Story from a small village school
School was a struggle for me from the very first day in Mrs Eksteen’s class to the last day of senior school. I always felt as though I was playing catch-up, one step behind the other children, never quite understanding what the teachers meant when they explained things. Now, with a better understanding of myself, I can see why I struggled in group situations where I was expected to participate in conversation. Even today, I keep a small circle of friends who don’t mind my strangeness.
In the 1970s in South Africa, children had to start school in the year they turned six. Because my birthday was at the end of the year, I was always one of the youngest in the class. I attended the local village school, and for the first two years I was taught by Mrs Eksteen. She was strict, and a blue wooden drumstick seemed permanently attached to her right hand. Step out of line, and you would feel it on your leg, your arm, sometimes even your head.
In my class was a boy, whom I shall call Jack. He lived with his parents and brother on what was known as the “poor” side of the village. I’m not sure who decided that the houses near the salt lakes were for poor people, while the rest of the village was reserved for those who were better off, but that was how it was.
Jack’s father had an important job. He emptied the sewage buckets from the houses that still had outside toilets. Every night, he would come into our back garden, remove the bucket, and pour it into a tank attached to his pickup truck. I can’t imagine the smell of that work, but he did it every single night. His children were teased mercilessly for the privilege of us having clean toilets every day.
Every Monday morning, we had to sit up straight, hands flat on our wooden desks, placed neatly on top of a clean handkerchief. Mrs Eksteen would inspect our hands and nails. On one particular Monday, we sat quietly waiting for her to begin her rounds when an unmistakable stench filled the classroom. We all gasped for air, looking around to find where it was coming from.
Then I realised it was coming from Jack.
He had soiled himself. The mess was dripping from his chair onto the floor. I will never forget how straight he sat, how still he kept himself, with his hands flat on his desk, hoping that if he didn’t move, no one would look at him.
Mrs Eksteen’s shoes were loud in the quiet classroom, each step echoing as she walked up to him. She tapped his desk with her blue stick and told him to take his schoolbag and go home!
Jack got up from his chair, walked to the back of the class to get his bag, and did not look at any of us. That six-year-old boy had to walk through the village with faeces running down his legs to get cleaned up. He did not return to school that day.
The janitor was called to clean the classroom, and we were given an extra break. That was the first time in my life that I felt truly sorry for someone. What happened that day stayed with me.
It was customary for our mothers to bake a cake for our birthdays and send it to school. Just before first break, the class would sing “Happy Birthday,” and Mrs Eksteen would cut the cake, placing a slice on a serviette for each child.
On Jack’s birthday, his mother sent in a cake too. But not one of us stood in line with our hands out. Jack took the entire cake home with him after school. I feel ashamed now to admit that I was one of the children who refused a slice.
I like to think that his family was glad of it. The cost of the ingredients for the cake might otherwise have been a meal, and at least they had a cake to share that afternoon.
I don’t remember when Jack and his family left the village. I assume it was when indoor toilets were installed in all the houses in the village, and his father was made redundant. Children can be cruel without understanding the damage they cause. If we had been just a little kinder to Jack, perhaps he might have been a little happier as a child.
HannaliseR 
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