Recollections...

Excerpts from my manuscript, A Wrestle with Life.

Whoever thought he of all men would go to school as a child! Thomas sat there musing over the first day he went to school back home in the countryside. The year was 1953, just three years before Sudan’s Independence from British colonial rule.

 

Needless to say, the British teachers at the village missionary school were about to go back home for good, having cursed the devil enough and hammered education into the heads of quite a number of natives in the Lulubo village of Lokiliri.

 

Our twelve-year-old Thomas was born of hunters’ line, dear to the heritage of blood-sports in the jungles around and beyond. His father, stout and loud, was a skilful hunter and an indomitable warrior of dark complexion. Jongiri celebrated such a standing under the sun of the Olubo people. The crown of this man was Thomas’ mother, a woman of beauty. She was the admiration and aspiration of many in those sunny days of village courtship and its intrigues.

 

The boy was christened Thomas Jongiri. He had a spell of childhood with wonderful playmates with whom he spent days playing, wrestling, shepherding or keeping birds away from ripening crops.

 

Thomas had to undress his unschooled days when father decided to set his heavy feet on the path to the missionary school. There, men and women crossed themselves before a man as white as God. The church had its walls mudded and the thatch made of grass. Thomas remembered very well what this Whiteman had done to him once. The man pressed his finger on Thomas’ forehead and mumbled words. There was water all over the place as women dressed in white ululated. Later on, Baba started calling him Thomas!

 

The c**k-crow, cook a-doodle-doo, rose steadily. Proud roosters armed with mighty c***s-combs sang a heartfelt chorus to the dawn. As sure as clockwork, hens started clucking to urge their chickens forward in the search for the lost needle to sew up the difference between day and night.

 

Thomas and his father Jongiri nervously ate some porridge and set out hurriedly for the White man place. Many children were now being sent there like Thomas himself. The White man had finally persuaded Jongiri to cast his only son into the gloom of having to go to school! Half-hearted, eyes clouded with tears, Thomas followed behind as father led the way. Heaven was in birth pangs when they walked into the school compound. The sun was about to rise above the rim beyond the string of mountains straddling Luluboland.

 

The school compound was colorful! They sat quietly on the dampish form close to the Principal’s Office. Only then did Thomas recover his breath! In the stillness of dawn, the rising damp had stained the walls of the classrooms built in two rows facing the Assembly Ground. In the middle stood a wooden cross huge enough for grandmother’s firewood in one moon.

 

By now, Thomas could have been tending goats and much more. Now, there would not be any chance of coming back home with some air of occupation, proclaiming a day worth the name. The village looked so solemn like an old hyena, ugly and beatable. Going to school had cast a deep gloom over the village. The children were being dragged to this school like a disease. It was here girls and boys were being trained to seriously hide in small, barn-like toilets. You could answer the call of nature where snakes had a fair chance of slithering at peace between your legs.

 

Goats would by now be placidly chewing grass. The few cattle the Lulubo owned would range over the plains. Children like him would just fall asleep on the pillows of leaves. The grass was wet with dew at this time in the morning. You could stand drinking in the beauty of the landscape and soak up the morning sun. The landscape was imposing and savage. The sweet air of the countryside was matchless. There was no better place to live than here! The countryside in all its glory was home as it was meant to be.

 

You could still slide down the grassy slope and play all day long. The grass cover was high, thick and long-lived with waist high grass during the first few weeks of the rainy season. The Lulubo were a people with lavish grassland. If there was only a brief flush of rainwater, the rain-maker would carry out rites to ask for rain and good crops. A loud clap of thunder would soon be heard. And then the rain would splash down all day. The ground would be wet in patches. Folks would then offer thanks when the harvest was gathered in.

 

The mountain top was the roof of Luluboland. You could climb to stand on the edge, looking down the sheer drop. There was a narrow stretch of high land along the top of the line of hills known as Lulubo Hills. You would hardly suspect the network of caves under the hills.

 

Also at the foot of the hills flew the placid waters of the Lojere Stream. You could gaze at the gleam of moonlight on the water at night. It looked like a cat’s eyes gleaming in the dark. Children like Thomas would come here very often and slosh about in puddles. Or they would just play and play, splashing water over each other. They would then go back home for porridge the principal beverage. Maize and sorghum were staples in Lulubo food tradition. These were grown on farmlands stretching out all over the homesteads. Some of them were farther out in the bush. You would see farmers walking home at twilight along the stream that twisted down the path.

 

You could gaze lazily at the silhouettes of the trees against the evening sky. And if you had keen eyesight, you would see birds grubbing up worms. You would go farther and see spiders spinning their webs. One could, too, hear the murmur of bees in the forest and the rumble of drums as youth negotiated their prime days. Boys and girls in the bloom of youth usually had courtship down to an art.  You would see and hear birds ruffling up their feathers. Someone would pluck off the dead flowers for fun. There was always a splendid sunset in Luluboland. Days just glided by.

 

People had enough and to spare. They dressed in colorful costumes but with a touch for simplicity. The Lulubo lived in houses made of woven branches and mud with a dirt floor and a thatched roof. Some of their huts were crudely roofed with strips of bark. You would dine and wine with the Lulubo. Variety matched plenty. They also served treats, good food and beer. Kwete was the customary drink here. This people hardly got to serve anything else.

 

Life was meant to be a sweet lie. A truth like this would escape until a civil war ravaged your homestead and reduced sweetness to memories. Memories like this were bitter. Little Thomas could not help but put a curb on his anger at the thought of missing out on country life. Going to school was just short of a sneer; and all the village children were mere foils for that purpose. School days were one of life’s vexations, the boy agonized. And his father was the best upcountry dupe he ever knew.

 

As they walked to the school that morning, little Thomas wished that a spear would curve through the air and pin down that white man who had talked father into sending him to school. This was mere antiquarian nonsense! He wished his father would rouse into demonstrations of being a man, not a white man’s caged hyena.

 

Father wore the sandals given to him as a gift by the white man. The sandals had soles made of rubber from worn-out tyres. Thomas’ dad swung to the rhythm of the sandals. He liked it most on the rocky stretch of the path leading to the school. He felt good about himself. This pair of sandals was a gift from a white man. Father was particular about it. He always made sure this got a big mention when folks talked amusement. His cheeks were plump and curved. He was whistling merrily to himself.

 

This gift from his missionary friend was a valuable spur to his will as a distinguished hunter. The white man had used the gift with good effect. It was at this point that father decided to turn over the reins to church school. The white missionary should now accept Thomas in payment for his kindness to Jongiri. That was how Thomas’ father had fallen into the clutches of the white people who were sprinkled all over the place on the West Bank like wild cats.  Mother had little opposition to offer. Instead, she plaited more baskets out of her displeasure at having her only son Thomas sent to school just like that. Mother’s knitwear craft sold like fresh beer.

 

The clang of the school bell was going to remind Thomas of his fate. Going to school was like a beautiful maiden paired off with a rich, ugly, old man. He prayed that arrows would one day whistle through the air as bows twanged against the whites. These white people were here to sell their catch of a new god and buy small amounts of countryside life for church work. School was the means; sending village boys and girls there was the piece to fix this. A rain of arrows would be the fitting thing to say about the way these white people should meet their death.

 

Thomas was afraid to say something about his feelings to father. He would get rebuked or even silenced without tact. By this time he would have already been rolling down a heap of rotting leaves or slinging stones at birds. His bag would have been slung over his shoulder. But now school extended to matters of life and death to the Jongiri family.

 

The school was overlooking the long, narrow, winding path all the way down to the stream where good women like mother and charming girls like Igale fetched water. You could catch their morning gossips like a hunter, Thomas mused. It was usually about last night and what was to unfold soon: a drunken husband, a nagging wife, a notorious son and a marriageable daughter. Then there would be a crop of gestures about great men and deeds, impressive women and household instincts.

 

Thomas was still lost in his recollections when the man with the milky skin walked up to them in utter delight. There was a pen poking out of his pocket. He had podgy fingers. Father gave him a note. The white man quickly pocketed the note. He apparently broke into a praise-song to father for bringing Thomas to school. The clean-shaven man was impressed. He told father something that sounded like Jongiri would later find that sending his son to school paid dividends. He spoke rather too quickly for Thomas to listen, leave alone understand. Father nodded, seriously measuring the strength of emphasis grandmother would love to see in Thomas using scarecrows to protect their crops in the fields.

 

Jongiri and son followed the Principal into his magnificent office. There was no need to do the formality of groping for and squeezing the boy’s vitals to see whether he was capable of mischief or not. Other boys were squeezed and something squirted out in spoonfuls of confirmation. These were not eligible to schooling. In those days, boys found with their needles pointing like spearheads were spared the agony of school days! Thomas was enrolled in Class One of the elementary school and handed three exercise books and a pencil. Father then walked away, feeling quite important.

 

The schoolchildren flocked like sheep into the compound. Their white shirts and blouse, khaki shorts and skirts were admirable. Thomas was excited to be in the fold. How could he be so silly!

 

Some of these children’s exercise books held tightly were oil-stained. The small ones, his age, started reciting the alphabet in scattered groups. They simply outshone him, a new recruit in the army of light. The big boys just looked clever and spoke English, to Thomas’ astonishment. The big girls, by comparison, were actually deers at the stream of knowledge. Where was his hunter’s arsenal?!

 

He felt like a fish out of water in their midst. It did not comfort him to remember he was a hunter by calling. Soon the school was one big commotion until the bell rang. In the Assembly, Our Father was said without a hiss-Thomas just kept quiet. Then the man like milk thundered instruction. He roared like a hopeless lion at the mercy of Thomas’ father.

 

Boys and girls with dirty uniform and exercise books were called forward, occasionally dragged by four giants from Class Four. The parade was checked for uncombed hair and lice-loving pupils seen scratching their heads in earnest. Those who only washed their eyes on their way to school received good strokes. The routine went on.

 

Class teachers started to police the assembly. Wrong-doers were combed. Charms were snatched and cut into pieces before all eyes as hell was certainly promised. One mistress went around sniffing pupils of Class Four, the most upper grade. Those found with yellow teeth were punished and sent to fill water-pots and tidy office chairs and tables under the strict supervision of a yellow-toothed master.

 

“Nonsense!” roared the Principal, “Your smell is offensive. I will send you all to rot in your huts should you fail me again. Am I clear?!”

 

The whole world oozed a resounding yes. The Principal paused and then dismissed the assembly with his favorite: “You are all a heap of dirt in a shirt. Now march into your classrooms!”

 

As Class One took the lead, good lashes kept them in order. Slowly all the ants were beaten into their holes known as classrooms. Little Thomas felt a bit uneasy but also he did feel excited. A master walked into the classroom for his first ever lesson. He made them count numbers. Thomas knew all about numbers; he had goats at home to count every day. He was going to tell the teacher that he too had a head for figures. Instead, he got a rap over the knuckles from the teacher for not doing enough work.

 

Out this teacher went. A schoolboy in Thomas’ class made a face at the teacher’s back. The children all laughed. Another teacher was soon in. The teacher walked over to Thomas and tweaked his ear playfully. She taught the class A, B, C. She slipped a few jokes into the lesson. Thomas wondered whether he would be able to speak this language right away after classes. But he felt terribly sorry for his English mistress during the lesson. The boys in his class later said that the white people’s sharp noses made their speech a tune. To Thomas, though; the teacher’s tongue was as large as a cow’s!

 

Breakfast was quite fun. Thomas quickly made friends. Together they swallowed the white-skinned man’s bread and beans, trampled the play-ground and got slaps from the big boys in the upper classes. After breakfast all the excitement drained and weariness crept in like the immobility of a python on account of swallowing a rabbit. There were two more lessons before the lower classes were sent home. Thomas was relieved and excited.

 

The journey back home was playful and noisy. The girls were there, too. Thomas was hungry and had to dull the pangs of hunger before getting home. His thoughts rushed ahead of him as he saw columns of smoke belching out of his mother’s kitchen. Soon mama would serve him good food. Once on a full stomach, he would rest his head on dove-tailed hands and fart infinitely. Little Thomas’ friend poked him in the ribs. Only then did he realize he was still on his way back home. He had a pencil with a rubber on the end. He ate the pencil-eraser without fuss.