Mtwazi. Zenze. Adams. Voetsek.

It’s still quiet, nothing different from the other day.

Nthabiseng’s class is at the back of the grounds, in the last row. On her way there she’s surprised to find Ms Zenze popping out of one of the classes she passes. The woman is friendly – too friendly – especially after what Ta Sbu heard her say.

Nthabiseng wants to cut the pretence, get right into what Ta Sbu told her, but she’s distracted by noticing the classroom situation. The classrooms are clean and newly painted, with nicely spread out desks. Ms Zenze’s class is no different. There’s enough space to accommodate even kids in wheelchairs.

“Nthabi,” Mrs Zenze greets with a smile.

She doesn’t trust this woman. She’s two-faced.

“It’s good to see you back here this year but you’ve already got that serious look on your face.”

Serious look?

“Yabona ke mna when you talk like that I wish you’d just stay away from me. We’re doing our best here. Why can’t you understand that?”

“Why do you people come together and talk nonsense about me?” she bursts out. “All I want is for us to do the best we can for every student we have here,” she continues.

“Maybe you should go work for the Department, but not in a school, Nthabiseng. They pay us nonsense, but work us like donkeys. Have you seen some of the kids in my class? One of them is in a wheelchair, can’t even hold up a pen or put a sentence together. What can I do with that?”

Nthabiseng tries to calm herself down. “Ms Zenze, I know things have been tough for us. Right now we don’t even have new projectors or Braille machines for the kids who can’t see properly, enough wheelchair ramps. We don’t have support staff to help those who need it with the reading, the writing, getting around the school. A counsellor. But we can’t punish the children for the shortcomings of the Department. We have to care, do our best for them.”

“I’m forty-five, you’re twenty-five. To me you’re a child. Don’t try to preach that gospel to me! I have been teaching for twenty years. Even the Principal doesn’t talk to me like that.”

Nthabiseng throws up her hands in frustration and walks out of the class.

“Careful not to start a fire you can’t put out, young girl!” calls Mrs Zenze after her.

Mr Cloete. She has to go and see him. He’s one of the few people who bothered to listen when she brought up the idea of doing a fundraiser for necessary equipment. The rest of the staff weren’t even looking at her when she spoke.

His door is wide open as usual, and he is sitting by the window, deep in thought.

“Mr Cloete,” she says, announcing herself. “I see you’re already back at work.”

Somehow she’d expected him to have recovered some energy in the month since she’d last seen, but he still has the same wrinkles around his eyes and the same tired smile.

He returns her greeting. “I wondered when I’d be seeing you. Just a word of warning I wouldn’t talk about the fundraiser to the Principal right now – he’s in a bad mood. Things haven’t gotten off to a good financial start this year.”

“But that’s exactly why the school needs the fundraiser.”

“The other teachers don’t see it like that. This is my second time teaching here, in Dordrecht. I taught here in the early 2000s, and you know what happened? They chased one of the teachers away; didn’t like his ideas. Everyone just thought the guy was a trouble-maker. The parents and teachers came together, made the guy public enemy number one. Don’t make the same mistake.”

“That’s basically what Miss Zenze threatened me with just now. I wanted to strangle her. She made me so angry.”

“A small place like this isn’t where you want to be questioning things too much. You have to take your time. What if the other parents start saying the kids with disabilities are using up all the money the school has. The town’s people can be stubborn when they don’t understand something.”

“OK, Mr Cloete. What’s your advice? What should I do?”

“For now, put the fundraising on hold. Do it later. Try to get the teachers on your side first. I know it’s hard.”

Nthabiseng nods. She’ll think about this. But now she must tackle the Principal about Mthobeli and the other excluded kids.

*****

The set-up is still the same in the Principal’s office, an L-shaped desk in the middle, a display cabinet behind him. The man is a picture of focus, his eyes fixed on the papers in front of him; it’s like he doesn’t see Nthabiseng walking into the office.

“Molo, Bhut’ Vuyani.”

He looks up at her, glasses perched down the bridge of his nose, eyes unfriendly. Not even bothering with a smile, he greets her back. “I knew I’d be seeing you in here with some problem sooner rather than later. How can I help you?”

“I heard you turned some learners with disabilities away. Those kids are why I’m here. I’ll do whatever it takes – this school can’t keep disappointing Dordrecht.”

“Before we let this go too far, I want you to remember two things. I’ve been teaching in high school since your mother was still breast-feeding you. You’re a child. Second, I’m the Principal here. I don’t need you coming in and making me feel bad about my decisions. The school simply isn’t coping.”

“That can’t be the end of it. I’ll put in extra hours every day. I’ll go speak to the parents of kids, whatever it takes. My father taught about me helping others. Someone has to make a sacrifice here. ”

He looks even more focused. She can’t get a read on what he’s thinking. He sighs. Then he looks up.

“OK. The few I turned away, they can come. But this is all on you. This is your responsibility.”

***

Tell us what you think: Do you think the Principal expects Nthabiseng to succeed or fail? Why?