“How many people did you invite to come speak to the parents?” asks Mr Cloete, noticing the panic rising in Nthabiseng. He looks over his shoulder, waiting for a response. With the help of Mthobeli, he’s busy hanging a poster at the front of the small community hall. There are only a handful of people already occupying the chairs in the front row; the rest are empty. But Mthobeli and his mother didn’t disappoint. They were among the first people to arrive.

Mthobeli refused to just sit with hands folded, waiting for everyone to arrive. He rolled his sleeves up and laid his long cane down by his mother’s feet. “Let me help, Mr Cloete. You can’t hang those posters up by yourself.”

Nthabiseng finally responds. “I invited all the parents I could get to. And I also used the kids to spread the message.”

“No, you’re not understanding me. I’m asking if you invited more than one person from the Department or not.”

“I invited two people, a woman and a man. I wanted to see which one of them would come. They’ve both confirmed. Now I’m just hoping the parents will come out. I’m so nervous, Mr Cloete.”

He laughs. “Calm down. I am sure it will all be fine. When they get here they’ll understand that this is more of an initial meeting, not a fundraiser. The fundraisers will come as the year goes on.”

“So what made you change your mind about me starting with the community and fundraising? You said I should cancel this, begin with the teachers, remember?”

“The kids did. I just thought about them. I realised what this could mean for them and I immediately wanted to be here. It’s all important.”

“Thanks, Mr Cloete. Thanks so much.”

The next half hour flies by and the hall fills up to capacity. The officials from the Department are already seated on the stage. Mr Cloete signals to get things started. He raises his hands, like a pastor who’s calling the congregation to silence.

Nthabiseng can’t stop fidgeting with her outfit; her nerves make it feel like its’s fitting incorrectly or that her pink blazer is too small. She takes a deep breath and steps onto the stage as well. She clears her throat and prepares to project her voice across the hall, all the way to the last row of chairs at the back.

“Firstly, let me start by greeting the parents who took time out of their day to come here. Thank you for coming. Let me also greet our two guests from the Department.” She smiles and nods in their direction.

“When I decided to do this, I called it a fundraiser. But, to be honest, it’s not a fundraiser – yet! It’s a chance to talk. It’s everyone’s chance to come together and talk about some of the problems at our school. The fundraising can come later…”

As she ends her introduction, Nthabiseng calls upon the senior official from the Department to speak.

“Thank you, Miss Khothe. And thank you for inviting us. My name is Thabang Ranaka and my colleague here is Nandipha Ntebe. I want to explain here today that the Department cares. We care about every child out there who has already entered the system and the children who are stuck on waiting lists, hoping for schools to take them …”

Some members of the crowd are already murmuring, dismissing his words.

“I ask that we please respect each other today, even if we don’t agree about the things that will be said,” he says, sounding slightly irritated.

Nthabiseng is on the edge of her seat with anticipation.

“If you respected us, you wouldn’t waste our time with empty promises!” shouts a voice from the audience.

“We know that the teachers here have been under a lot of pressure. It’s an ambitious project; it’s not easy being a teacher at a full-service school. My father, for ten years, was a teacher at such a school. I remember how tired he always was, even on weekends. But he managed. And if he managed, surely the teachers at Phandulwazi can hold on until the Department starts making improvements.”

The same voice from before shouts something out again. “What does it help us if all that money is going to the kids with disabilities when our kids don’t have enough books or even a sports field?”

Mthobeli’s mother stands up. “Go back to the shebeen you came from, you devil! Should my child not get the help he needs?”

Another woman from the back row shouts out: “You were doing us a favour when you took that kid out of Phandulwazi. Take him back to where he was before.”

Mthobeli’s mother loses her mind with anger, letting out a furious shriek then shouting: “You evil sinner! Saying such a thing …” The whole hall breaks out into an uproar. Voices saying insulting things are calling at each other from all directions.

Nthabiseng stands up from her chair beside the table on the stage. “Let’s please calm down! Please lower your voices and let one person speak at a time!” She speaks as loudly as she can, but to no avail. The noise continues. She gives Mr Cloete a ‘please-help-me’ look. He grabs the hammer he used to hang the posters and bangs it on the table. The gun-shot-like noises silence the crowd, and everyone slowly quietens and takes their seat.

Nthabiseng speaks firmly, her voice strong.

“All the Dordrecht kids have a right to be in school, learning what they can. No child should sit at home. I want the kids without disabilities to have everything they need to learn. But the truth is that right now, the school is taking much better care of them than it is the kids with disabilities.

“That’s something I know, because I work with the children with disabilities at the school. Things can’t go on like this. I could go through a long list of all the different disabilities that the kids come with, but I won’t. Just know this, the worse the disability the more help the child needs. And the less help he or she is getting! Is that fair? All I’m asking for is that the school must teach all the kids, not just some. People must stop talking about small disabilities and big ones. And about kids with disabilities wasting money. It’s not right.”

***

Tell us: What is the attitude to disability and education amongst parents in your community?