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Dr Josephine Shambare
Correspondent
The Grade seven results came out and I passed exceptionally well. I had two units, a unit each in English and Arithmetic; the two subjects we sat for. My parents were very pleased. Prior to the results, I had made several applications for a Form one place to schools like Regina Mundi, Goromonzi, Monte Cassino, St Augustine’s.
One Monday morning I found myself going to Makumbi Mission (Visitation) in Domboshava for an entrance test. My father had insisted that I go to this school that he had attended in his childhood. During his time, he had been impressed by how the church floors shone and the discipline instilled by the catholic nuns. My mother escorted me to the bus stop a few metres from our shop. She bade me farewell and left me to find my way to Makumbi Mission. I was in my primary school uniform carrying with me a ruler, pencil, eraser and bus fare.
I got to Musika, the capital city’s major bus terminus where I had to ask other commuters for the bus heading to Makumbi Mission. In no time, I had joined other boys and girls coming from different parts of the country and headed for the same destination.
During the entrance examination, the town girls and boys tended to be more relaxed and confident. I remained calm but rather shy and embarrassed that I was not as charming as they were. I passed the examination and was offered a place for Form one. This boosted my confidence that I was just as good as any other child. My parents welcomed the good news and started preparing for my Form one.
On the first day to Makumbi Mission, my father accompanied me in our old grey Opel saloon car. The evening before, both parents had sat me down and lectured me on what I had to expect at the new school. My mother said (translated into English):
“Respect the family you are coming from and never regard it in derogation resulting from new encounters at the new school. You are going to meet children from different social backgrounds — children of bus owners, big business people, nurses, teachers, doctors, and a few like you whose parents are peasant farmers and rural shop owners. The pocket money we have given you should last you the whole term, and remember to retain some money for the return fare when schools close; in case we fail to send you pocket money in time. While at school, please do not make insensible requests for more pocket money because we have to cater for your siblings as well. Go well my daughter and do your best at secondary school.”
I listened intently and packed my school and food trunks thoughtfully. My two elder brothers who had attended secondary school before me advised me on what additional foodstuffs I had to pack apart from that specified on the school requirements’ list. These included roasted nuts, peanut butter, biltong, brown sugar and Mazoe orange juice. The brown sugar was for making ‘koro’ (watery cool drink) after the orange juice had run out.
However, I found the food at Makumbi Mission fresh, good and adequate because it was mostly from the school garden and other projects. We had a cup of tea and buns served by our prefects every 10 o’clock tea break. I never missed the tea break which I supplemented with half a loaf of bread and ‘koro’. We also waited patiently by the kitchen whilst the big pots were being cleaned to jostle for a piece of porridge or sadza crust (goko). The porridge crust was a delicacy because it was browner and tastier with sugar in it.
My days at Makumbi Mission were enjoyable and comfortable. However, one evening, I had the duty to clean the school dining room tables with other boys and girls. Whilst doing my chore, a boy in my class by the name Chamu (not his real name) fondled my bum. In retaliation, I immediately poured at him the dirty water I was using to clean the tables; to which he slapped me once. Was he one of the predators my mother used to insinuate back home? Was this the ‘hyena’ incarnate from which children fled in folklores? Without hesitation I went to report the incident to the Headmaster, a white Catholic priest. He counselled me and advised me to go back to the Girls’ hostel.
The following morning, I went for my lessons as usual. My attention was caught by a group of boys and girls reading something excitedly from the school notice board. Chamu had been expelled from school. He had to fetch his parents so that the headmaster would explain his decision officially. My heart skipped. I was gripped with fear knowing that Chamu was a bully and was much older than most students in our class. He hailed from one of Salisbury’s high-density suburbs and was bound to waylay me to or from school at Musika and settle the score; I thought quietly.
Surprisingly, Chamu seemed to have accepted his fate, packed his bags and went home. He never left any word of threat. I later learnt that he had managed to secure a school place elsewhere. I lived in perpetual fear all my last school days at Makumbi Mission, especially on opening and closing days but I was convinced I had done the right thing to stop him in his tracks.
Dr Josephine Shambare writes on Social issues for entertainment and awareness; in her own capacity. Excerpts are taken from her unpublished autobiography, and PhD thesis: ‘The Enigma of Child Sexual Abuse in the Zimbabwean Context: Beyond Statistics.’
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