of addresses from Rachel, our secretary.”
I bit my lip in disappointment. “To begin with, Dr Winterburn, I came here to understand what you actually mean by saying that my situation is not that bad. It seems that you people in this office have got the wrong end of the stick about my situation and –”
“What’s your point, Mr Njomane?” she interrupted.
“My point is this. I got an exemption two years ago and I have been sitting at home since then waiting for the opportunity to study at this institution. I applied to the Faculty of Arts and got admitted to do my BA. It’s my wish that this office grant me a bursary so that I can study, graduate, get a better job and assist my poverty-stricken family. My father has passed away and my mother is a pensioner and single-handedly supports nine members of our family. There’s nowhere I can go for help except this office.”
I took out my brown envelope. It contained my father’s death certificate and my mother’s pension slip as well as the three affidavits.
“This is the second time that I have submitted this evidence and I wonder if the committee took any notice of it when it reached its decision,” I added as I pushed the documents towards her.
Dr Winterburn took the documents and a pause followed as she pretended to be studying them closely.
“That affidavit shows that twelve family members live crammed into a four-roomed matchbox house in Soweto.”
She started looking for something in the bottom drawer. Her other hand was rubbing at the corners of her bloodshot eyes. I knew she was looking for her glasses. From where I was sitting I could see them; they were buried under an avalanche of documents that were lying on her desk, including some of my own. She found them without too much effort, put them on and began to study my documents.
“Mmm, so how does your family survive on your mother’s three hundred and fifty rand pension?” she asked, pushing my documents away.
“It’s really difficult. Our electricity and water have been cut off because the bills have not been paid for the past two years,” I lied.
I was not ashamed that I lied. Living in this South Africa of ours you have to master the art of lying in order to survive. As she looked at me I hid my hands under the edge of the table so that she couldn’t see my gold-plated Pulsar watch, which I had bought the previous year at American Swiss.
I looked Dr Winterburn straight in the eye. With her left hand she pulled open the bottom drawer, took out a packet of Consulates and a lighter. Next to the carafe was an ashtray filled with butts and half-smoked cigarettes. She carefully balanced a cigarette between her lips, then paused and watched the yellow flame of the lighter flicker between her fingers.
“This is your first time at this university, isn’t it?”
“Yes ma’am,” I answered.
She took two deep drags on her cigarette and then flicked the ash sharply into the ashtray. “Oh, I see,” she said.
Three
Dr Winterburn read each one of my documents carefully. At the same time she added some information to the notes on her computer screen. I glared at my father’s death certificate, which lay next to her right hand. Raw memories of the past surged through my mind. I remembered my sister and myself paying my father a visit in hospital the day before his death. I wasn’t young; I was doing my standard nine. I remember to this day my father lying in his hospital bed. He had seemed unusually small, like a child; there were dark shadows under his eyes and his skin was very pale, so pale in fact that I could actually count the veins underneath it. He could not even move on his own.
I looked at my sister. Her eyes were filled with sorrow and as she stood in the corner of the hospital room she began to sob. But I was brave enough to stand closer to my father; I wanted him to die in my arms.
Maybe we have turned into strangers to him, I thought with pain when my father showed no sign of recognising us. But later he called out my name. He raised his hand and I held it. He even said something faintly, but I couldn’t hear him. I called his name softly a couple of times, and unconsciously he kept saying “hmm” each time I repeated it. He got tired quickly and closed his eyes. I rested his hands on his chest as the nurse arrived and told us it was the end of visiting time.
The following day I heard that my father was gone. That was the first day that I knew fear existed inside me. I did not go to school that Monday. How could I, with that unspeakable sense of grief?
When I finally went to school three days later the Big Punisher, as we called him, was waiting to discipline me for my truancy. That morning, after the assembly and prayer, the names of the truants were read out and they were called upon to appear in the disciplinary room. My name was on the list.
The deep-mouthed Big Punisher was smiling as I stood in front of him. “Son, those who live in glass houses must not throw stones; obey our rules or face punishment. You know that being absent for a day is ten strokes of the cane. You have been absent for three days so you must multiply that by three,” he said, mercilessly straightening his cane.
When I didn’t say a word he continued: “Do you want to take your punishment in instalments or all at the same time, son?” He let out a small malicious laugh. “Come on, son. If you take it cash at the same time I will give you a discount of five,” he said as if we were completing a business transaction.
When I still did not answer he ordered me to bend over and receive my punishment. “I know you will be able to talk after five of the best.”
The pain that I had felt when Big Punisher punished me the previous week, for fluffing my lines when I was called upon to recite the theorem of Pythagoras, resurfaced. I recalled bitterly how he had made my hand bleed with that thick cane while I screamed for mercy. To this day I can still see those scars when I take a bath.
“Oh no. I have a valid reason for not coming to sc –” I began, but he would not even let me finish my sentence.
“Eh, eh. No, no, no, no,” he said, shaking his head. “No excuses, so don’t piss in the wind and waste my time.” He put his fat index fingers in his ears. “I’ve heard a lot of stupid reasons today. Enough is enough.”
He started to list every reason that he considered stupid.
“My mother was delivering my baby brother so I had to help spread her legs. My philanderous father’s dick was swollen from the syphilis he caught over the libidinal weekend so he sent me out to buy him some VD pills. My younger sister broke her virginity the day before yesterday and her punana was leaking blood, so I had to help my lazy mother wash her sheets and cook for the family. My brother was castrated by a mob over the weekend after being accused of sleeping with a jailbait.”
I knew that the Big Punisher had an orgasm every time he inflicted pain. He had beaten me several times before. I also hated mathematics, which was the subject that he was licensed to teach with only a standard ten. He had once punished me severely for scoring nine per cent in algebra. Because of that he gave me nine strokes of the cane. According to him I was good at mathematics, but just too lazy to practise it. I had consoled myself that day because a friend of mine called David was given ten strokes of the cane because he had got ninety per cent. The Big Punisher said that if it weren’t for his laziness he would have got one hundred per cent. After that we all concluded that he was mad after all.
There was a tall table next to where I was
