My English teacher, Mrs Xaba, was a round figure, both literally and figuratively. She was chubby, with plump apple cheeks that danced when she pranced around the class. Our English notes were always written from only halfway up the chalkboard downwards because she had to stand on tiptoe like a ballerina. Her head was crowned with long, thin dreadlocks that cascaded down her back to daintily touch her buttocks, an African Rapunzel. Honestly, it was quite difficult to tell if the dreadlocks really were that long or if she was the one who was too close to the ground. Mrs Xaba was a modest woman. She wasn’t a huge fan of makeup that would mask the beauty of the polka-dots on her face, oh no! But she did have a soft spot for carefully manicured nails.
She was a brilliant teacher. She spoke English with great eloquence. We dubbed her the English master. Unlike most teachers in our school, Mrs Xaba wasn’t very lenient to those who spoke isiZulu during her English class. She was relentless! When the smallest peep of isiZulu was heard in her class, she’d immediately yell with a voice that could wake up the dead, “I beg yours? I don’t understand your language! Speak in English, for English’s sake!” Her snappy comebacks were enough to get the whole class erupting into fits of giggles!
An English period was no English period without a daily dose of creative writing. We scribbled all sorts of transactional texts and essays, from friendly letters to diary entries to poems and articles. With every piece she made us write, I was amazed. I never knew I was a writer until she put me to work. She’s the one teacher I owe my love and artistry for writing to. “Tap into your potential, Zonke. Dream and imagine. Look for words that will paint a picture in my head, one so clear I could compose a movie out of your story!” All those motivational words, compliments, and ‘Well done’ stickers on my exercise book fuelled me to do better, write better and put more effort into my schoolwork. Of course, the R50 “bounty” for scoring perfect marks was a welcome incentive. Her incentive scheme became very popular among other teachers, too. Thanks to her, I managed to raise enough money to buy myself a cellphone by the end of the year.
No doubt I was her favourite pupil. She couldn’t even hide it. She called me her protégé. Nothing could wipe off Mrs Xaba’s ear-to-ear beam on her face at the Grade 7 Awards Ceremony when I was crowned Top Achiever and achieved 98% for her dear subject. After the event, I saw her chatting with my mom, and my mom suddenly broke into tears. She had given her money to buy my new uniform for high school. During the first few days of high school, she saw me in my new uniform. Did she not almost smash the taxi window, banging it and screaming my name when the taxi I was in had momentarily stopped to pick up a passenger? The enraged look on the taxi driver’s face was priceless! I waved while trying my best to hold in all my embarrassment.
When I was in ninth grade, I received heart-rending news that Ma’am was no more. I was shattered. I am forever indebted to her for her passion for English, which has ignited a lifelong love for the language in me. Her legacy lives on, and fond memories of her dwell within me. I will forever cherish Linguaphile Xaba!
