Trouble Tomorrow

by Terry Whitebeach

  More and more hands are raised. Children are soon leaping to their feet as Obulejo points to them, and their answers come thick and fast, some of them correct, some not. Patiently Obulejo goes over the things they get wrong. At last the lesson is over.

  Principal Kamau and Obulejo leave the classroom together. ‘You have a gift for education, my friend,’ Principal Kamau tells Obulejo. ‘And you have a good spirit. You are going to be an inspiration for others.’

  The principal’s words feel like treasures beyond price to Obulejo. Thank goodness he summoned the courage to present his proposal. To find a way that helps others and will also make his own life better is the real prize. And he has found it.

  I am no longer the small boy who feared the terrible baboons so dreadfully, he realises, as he leaves the school compound that day. I am finally learning to be brave, in my own particular way.

  And when he is informed that he has indeed been accepted as a teacher, Obulejo’s joy knows no bounds.

  He is assigned a large group of younger children, to whom he will teach most of the basic subjects. Obulejo sets to with a will. His classes are mostly held outside, under a tree, with only an improvised blackboard and a few textbooks. He spends hours preparing sums and word lists for his class, and writing out the words of songs to use in reading lessons.

  It is surprisingly hard work being a teacher, he soon discovers. Some of his students seem unable to take in what he is trying to teach them, no matter how many times or how carefully he explains. It’s as though their minds are closed doors.

  Some gaze vacantly into space or nod drowsily, heads bowed over their crossed arms. Sometimes the only way he can rouse them is to set up a circle game and get them to count as they throw the ball to each other.

  A few of the students are rowdy and disruptive. He thinks of these as the lore of the class. He cannot run away from them, so he has to find a way to tame them. They show him none of the deference he gave his own teachers. These are troubled times and many of the old ways have been swept away by war. Besides, he is only a few years older than some of his students; he cannot expect to receive the same respect the students give Principal Kamau and the more experienced teachers.

  He introduces activities that he hopes will engage his students and harness their restless energy. His greatest success is with music. Obulejo loves to sing and dance, so each day he leads the class in a series of songs and gets them to beat out the rhythm with their hands, while he points to each line of the song on the blackboard.

  ‘Today we are going to sing about the sun waking up,’ he tells his students one morning.

  He sings the song for them, pausing at the end of each line so they can repeat it after him. After they have run through the song a few times he calls a little girl out to the front and hands her a card with the English word ‘sun’ on it.

  ‘Now we will sing once more,’ he tells his pupils, ‘and this time, when we get to the word “sun”, Abeba will hold her card up so everyone can see it.’

  He chooses ten more children and gives each of them a card. Some of the children giggle and shuffle and drop their cards, chew the corners or hold them upside down. Some swap cards with each other, but even the most recalcitrant students gain a few new words.

  Obulejo loves to see the students’ eyes sparkle with interest and to know that they’ve been momentarily transported out of this hot, dusty place. He vows that one day he will complete his own education, and perhaps become a qualified teacher.

  22

  THERE ARE DAYS when nothing goes right, when everyone is hot and tired and even the most willing students seem unable to grasp what Obulejo is trying to teach them, but he perseveres, and little by little the students progress.

  He now has a new problem, though – lack of time. He must arrive at school clean and well-presented, so sometimes he has to get up at four a.m. and walk three miles or more to fetch the extra water he needs for bathing and washing his clothes. If he oversleeps he will find himself at the end of the queue: that means risking being late for work, which is unthinkable.

  Sometimes Obulejo has good luck – if he arrives early enough at the resource centre near the school one of the watchmen allows him to get water there. Most of the watchmen will let the teachers use the tap in the compound, but only one at a time. If a watchman refuses him entry, Obulejo must wait till school is over and face a long weary trek to find water somewhere else.

  In Kakuma, everyone thinks constantly about water. It is always in short supply. Many times Obulejo has seen young people loiter at the water collection point, waiting to see who has brought more than one jerrycan, and who is filling two or three at once, but can take only one home at a time – often women with babies and small children. When a woman sets off with her first jerrycan, leaving the others behind to collect on her return, the boys will grab one of them and pour the water into their own, then throw her empty can away. Obulejo has done it himself, many times in the past.

  One day when everything has gone wrong and he is in a great rush, Obulejo notices two full jerrycans standing unattended near the water collection point. He glances about to see if anyone is watching and before he can stop himself he quickly upends one of the full jerrycans into his empty one. He then hurls the emptied can as far away as possible and dashes back to his shelter with the stolen water. At first he congratulates himself on his cleverness, but soon he becomes troubled by the mental image of a dismayed woman returning to collect her second load of water only to find part of it stolen – water she desperately needs for her family, perhaps even for some of the children in Obulejo’s class.

  Another day, something happens that leaves him with even greater shame and regret. It’s a day when Obulejo must collect water and when he is also rostered on to cook for his household.

  It is exam time and all the teachers have been told they must mark fifty papers each before they leave. They line up in groups to receive their allotted papers. The process is slow. Obulejo starts to get anxious. He approaches Principal Kamau and is given permission to swap to the first group. Even so, there are fifteen people ahead of him in the line. Obulejo gets more and more frantic. Finally he attempts to push his way in. The nearest man in the line resists. Obulejo’s frustration boils over. He slaps the man, sharply. The principal frowns and calls Obulejo over.

  ‘You have acted violently,’ he says. ‘You, a teacher. I am ashamed of you.’

  Obulejo quickly apologises, but the stern look stays on the principal’s face.

  ‘You will wait till last to receive your papers,’ he tells Obulejo, ‘and then you will stay behind and mark them.’

  By the time Obulejo gets home, impossibly late, Ochan has prepared their meal.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Ochan demands. ‘Why should I do your work, you worthless boy?’

  Obulejo tries to explain.

  ‘Not good enough,’ Ochan retorts.

  The others are furious as well.

  ‘Teacher get kept back for being a naughty boy?’ Longoya taunts.

  ‘Must we wait till midnight for our meal?’ Ochaya adds.

  Even Maku is angry with Obulejo.

  But worse than the Musketeers’ displeasure is the knowledge that the other teachers will now think badly of him. Perhaps they will decide he is no longer worthy to teach in the school.

  The following day Principal Kamau calls Obulejo into his office. ‘I cannot stress how deeply I disapprove of your actions yesterday,’ he says. ‘It is not only the lack of respect to your colleague I regret, but the poor example it sets for others.’

  Now he will be told he can no longer teach, Obulejo thinks, but what Principal Kamau says next surprises him.

  ‘The other teachers regret your actions too. But overall they consider you a valued colleague and wish to offer you support. They are waiting to meet with you in the staffroom right now.’

  Obulejo can hardly believe his eyes when a fellow teacher hands him an envelope containing a brief note:
This will help you. The note is signed by each of his colleagues, even the man he slapped, and the envelope contains money.

  One of his colleagues steps forward. ‘We, your fellow teachers, have decided to contribute a small proportion of our salaries each month to you,’ he says. ‘This will enable you to balance the procuring of necessary food and water supplies with the heavy demands of a teacher’s life.’

  Obulejo is speechless.

  ‘We realise how difficult it has been for you,’ the man goes on, ‘and we believe you should be offered some recompense for your efforts.’

  Obulejo is close to tears. Such generosity! And not a single mention of the exam paper incident.

  ‘This gift touches me deeply,’ he says in a low voice. ‘It will help me improve my life and the lives of our students.’

  And from this day on, he vows silently, for the honour of my family and in the name of the Father in heaven, I will seek out peaceful ways.

  No more use of force to get my way.

  Now Obulejo makes the trek to the school compound each day with a lighter heart.

  His journeys back home are not so cheerful. The unwelcome truth is that his household is on the verge of collapse.

  First the Acholi boys leave, one after the other. Obulejo is sorry to see Ochan, Longoya and Ochaya go. He knows he and Ochan will see each other regularly at church gatherings, but it will be hard to start again with new housemates. Maku says he will ask around for other people to join them, but days pass and nothing happens. Perhaps he too is preparing to leave; Santino as well. Obulejo realises that his substitute family soon will be no more.

  One day, Obulejo is called to Principal Muraya’s office. Have I done something else wrong? he wonders. But his fears are soon put to rest.

  ‘You have been with us for four months now,’ Principal Muraya says, ‘and Principal Kamau and I wish to commend you for your dedication and good work.’

  He smiles encouragingly and hands Obulejo a document.

  Obulejo reads it over and over, until the magic words You are now appointed as a teacher in this school begin to waver and blur on the page. The blood roars in his ears as Principal Muraya congratulates him. Obulejo stutters his thanks and backs out of the office, almost falling down the steps.

  He clutches the precious document and scans it a dozen times as he walks back to his dwelling. He is to teach the three subjects he nominated: science, business education and history – a full teaching load. And he will get a monthly stipend! Not a full salary like a trained teacher back home, but still a miracle. Without even finishing high school, somehow he has managed to become a teacher!

  At the next church gathering Obulejo sings with a glad and grateful heart:

  ‘Father, thank you for your grace – oh hallelujah!

  For helping us to run life’s race – oh hallelujah!

  For your blessings great and small – oh hallelujah!

  As each day on us they fall – hallelujah, hallelujah, halle-e-lu-jah!’

  And when the dancing starts he is the first to leap to his feet. The lilting adungus accompany the song of happiness that dances inside him, and he feels something loosen, like a spring held tightly for too long beginning to uncoil. Perhaps the worst is over. His physical scars are becoming less livid, the wounds gradually reducing to raised weals on his smooth skin, and the dignity and sense of purpose in teaching is beginning to do the same for his inner scars.

  He must do the best he can with the opportunity he has been given, and if it is in God’s plan, one day his family will discover where he is and find a way to bring him home.

  With his first month’s modest pay Obulejo buys two nearly new T-shirts from a market in the nearby Kuku area, and a pair of trousers. He imagines his father’s approving smile as he dons his new clothes, and he can’t help swaggering a little as he sashays off to school the next day. It’s as though he has leapt fully into manhood, and it’s worth forgoing extra rations to feel less like a scarecrow. From now on he won’t be forced to wash his clothes every single day, which means he’ll be able to spend extra time preparing his classes. And he can teach his students and attend church better dressed and more confident.

  Tuesdays and Saturdays are when all the young people practise their singing and music. Maku has set up a choir and he and Ochan take turns conducting the singers and players. The Sunday church services are getting more popular and people from other sectors often join in now – Congolese, Ethiopians and even some of the Kenyan UNHCR staff. The hymns in Father Angelo’s tattered hymn books are not so popular, though, especially with the Ma’dis. The tunes are dreary and the songs are all in Swahili or English. So each week Maku asks one of the young people to teach a song in Arabic, Lingala, the language of the Congo, or Ma’di.

  ‘Today, we are going to learn to sing the Lord’s Prayer in Ma’di,’ Maku announces. This is one of Obulejo’s favourites. He’s sung it for as long as he can remember, both at home in the mountain village and at school in Torit.

  ‘We will ask Obulejo and Malia to lead the choir today,’ Maku says. ‘They will teach you the words and the tune.’

  He nods to a Ma’di girl standing with her friends at the edge of the group, and the girl steps forward shyly. Obulejo has seen her around; she’s younger than him, maybe fourteen, a quiet girl with striking eyes and a sweet face. Together they hum the tune to the adungu players, and then turn to face the singers.

  ‘Ama ata bua rii

  nya ru kolu ole

  opi nyidri kamu’

  ‘Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come,’ they sing in unison, pausing at the end of each line so the choir can repeat it after them. Their voices go well together. The choir quickly pick up the words and the tune, and the prayer rings out joyously in the shimmering afternoon. Obulejo is flushed and happy. He smiles at Malia and she smiles back. A tiny smile, but a smile, nevertheless. His heart skips a beat.

  Next choir practice Obulejo arrives earlier than usual. He pretends to be absorbed in watching the adungu players fashion new instruments from bendy tree branches and then measure twine for the strings, but really he is looking out for Malia.

  Maku asks him to lead the choir again that day. From time to time Obulejo steals glances at Malia. Whenever he catches her eye, she looks down. Then, in the dancing, he turns suddenly and their eyes meet. Malia immediately drops her gaze. But with a jolt of joy Obulejo realises this girl is interested in him. He knows he has to be careful. Strict rules govern friendships between boys and girls. After prayers, when people stand about catching up with one another, he and Malia are able to talk together casually, but when older people approach they quickly move apart.

  One day, after the service, Malia asks him, ‘What time are you going to fetch water?’

  ‘Very soon,’ Obulejo replies.

  ‘I am also going to get water,’ Malia says, with downcast eyes.

  Obulejo tries to conceal his glee. ‘Then I will accompany you,’ he says. ‘It is safer that way.’

  The two speak little on the long walk to the tanks or on the way back, but Obulejo counts this as one of his best days ever in Kakuma.

  Soon they are presented with other opportunities to be together. Until now, church services have been conducted under a tree. This gives the worshippers little shelter from the heat, the wind and the dust, but soon the young people will be undertaking a new project – erecting a makeshift church. It will be a big job, but Obulejo will be able to work alongside Malia while they do it!

  Father Angelo praises the young people for their initiative. ‘You know how burdened I feel for you,’ he says, ‘the “unaccompanied minors” in Kakuma – young people on their own, without family – and how much I long to help you. But now you are helping yourselves and this excellent initiative will give you something to be proud of and show you what an important part of the church’s spiritual family you are.’

  Obulejo volunteers to be part of the construction group, along wit
h Malia and her older sister Mondua and most of the other young people. Maku will oversee the work. They will use flattened metal oil tins for the roof, supported by poles supplied by the UNHCR or swapped with the local Turkana tribesmen for rations. They beg empty oil containers from people in their area and when they have gathered a large enough quantity they come together to open up and smooth out the tins. They then fold the edges of each tin into the next one and bash the edges tightly together with a stone. The roof-support poles are then set up and the strips of tin laid on smaller branches and nailed down. The tin roof will hold the heat in, unfortunately, but at least it will provide some protection for the worshippers.

  Next, they chip one side of a number of long poles till the surface is relatively flat, then they set forked sticks into the earth and lay each pole on top, flat side up, to create benches for the churchgoers. All the while they are working Obulejo is intensely conscious of Malia close by. Her presence makes him edgy and excited but he is careful not to catch her eye or approach her while her sister is near.

  Some girls sneak off at night to meet their boyfriends, he knows, and in some ways he admires couples brave enough to take that risk, but he would never expect Malia to put herself in such danger. If their friendship is to continue then he must act honourably, enjoy the times he is able to be near her and trust God’s plan for the future. Meanwhile he enjoys the fizz and tingle he feels every time he catches sight of Malia.

  The completed church shelter is named St Bakhita’s, in honour of the Sudanese woman who fought for justice long ago, and was canonised by the Pope.

  ‘Her suffering honours your own,’ Father Angelo declares, at the consecration service.

  During the celebrations afterwards, Obulejo dances as close as he dares to Malia, keeping an eye out for her sister. Then Mondua swings past and smiles at Obulejo and his heart lifts. She knows, he realises, and she is signalling her permission for his friendship with Malia to continue. Life suddenly feels much sweeter.