Starlight in the Ring (6 page)

Shivering, I watch teacher Lyndon’s next move through the corner of my eyes, my stomach lurching violently. I feel virtually defenceless. Already in tears, I see no escape in continuing defending myself. It’s useless anyway. He doesn’t listen to children. He walks towards me in silence. His eyes are opened wide as saucers. My anticipation of his next action is right.

He whacks me repeatedly on my shoulders with his knobbly stick. I respond by looking at him in silence. I feel a rain of lashes from this stick on my chest, head and face. With my eyes in floods of tears, I get up. By this time, he is hitting me everywhere throughout my body. I can’t cry. I try to shield my eyes and head with my hands, as my teacher repeatedly hits me. I hope he is going to stop, but he doesn’t. I move backwards towards the door. I can hear a roar of laughter from my classmates.

He continues beating me until I am outside the classroom.

“Silly girl!” he says, shutting the door with full force behind him, leaving me outside like a dog in an African village. I stand with my back by the wall for a while. When my eyes start watering, I stare deeply holding my tears until they flow, first gradually. I then let go, just like some babies do, constantly wiping off my tears with my white shirt’s sleeves. As my legs start aching, I sit down on my bottom.

Engaged in deep thoughts, I fail to understand the reasons for the suffering of an innocent child like me. I know children aren’t allowed to let out wind – it’s bad manners – my teachers told me that. When adults do it, children aren’t allowed to laugh – it’s horrible, and I know this too. I always play by the rules, although I don’t sometimes agree with them.

I wouldn’t do it. And even today, I, Betty Baker, confirm I didn’t do it. I defend my innocence. Through this experience, I learned that the innocent children could suffer in a similar way
as bad boys do.

Teacher Lyndon has failed to conduct his investigation properly before causing me such pain. What shall I do? I look at my arms, with visible stripes. Anyone can see where the stick has hit. I have cuts and bruises, and I’m bleeding. I bury my face under my hands, crying again. I have no clue what my face looks like.

The bell rings - it’s time to go home. Frightened of what teacher Lyndon might do when he appears through the door, I remain outside until the last child has left the classroom. My teacher re-appears from the door, staring at me. He walks past me, and then turns around, shaking his index finger, pointing and shouting, “Never again, Betty Baker, do you understand me, you silly girl?” I don’t reply, but look at him with my swollen eyes full of pain and sorrow. He walks on slowly, until he eventually disappears around the next building. I see him no more.

I return to my classroom, put my books in my bookcase and rush out.
Am I coming back here tomorrow?
Several thoughts cross my mind. I remember that I dearly want education, so I must be prepared to get it at whatever cost.
What kind of education am I getting?
I ask myself this question, knowing very well: it’s the education that the natives get, that is inferior to the education of the Coloureds and Europeans in South Africa.

The school is quiet, as most children have gone home. I walk slowly towards the school gate, down the hill and across the river. I jump over the stream, and I keep going my usual way, but not to catch up with my schoolmates today. I reach home and go straight to the kitchen to meet my mum.

“Hello, Mum,” I say, sitting down on the chair.

“Hello, Betty. You took longer to get back today. Is everything all ri…?”

Before she finishes the sentence, I burst out into a loud cry, like a pig going for slaughter – a bitter cry.

“What happened?” says my mum, looking at me shocked. “Betty?”

I keep quiet, and continue crying. “Who attacked you? Did you get involved in a fight? Who could do this – beat you up like this? I can only help if you tell me. Oh my God! Betty!” my mum cries bitterly, covering her eyes that are filled with sadness. She can hardly look at my face. She drags her feet about the kitchen, wandering aimlessly. I look at her face, imagining her inner pain.

“Betty, did you get involved in a fight? Betty, tell me, please?”

After a while, I stop crying. The silence is remarkable: Mum is just looking at me, waiting for my answer.

“It’s my teacher, Mr Lyndon – he beat me, Mum,” I say, wiping off tears and mucus, coughing and blowing my nose.

“What did you do to him?”

“Someone accused me of flatulence.”

“Did you do it?”

“No, Mama – I’d never do that in public.”

“Tell me the truth, Betty.”

“Mum, I didn’t do it. Believe me, God knows this.”

Looking at my mum, I could guess her feelings. I’m her daughter and in pain. She is hurt. I can sense her internal cry. However, what can she do? There is absolutely nothing, unfortunately.

The teachers have authority to do as they like, in the name of ‘educational interest’, to see their children succeed. Mum tries to wipe off the dry blood from my wounds, and gives me tablets to stop the pain. She serves me dinner, and then sends me to bed.

“You can’t go back to school until you look and feel better,” she says, watching me walking slowly towards my bedroom door. She follows me into my bedroom, helping me to change into my pyjamas. She assists me into bed, tucking me in. She kisses me goodnight on my forehead, and closes the door behind her.

I don’t mind being away from school this time, because I have
my textbooks in my suitcase to study at home. Whether my parents contacted the principal or not, I’ll never know.

My parents are concerned about my future, so they will encourage me to return to school, when I feel better. In spite of the handful of brutal teachers at school, I still miss my friends and I look forward to being with them again.

I get up to look for a book from the bookshelf. Missus gives us old books when she’s clearing up their study room. So, we have many books. I choose a fiction book, and then return to bed, and start reading it for pleasure.

It gets darker. I get out of bed again, searching for the matches to light the lamp. I realise that it has run out of paraffin. So, I light a candle instead.

We always keep some candles for emergency, like tonight. The candlelight, although it is also not bright enough for reading, will have to do for now. I check it’s fixed properly in the candlestick, and leave it on the old dresser, that we got from Missus. I really like her: she gives us many things. So, the light shines from behind, as I lie down on my back, reading.

I feel tired, and drift into a deep sleep.

I wake up hearing my mum’s hysterical yelling as she uncovers my blankets.

“Betty, wake up! Wake up! Fire!”

When I open my eyes, I see flames spreading rapidly all over me. With my heart beating faster, I jump out of bed, screaming. The room is dark, and full of thick smoke. My face and body feels very hot. Inhaling the smoke through the nose is difficult and my throat has a kind of burning sensation as my rasping breath is loud in my ears. I’m suffocating, struggling to breathe, as my pyjamas are on fire. My mum pours a bucket of water on me. The flames disappear. She pushes me out to the living room while my
dad is doing all he can, extinguishing the remaining flames. After a long battle with the fire, everything goes quiet. The clothes on the dresser have burned to ashes. I am lucky not to have died in this fire – what a narrow escape!

There are no fire-fighters to call on for help around Skoonfontein. The nearest Fire Brigade station is in Burgersdorp, quite a distance away. Our house is also very far from the Big House, so we can’t even tell Baas Jimmie and Missus. It’s better that way, though, because their concern is bound to be for their property. I may have got my parents into terrible trouble, inviting brutal beatings from Baas perhaps.

My dad hates it when Baas hits him, and treats him like a child. He’s already told my mum, if this happens again, we’ll have to move out. What happens if they fail to extinguish that fire? I may have burned down Baas’ servants’ quarters, and I myself too.

The burnt bedding is a constant reminder of that disastrous night. My parents didn’t beat me up, just because the accident happened while I was reading a book, something they are fond of. “Education is your only inheritance, Betty,” Mum always tells me.

Therefore, I strive to learn new things daily, and I always try to achieve my best. I have hope for a better future.

Teacher Russell Hamburg is a man of average height, well-built, with a big tummy. He has dark hair and a long, scruffy, clumsy beard. His eyebrows are thick, and he frowns, as he quickly marks our Mathematics test books.

“Right, when you hear your name, get your book and go outside,” he says. He calls thirty-nine names, and finally says, “Betty Baker.” I get up from my desk, and walk towards him to get my book. He appears upset. I don’t know why; however, my
guess is that many of us have failed the test. He is the last person to vacate the classroom. He stands by the door, his large brown eyes wide.

“Thirty out of thirty!” he calls out. Steven, Walter, Virginia and Gloria walk towards him by the door, show their books and go in.

“Twenty-nine!” Martin, Maria and Suzanne walk towards the door. They put their books on the floor. My teacher picks up the cane he got from prison recently, bends it and hits in the air to test it.

Martin goes first. He lifts up his right hand towards the teacher. “Take it,” the teacher says, beating him. He receives a lash on the palm of his hand, and goes in.

“Next!” calls teacher Russell. Maria goes, and then Suzanne. Those with two errors get two lashes and so on…

I’m still outside, shivering. I’m looking at my classmates, crying aloud bitterly. Those who fail to hold hands up properly don’t escape. They are beaten everywhere. My turn comes.

“Five.” I walk forward, ready to receive twenty-five lashes. I put my book down and stretch my right hand up towards my back with my fingers pointing backwards. I really don’t want him to hurt my fingers. My teacher flogs me, until I lose count. When I fail to keep my hand up, he hits me anywhere. I cry, cuddling myself like a ball on the ground. He stops when he is satisfied.

Our class is learning to write English essays. We edit our own work in the presence of our teacher, with a cane in her hand. It’s my turn to read my story out loudly and clearly. She expects me to identify and correct my own mistakes. This is very difficult for me, because English is my third language. For every mistake I fail to spot, she strikes me hard. By the time I finish reading my story, I’m groaning in pain. My book is wet with tears as I return to my
seat. Most of the children are crying today, as we have made many mistakes in our stories. We are all ordered to resubmit by the next morning. Next day, I’m first to arrive at school, followed by my teacher.

“Betty, bring me your composition book,” Mistress Shirley Copperfield commands.

“Yes, Mistress,” I reply, hoping for the best. I take out my exercise book from my bookcase. “Here, Mistress,” I say, handing over my book with a smile. She takes, and marks it without my involvement this time. That’s my reward for arriving early on that day.

It’s the beginning of the academic year in South Africa. I’m in our house at Skoonfontein. My end of Standard Six results arrived yesterday: I’ve passed, and will definitely be going to Blythewood with Sharon Hurst, my friend, to start in Form One. I call her ‘Shah’. We’ve been best friends ever since I started at Skoonfontein Primere Skool.

“Betty, you must pack your clothes.”

“Okay, Mum. I can’t wait to travel with Shah and her parents to Blythewood High School.”

“No, you aren’t going there.”

“What?” My heart sinking, I look at my mum.

“You’re going to Butterworth High School.”

Immediately, my eyes feel up with tears. “No, Mummy, I didn’t apply to go there. I want to go to Blythewood with my friend, Shah.”

My parents don’t consider children’s views. I have no choice. They have made their decision, and I know it’s final.

I pack my uniform, clothes, canned stuff, spices and tomato sauce in my metal trunk. I fill the mattress cover with soft hay from the garden, and roll it into a small bundle, ready to catch
the 5.30 a.m. bus to Butterworth High, a residential church school. I prepare another provision trunk for a week - putting in cakes, bread, meat, squash, etcetera, from Missus. I go to bed earlier.

I board the bus at about 5.30 a.m., arriving at the hostel six hours later. The matron shows me my dormitory. Unpacking my clothes, hanging them on the wall, and making up my bed, I have no clues what to expect in a combined secondary and high school.

As days go by, more students arrive, and our dormitories are filling up. Every so often I meet a new face. On this particular day, after supper, Sister Fatima, one of the old comers, summons all the newcomers to the Common Room.

When all of us are in, Sister Fatima shuts the door, and then says, “I welcome you to Butterworth High School. I hope you will enjoy your studies, and learn about the activities here. You will be called ‘Tails’ until the 1st of April. This is a special day called ‘Fools’ Day’.” She pauses. “Until then, you are not allowed to look at the faces of the ‘oldcomers’. If you do, they will come around you and say, ‘Eyes down, Tail!’ Don’t be offended with this. It’s the common practice for every newcomer. The best thing to do is not to be ‘cheeky’; otherwise, they’ll make you jump up and down for ages. That’s enough for tonight. Good night, Tails,” Fatima, the head-girl says.

“Good night, Sister,” we all respond in a chorus. She holds her thumb up – a sign for ‘okay’ – and leaves us.

I return to my dormitory, having mixed feelings about the treatment.
Will I cope?
I hang my jacket on the wall, fold the rest of my clothes, and put them in my suitcase. I put on my pyjamas and get into bed. I stay awake, thinking. The lights go off.