I yelped like a dog and frantically tried to turn so that I could face her, although my immediate concern was for my neck where those nails had cut fissures in my skin. When I felt the warm blood trickle down my back, I emitted the mother of all howls and slumped to the ground embarrassingly writhing in pain.

 I had just been taught a lesson by a skinny girl.

It is understandable therefore that I had a sort of homely warm feeling as I returned to the place where I learnt how to read to present some books to the school. The school has since moved from the little church and is now housed by two blocks of classrooms and there is evidence to suggest that the school authorities are desirous of adding more classes. Accompanied by Sibeso, we made our way to the administration block. Schools being on recess, there was no pupil in sight and the offices were locked. We eventually managed to locate the senior teacher by going to her house and she was somewhat surprised by our mission.

“Are you selling the books?’ she inquired with a puzzled look.

“No, just donating”, was my reply without being elaborate. A few uneasy seconds ticked by.

“I used to be a pupil here and thought I should give back by donating some books to the school”, I added by way of elaboration.

Later as we drove back, I remarked to Sibeso about how the cattle-centric economy of Kayuni was brought to its knees from the mid-90s onwards. At the moment there are signs of recovery, yet these signs are not at the level of consistency needed to bridge the poverty gap. Cattle diseases, erratic rainfall and poor government policies conspired to wreak havoc on an erstwhile thriving farming community.

The farmers, deprived of the mainstay of their economy responded by selling off or letting out huge tracts of their land. Others continued surviving on a mixture of government and relative handouts. The productive youths, many who were bereft of a decent education poured out in their numbers to the nearest urban centres. Most settled on performing menial jobs, while those who were lucky enough got jobs as bus and truck drivers or simply started illegally selling fuel by obscure roadsides. Many look way older beyond their years today.

There is a longing for the return to the good old days of course. The good old days when Kayuni was an agricultural hub and when we had more cattle than one could care to count.It was never my destiny to stay longer than three years in Kayuni, but the few years I spent there have left indelible marks on me.

 At this point, I am not sure whether my wish is more steeped in romanticized nostalgia than in practicality.  

All I know is that it was good to be able to give back to Kayuni Basic School.