Page 36 - The Mending Season

“They just want people to think they re not racist.”When we reached the top of the stairs another teacher, who looked quite a lot older than most teachers, stood at the door of one of the classes looking in our direction. “Hurry up, Patricia, Veronica, Innocentia, Tumisang! Are you still on holiday?”They all switched to English, “No, Miss.” “Hi, Miss.”“Did you have a good holiday, Miss?” “Did you go away, Miss?”Mrs Myburgh, I learnt, was to be my English teacher. As soon as we sat down, she went round the class asking us to say our names. It seemed at first glance that the class was divided according to colour. But there was one row where a Black girl I hadn’t seen before sat between a White girl and an Indian girl. She was reading a book when we walked in and, without looking up, put it in her desk. She never came over to say “hi” to the rest of the Black girls and did not seem all that inter­ ested in what was going on around her. Her face and body looked relaxed and calm and instantly I wanted to know more about her. Later I found out that her name was Kebone, but she preferred to be called KB. I learnt that her father was a businessman. Their family owned a grocery store, a dry-clean­ ing business and a liquor store in the townships. They lived in the suburbs.We only had four classes that first morning, and all ofthem were taken up with teachers introducing themselves to us and us to them. Most of the girls chatted with the teachers as if speaking with a friendly relative who was not much older than they were. I watched silently, uncomfortable, fascinated. No one at Ithuteng would have spoken to a teacher this way. It would have been considered disrespectful.“Miss, did you get married, Miss?”they asked. “How was the honeymoon, Miss?”36